Page 42 of Sing Your Secrets

“Oh, yes, you did. I remember distinctly because you said you bet in her spare time she tortures puppies for shits and giggles.”

Dad presses his lips together, trying to control his smile. “Pretty sure I didn’t say that.”

“Regardless,” I say as I point at his chest. “It’s you”—I point between my collar bones—“and me in the cool kids’ club. Mom is…is…”

Dad’s face grows serious. His eyes turn down in the corners like he’s wary. “Supportive? Forgiving? Driving me to all my AA meetings? Keeping me company even at my lowest of lows?”

I take in a panoramic visual of the elegant restaurant, with waiters who drape neatly folded cloths over their forearms as they fill crystal glasses with sparkling water. Dad and I hate places like this. We’d rather be in smoky, hazy clubs that serve stale fries and cheap tacos with music bumping so loud that our heartbeats sync right up to the 808s. Mom fits right in here, though.

“Since when?”

“It’s been about a month,” he says in a hurry. “Look, Reese, your mom wants to connect with you. She doesn’t know how. That’s why we started talking again in the first place. She’s…jealous…you and I can talk so easily.”

“Because you and I are like-minded,” I insist.

“You’re a lot like her too. You’re smart, witty, quick with a snarky-as-all-hell reply.” He briefly widens his eyes. “My favorite parts of you come from your mama. Even your voice. Your mom used to sing a bit back in the day.”

I scoff so hard my throat catches. “Mom hates everything about music. Look how much hell she gave you when you were knee-deep in it all.”

Dad’s elbows land on the table, and he folds his hands together in front of his face. The edge of his sleeve tattoo that travels all the way to his thumb knuckle is in clear sight. It’s my name and birthday. Dad always said he wanted a constant reminder of the most important girl in his life when he was working on the keyboard—which while I was growing up, was constantly.

“Your mom didn’t hate music. She hated my drinking. My partying. All the loose women who used to follow me and my musicians around.” He takes another long swig from his glass. “I get I was the fun parent, but your mom was the actual parent. And you punish her for it. I should’ve been better for you. A little time off the booze and I see that now. When I finally apologized to your mom for years of dragging you and her through the instability of my life, she became”—he shoots me a wink—“a little less like Cruella.”

I want to say he’s wrong, but my guilty heart pounds loudly. I’m not cold to Mom…just short, maybe? I do keep her at arm’s length, but it’s also because she only approves of one version of me. It happens to be the version of myself that I like less and less lately.

“I swear if this lunch is to tell me I’m getting a little brother or sister—”

“Oh, come on,” Dad groans. “We’re in our mid-forties. We’re not trying to make more babies. You were a handful enough.” He taps his short sideburns. “See this gray?” Pointing right at me he says, “All because of your sneaking out in high school, kid.”

I scrunch up my face. “Oh, please. There are maybe two gray hairs there. Plus, I was sneaking out to go to your shows.”

Dad laughs as he clutches his chest. “Your mom seriously should’ve shot me. Fuck, I was a bad dad.”

Stop.

Don’t say that.

You weren’t a good parent…but you were always a good friend.

“Hey, so guess what?” I unsubtly change the conversation.

“What?”

“They are restoring The Garage. It’s opening back up in a couple months.”

I love the wide smile that spreads across his tan face. “Really? Man, you loved that place when you were growing up.”

“I know,” I say proudly as if Miles’s project is my own. “My friend Miles is working on the restoration and he just told me he’s going to see it through the grand reopening in a couple of months.”

“Damn, that’s cool. I’m glad to hear that. The Garage has history.” You’re telling me. “You know what? Does your friend want some loudspeakers? Actually, I have an entire PA system, untouched, in storage. Perks from my producing days. It’s more than adequate for a venue that size—worth a lot.”

“Yeah? How much are you selling it for?”

Dad shakes his head and shrugs. “It’s for your friend, right? On the house. I’m not using it for anything and I owe The Garage my career anyway.”

“Seriously? That’s amazing. Thank you.”

Dad nods. “Yeah, on one condition.”