“Hey!” I yell when I spot a man bolting down the drive toward the road, and just as I take off to chase him, I’m stopped in my tracks by red spray paint all over the side of my car.
GET OUT PERVERT.
What. The. Fuck? Pervert? Is this some kind of sick prank?
Then it only takes a moment before realization dawns. As I spin away from the car, I look to the house and notice something taped to the front door that I didn’t see when I walked out. It’s a printed article from some online website with a picture of my dad’s club in black and white on the top. I snatch the paper down as I read the headline: A perverted establishment in Briar Point: citizens petition to have heinous club closed down.
I guess someone did a quick Google search of Emerson Grant and came up with this address. My dad can’t still be listed as the owner.
“Wrong house, dumbass!” I yell, although the guy is long gone. “Fucking great…” I mutter, inspecting the damage to my car. There’s no way in hell I’m driving anywhere with this. But if I leave it here and have my dad come pick me up, my mother will have the good fortune of holding it over his head for the next ten years.
Grabbing a roll of duct tape out of the garage, I work swiftly to cover as much of the paint as I can, but I quickly run out and it’s not nearly enough. Anyone can still easily read the slur scribbled across the side.
Fucking wonderful.
I grit my teeth as I climb in the car, throwing the crumpled-up article on the passenger seat. Then I start the car and pull out of the driveway with PERVERT still mostly visible on the passenger side. It’s a good thing my dad doesn’t live far.
“Beau, I’m so sorry,” he stammers as he assesses the damages. We’re standing in his garage, where he has plenty of space to hide my sweet new paint job while we both stare at it. “You can borrow my car until we get this fixed.”
My teeth are clenched as I avoid eye contact.
“We’ve been receiving baseless threats from these people for a couple weeks now. I had no idea they’d stoop to vandalism. You know, we should really file a police report.”
“Just fix it,” I grumble, looking away.
“I’m sorry, Beau.”
“Yeah, you said that already. It’s fine. Let’s just go get something to eat.”
He clears his throat as he clicks the unlock button on his car, and we both climb in. Once I fasten my seat belt, I ask, “Why would they come to Mom’s house anyway?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. That’s weird, but I’ll take care of it.”
As we drive to our favorite burger joint, I notice him tensing in the driver’s seat. Something is definitely up. I study him as we park, order from the waitress, and eat our food. He’s being a little quieter than normal, and appears slightly uncomfortable. Maybe it’s just the spray paint incident that has him acting weird.
But when the meal is done and he doesn’t move to leave, my suspicions are confirmed.
“Beau, I have something to tell you, and I’m not sure how you’re going to take it.”
Oh shit.
“What?”
“I want to ask Charlie to marry me.”
I’m not sure if the sound that comes out of my mouth has a name, but it’s somewhere between a choke and a laugh, and it has me nearly spitting out my drink in the process.
“You’re joking,” I snap after I have composed myself.
The stern expression on his face says he’s not.
“You’re fucking forty-one. She’s twenty-two.”