Page 64 of The Older Brother
I round the counter and snag two cold water bottles from the fridge, handing my father one as he nestles into the deep sofa cushion on one end while I sink into the opposite end, folding my legs up so I can face him.
“You work here now or something?” He glances down at my sweatshirt, well, Rowan’s sweatshirt. I tuck my chin and note the garage’s logo on the upper right side of the front.
“Oh, I had to borrow a shirt. I had an oil incident.” I don’t know why I didn’t think through the optics of me being here until now, but I can’t imagine wearing an oversized sweatshirt that’s clearly not mine hasn’t raised my dad’s suspicions.
“And what was the incident?” My father turns his head just as Rowan walks up. I swallow hard, suddenly lost for words.
“We did a little oil change lesson. Saylor wanted to learn how. Just trying to learn the basics before she heads off for college.” Rowan’s answer is perfect, and I exhale and smile back at my dad, playing the part of a good daughter simply trying to do the right thing. He seems to buy it, too, because he raises his water bottle for a toast.
“Hey, cheers to that!” My dad leans to his side and points to the other side of the classic Chevy, where my car’s hood remains propped open, waiting for new parts. “So thatisyour Toyota then.”
“Yep! Needs an alternator,” I proclaim, as if I know exactly what that is.
“Ah. You guys giving her a fair price?” my father asks before taking another sip from his bottle. His gaze settles on Rowan, and my lungs burn with sudden stress. He’s still suspicious.
“Friends and family discount,” Rowan says, waggling his head. “So . . . free. Yeah. Doing it for free.”
Rowan glances behind him, and I think he’s making sure Miguel is still behind my dad’s wheel. I wouldn’t mind paying, at least some of the cost. I don’t want Rowan to hide things from Miguel.
“That’s a mighty kind gesture. I always knew you were a stand-up guy.” My dad’s gaze lingers on Rowan for just a hint too long, and my legs suddenly feel restless amid the growing tension.
I get to my feet and move to the other side of the counter, suddenly feeling like it might be good to have shelter if thisquestioning gets any more serious. Thankfully, Miguel calls Rowan over to check out something on the engine, and my dad pulls his phone out and begins firing off a few texts, everyone busy with their own things. I take the opportunity to slip back into the bathroom where my phone and ruined shirt are.
My dad is pacing near the bay doors when I rejoin them, so I tuck myself back into the corner of the sofa and split my attention between my dad and Rowan. My father’s conversation lasts a few minutes, but when he ends his call, he lingers by the garage entrance, finally calling out to Rowan to join him.
“Be right there,” Rowan hollers over the low hum of my dad’s truck engine. He and Miguel exchange glances, and Rowan only briefly looks my way before snagging a clean towel and wiping off his hands on his way out to meet my dad.
I do my best not to look obvious, propping my phone on my knees as I watch a video. My eyes are really focused on the conversation several yards away, though. All I can do from here is read body language, and the fact that my dad isn’t grabbing Rowan’s collar or punching him in the teeth is a good sign. There’s a lot of nodding on Rowan’s part, his gaze lifting periodically to meet my dad’s before lowering his head again for more nodding. Eventually, my dad places a hand on Rowan’s shoulder, where he pats a few times before squeezing and pulling Rowan in for a short hug.
I scan both of their expressions for more clues when they step back into the garage, but they’re both impossible to read. The fact that Rowan seems eager to remain by my dad’s truck, though, with his back to me, is a pretty good signal that he’s trying to maintain a certain level of decorum between us.
I’ll simply have to work the clues out from my dad.
“Are you ready for the semester?” He crosses his legs, propping a foot up on his knee, exposing the skull socks I mailedhim last Christmas. I smile at the sight, and he follows my gaze. “Oh, yeah. I wear them all the time. They fit my personal brand.”
I laugh softly, loving that he recalled my note to him in the package. That’s precisely why I bought them for him. While their band isn’t necessarily rock, my dad’s heart has always leaned toward the grittier side of the industry. I thought the skulls were a nice little rebellion for a folk-rock band.
“You’re avoiding the school question. Saylor?” he prods.
I grimace. I might be avoiding it a little.
“I guess I’m ready. I’m not exactly doing backflips for it, though.” Other than Rowan, my dad is the only other person I’ve mentioned my lackluster emotions about swimming in college to. I’ve also texted him about my frustrations with mom, two which he always redirects me to sit down with her and have an open and honest conversation. I’m not sure if he remembers exactly how difficult doing that with mom is.
“You can always try it for a year. Maybe you owe it to yourself to see how it feels when you’re in it, you know?” He pounds his fists together for emphasis.
“I told mom I want to study social work,” I share.
My dad’s brow jets up to his hairline, and he chuckles.
“Oh, and how did that go?”
My head falls to the side.
“I think you know exactly how that went,” I say.
“She’ll come around,” he replies, but all I can do is puff out a short laugh.
“We’ll see.”
