I wondered how he felt about his father. There was a lot more to Ben Hallowell than I’d ever thought.
I headed up to Truro, where Dad had lived in a condo since he sold us the house. The building had once been a two-level motel, but as Cape Cod became more of a second-home market, a lot of motels and hotels on Shore Road had been converted to make perfect, tiny condos. Dad had bought the model unit, completely furnished, forks, plates, bath mats, sheets and all. It wasn’t supposed to be a year-round condo （hence the affordability of the units back then）， but try moving out a crusty old fourth-generation fisherman. The town had given him an exception.
I parked my trusty Honda next to Dad’s truck. There were no other cars except a Mercedes at the other end of the lot, since Dad was the only year-rounder. I went up the stairs and knocked. No answer. Maybe he was taking a walk. Or sleeping. The man did love his naps.
I unlocked the door with my key and went in. “Dad?” I said, setting the soup on the counter. “Daddy?” No answer, but I did hear music.
Was that . . . Beyoncé? It was. Dad knew who Beyoncé was? I mean, I did, of course. We were the same age. （God, how awful. I needed to up my skin care game.） Keep me coming, keep me humming, keep me coming . . .
Yeah, okay, he’d obviously left the radio on and was sleeping, because this song was filthy （and yes, I knew all the words）。 “Dad?” Still nothing.
Could something have happened? Could he have . . . died? No, no, he was healthy as an ox. But still. As Queen Bey asked about eating Skittles （which were not Skittles at all）， I opened the door to my dad’s bedroom and saw something so horrible my brain couldn’t process it, which didn’t stop me from screaming at the top of my lungs.
My mother screamed as well.
“What?” Dad said, looking up at me from where he was . . . where he was . . . lying. On his back.
I staggered out, managing to close the door.
Keep me coming, keep me going, keep me coming . . . I could hear my parents’ terse voices inside the bedroom.
Oh, sweet and pure angelic baby Jesus, please erase that image from my head, I prayed, sliding to the floor.
But no. My parents were having adventure sex.
“We were just . . . we were just having a nap,” Dad called. “An angry nap.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Pedro,” my mother said. “She knows what we were doing. Get out of those handcuffs and come talk to your daughter.”
A minute later, they both came out, Mom in Dad’s tatty flannel bathrobe, my father in jeans and a University of Montana sweatshirt, a Christmas gift from Dylan, now forever tainted.
“An ‘angry nap’？” I asked. “Also, you guys hate each other.”
“That’s only partially true,” Mom said, sitting on the couch and crossing her legs like she owned the place. “I realize you’re just as repressed as your Portuguese grandparents, Liliana, but not everyone shares your Catholic sensibilities about sex.”
“Please stop talking,” I said.
“Squashy,” Dad began.
“Nope. No pet names. What the . . . I . . . Okay, that song is porn, for one.”
“It could’ve been Megan Thee Stallion and Cardi B,” Dad said.
“You don’t know that song, Father! No! I don’t care if you do. You don’t.”
“It has a nice rhythm,” Dad said.
“Shush! Do you have any booze, Dad, because I need a stiff drink.”
“I also need something else stiff,” Mom muttered.
“Mom! I heard that! Haven’t you scarred me enough in your life?” Dad poured me a shot of whiskey, which I tossed back. “Are you guys together now?” I demanded.
“Well . . . wouldn’t that make you happy?” Dad asked.
“No!” I screeched. “Hannah will stab you both when she finds out about this.” A thought occurred to me. “Is this why Beatrice left? Because you cheated on her with Dad?”
“I can’t speak for her motives,” Mom said.
“Yes,” said Dad at the same time.
“It’s rather poetic, isn’t it?” Mom said, smiling at my father. “What goes around, comes around.”
“Then Dad should’ve cheated with Beatrice,” I said. “Call Hannah. I’m not keeping this to myself.”
They exchanged a glance. “You do it,” Mom said.
Half an hour later, my sister sat in Dad’s tiny living room, a look of horror on her face. “You made Beatrice leave,” she said to them both. “The best parent of the three of you, and you drove her away to another continent. Dad, I’d expect this of Mom, but you?”