I follow her into the hallway so I can lock the door. “Cel—”
“Sorry,” she whispers, “but I really don’t know how to talk to dads.” Then she vanishes in a puff of smoke, leaving me like a traitor to face the music alone. Which is fine, because Dad’s obviously gonna tell Mum about this and Mum will definitely tell Neneh.
When I get back to the kitchen, Dad’s finished the onions and started on the scotch bonnet. I hop onto one of the stools at the marble island and watch his hands move, waiting for the conversation to start. When it doesn’t—when he just keeps chopping with this grim expression, and I start to wonder if I’m seriously in trouble—I crack like an egg. “You do know Mason’s full of it. Right? Dad. Come on. Right?”
Also, I have had sex before. Dad knows I’ve had sex before because Mason stole my jeans and stretched them out with his massive quads and then put them in the wash basket without checking the pockets and Mum found a condom in there and I could’ve let him take the fall but I very nobly admitted it was mine, so really, you’d think he’d have my back every once in a while, but he doesn’t because he’s an enormous douche.
Dad laughs and finally looks at me. “I should hope he is, Bradley Thomas.”
“So what’s wrong?” I reach over to take the bulb of garlic, grab a press from the drawer, and make myself useful.
Dad hums. “You and Celine, huh?”
We should talk about it, she said. But then she put her tongue in my mouth, so…I shift in my seat and peel the first clove. “Yeah?”
Dad sighs again. Puts his knife down. Gives me his full and serious attention. “Is that a good idea?”
My frown is so intense it hurts my head. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“This is your last year of school,” Dad says. “Law is a very demanding course.”
Law, he says, like it’s a done deal, like I’m an Olympian who wants this so bad it hurts and he’s the hardworking coach watching my back. Of course this would come up. Of course.
“Competition is high and…final exams, that’s a lot of pressure,” he continues. “Trust me. I remember it well, and I never had to deal with the extra…difficulties you have.”
I put down the garlic and try to keep up. “Is this an I’m worried about how nuts you are speech?”
“Bradley.” He scowls. “I’ve told you not to say that.”
I ignore him. “Because I thought I was doing good. Am I not doing good?” I feel good. Or I did, before my dad started talking in riddles.
“You’re fine,” Dad says, then falters. “I mean. Are you fine?”
I shrug. “Yeah?”
“Okay.” He nods. “Okay. Well, all I’m saying is, let’s keep it that way.”
Have I missed something? “What’s that got to do with Celine?”
Dad hesitates before speaking in his tread carefully tone, like I’m a bomb about to go off. “I love Celine. But I know you’ve always had…strong feelings about her.”
Now I’m annoyed, because I was ready to argue, but that is technically true. My feelings for Celine have been positive and negative, platonic and combative and…and this new thing where I want to hold her hand for the next millennium, but no matter what, they’ve always been strong. “Okay,” I say, trying to force my jaw to unclench.
“I don’t know if now is a good time for those feelings to get even stronger,” Dad finishes. “Aside from anything else, do you need all that added pressure right now?”
“Oh,” I say tightly while feelings pop up like volcanic geysers in me. Ten minutes ago, I was having a fantastic time making out with the hottest girl on the planet and now I’m being lectured about my delicate soul. （Well, my delicate brain chemistry, but whatever.） “I don’t see why liking Celine is pressure, though.”
Dad opens his mouth, then closes it. “I can’t tell you what to do, Brad,” he lies, before telling me what to do. “I’m just saying maybe you should think twice before adding torrid romance to your list of things to worry about.”
“Okay, but I’m not worried.”
“And if you and Celine apply to universities miles apart, or you’re too busy studying to go out on dates, or whatever, you won’t be worried then?” There’s a deep furrow between his eyebrows and his hands are flat against the chopping board, chilies forgotten. “You were always stuck on something or other that happened with Bella—”
“Don’t compare them!”
Dad raises a hand like he’s granting a point. “Right. No. Sorry.”
Bella and Celine are not the same. There’s no reason to mention their names in the same sentence. Plus, Bella didn’t know about my OCD and she had…different ideas about relationships than I did. It was complicated. Me and Celine, we’re simple. I know her and I want her, and she definitely knows me.
But she wants to talk, whispers that annoying little voice in the back of my head, the one that picks up on things I’d rather not notice.
“I’m just saying,” Dad finishes, grabbing his knife again, “that first BEP expedition took a lot out of you. I know you haven’t managed to finish your uni applications yet. And final exams are going to be…Law school requires very high—”
The words “I don’t care about law school” burst out of me, like when you open a bottle of pop and it all fizzes over. I thought they were staying inside, but then something shook and twisted a bit too fast, and now the counter’s all sticky and half my bottle is empty. There’s no undoing it.
Dad drops his knife and looks at me with an expression so astonished and concerned （concernished, perhaps） you’d think my head had fallen off. “Pardon me?” he asks.
Now I feel like a dick. He’s just trying to give me advice, the way he always does, and how do I react? By throwing inconvenient truths at his face. “Nothing,” I say, picking up my garlic. “Sorry.”
“Brad, are you—”
“I’m fine.”
“You know you can tell me anything. If you’re not feeling…If you’re having any—”
“I’m in a bad mood.” I force a smile. “You kind of rained on my parade, old man.”
His expression softens. “Son. You know I’m not trying to be negative. I just want the best for you.”
“I know.”
“But I can’t tell you what to do,” he repeats.
Parents love to say shit like that, as if their words, their looks, their expectations, aren’t as heavy as a small planet. Usually, my dad’s word is law whether he knows it or not.
But not this time.
Turns out, when it comes to Celine, Dad’s right: he can’t tell me what to do. No one can.
CELINE
SUNDAY, 3:12 P.M.
Minnie: You did WHAT?
Celine: IT WAS AN ACCIDENT
Minnie: lol no it wasn’t, you’ve been drooling over him for centuries
Minnie: just astonished YOU finally noticed???
I have no idea why I tell Michaela anything. She’s a deeply annoying human being.