Page 77 of Resurrection
I was wrong.
I heard my dad coming before I saw him. He caught up with me halfway down the corridor, his hand on my shoulder. "Got a minute?" he asked, and I had to pretend I wasn’t trying to get away from him as fast as I could. "You and I need to talk, son."
There was that serious look on his face. He was in his flannel pajamas, with messy graying hair, and he looked ridiculous.
"What about?" I asked, hoping this wasn’t another parental lecture. At this hour?
"We should have had this conversation a couple of years ago. But I guess now is as good a time as any."
Oh, fuck no, I screamed internally.
"Dad!" I hissed at him. "This better not be what I think this is."
"It’s exactly what you think."
"I’m almost eighteen," I said, my cheeks heating up. "I really don’t need the talk."
"Pretty sure you do." He meant business. He hadn’t actually said Naomi’s name, but it was coming. "Unless you’ve already had it with someone else."
He gave me that look like he was checking under my bed for the sock monster again. But I got the feeling this was more embarrassing for him than it was for me. Still, it was a close race.
"Dad, I really don’t need to know…"
"Listen to me, Tyle?—"
"Please just stop," I pleaded. "We’re not even…" I started, but I couldn’t finish the sentence.
His eyebrows went up all the way to the ceiling.
He wasn’t saying anything, as if he was now embarrassed for an entirely different reason—because his almost eighteen-year-old son hadn’t actually done it.
"You’re not exactly a monk," he said, and it wasn’t a question.
I ran a hand through my hair and sighed, feeling my face go as red as a beet. "I’m young. I’m not stupid."
"That’s a surprise."
"We’re just waiting."
He let out a breath, seeming half relieved and half disappointed. "Better safe than a grandpa, I suppose," he said.
"Gross, Dad."
I turned around and headed back to the garage.
"Just make sure you use protection," he whispered right before I shut the door behind me.
I wanted to die.
Everything looked hotter in Palm Springs.
The cars. The pavement. The actors and the filming crew who tried to keep them in line.
The Gobbler was a different kind of hot, of course. It actually sizzled and popped as if it had a dozen heat lamps above the grill. Not because of the weather since it was still January. It was because of the lines at the food truck this weekend.
Adri was out of town for a week. He’d left for Big Bear with his buddies, so I’d been asked to step in.
I’d to spend two full days with Naomi in that tiny kitchen. So I didn’t mind sweating and smelling like taco seasoning. Because she smelled like it too.
