Ian: Ouch. I’m coming to meet him tonight. I’ll be there after seven.
Me: See you then.
My father is walking toward me with two coffees in his hands, so I slide my phone into my back pocket.
He hands me one of the coffees.
“He looks like you,” he says.
He’s trying to accept it.
“Well, I look just like you,” I say. “Cheers to strong genes.”
I hold my coffee up, and my dad bumps his against it, smiling.
He’s trying.
He leans against the wall for support and looks down at his coffee. He wants to say something, but it’s hard for him.
“What is it?” I ask, giving him the opening he needs. He lifts his eyes from their focus on the coffee, and he meets my gaze.
“I’m proud of you,” he says with sincerity.
It’s a simple statement.
Four words.
Four of the most impactful words I’ve ever heard.
“Of course, it’s not what I wanted for you. No one wants to see his son become a dad at the age of eighteen, but . . . I’m proud of you. For how you’ve handled it. For how you’ve treated Rachel.” He smiles. “You made the best of a difficult situation, and that’s honestly more than most adults would do.”
I smile. I tell him thank you.
I think the conversation is over, but it’s not.
“Miles,” he says, wanting to add more. “About Lisa . . . and your mom?”
I hold my hand up to stop him. I don’t want to have this conversation today. I don’t want this day to become his defense for what he did to my mother.
“It’s fine, Dad. We’ll discuss it another time.”
He tells me no. He says he needs to discuss it with me now.
He tells me it’s important.
I want to tell him it’s not important.
I want to tell him Clayton is important.
I want to focus on Clayton and Rachel and forget all about the fact that my father is human and makes awful choices like the rest of us.
But I don’t say any of that.
I listen.
Because he’s my father.
chapter twenty-nine
TATE
Miles: What are you doing?
Me: Homework.
Miles: Feel like taking a swim break?
Me: ??? It’s February.
Miles: The rooftop pool is heated. It doesn’t close for another hour.
I stare at the text, then immediately look up at Corbin. “There’s a rooftop pool here?”
Corbin nods his head but doesn’t look away from the TV. “Yep.”
I sit up straight. “Are you kidding me? I’ve lived here this long, and you fail to tell me there’s a heated rooftop pool?”
He faces me now and shrugs. “I hate pools.”
Ugh. I could slap him.
Me: Corbin never mentioned there was a pool. Let me change, and I’ll head over there.
Miles: ;）
???
I realize I forgot to knock as soon as I close the door to his apartment. I always knock. I guess my mentioning in a text that I was coming over after I changed seemed good enough to me, but the way Miles is staring at me from the doorway of his bedroom makes me think he doesn’t like the fact that I didn’t knock.
I pause in his living room and look at him, waiting to see what mood he’s in today.
“You’re in a bikini,” he says pointedly.
I look down at my attire. “And shorts,” I say defensively. I look back up at him. “What are people supposed to wear when they swim in February?”
He’s still standing frozen in his doorway, staring at my attire. I fold my towel across my arms and over my stomach. I suddenly feel extremely awkward and underdressed.
He shakes his head and finally begins moving toward me. “I just . . .” He’s still staring at my bikini. “I hope no one is up there, because if you’re wearing that bikini, these swim shorts are going to be really embarrassing.” He looks down at his shorts. At the obvious bulge in them.
I laugh. So he actually likes the bikini.
He takes another step forward and slides his hands around to the back of my shorts, then pulls me against him. “I changed my mind,” he says with a grin. “I want to stay here.”
I immediately shake my head. “I’m going swimming,” I say. “You can stay here if you want, but you’ll be alone.”
He kisses me, then backs me toward his apartment door. “Then I guess I’m going swimming,” he says.
???
Miles enters the passcode for rooftop access, then opens the door for me. I’m relieved to see that no one else is out here, and I am taken by how breathtakingly beautiful it is. It’s an infinity pool, overlooking the city, and it’s lined with patio chairs, all the way to the opposite end, where it’s capped off with an attached hot tub.
“I can’t believe neither of you thought to mention this before now,” I say. “All these months, and I’ve been missing out.”
Miles takes my towel and lays it on one of the tables surrounding the pool. He walks back over to me and drops his hands to the button on my shorts. “This is actually the first time I’ve ever been out here.” He unzips my shorts and pushes them over my hips. His lips are close to mine, and his expression is playful. “Come on,” he whispers. “Let’s get wet.”
I kick off the shorts at the same time as he takes off his shirt. The air is incredibly cold, but the steam rising from the water is promising. I walk to the shallow end to descend the steps, but Miles dives headfirst into the deep end of the pool. I step in, and my feet are swallowed up in the warmth of the water, so I quickly step in the rest of the way. I make my way toward the middle of the pool and walk to the edge, then rest my arms on the concrete ledge looking out over the city.
Miles swims up behind me and cages me in by pressing his chest against my back and placing his hands on either side of the ledge. He rests his head against mine as we both take in the view.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.
He’s quiet.
We watch the city in silence for what seems like forever. Every now and then, he’ll cup his hands and bring water up to my shoulders to warm my chills away.
“Have you always lived in San Francisco?” I ask him. I turn so that my back is against the ledge now and I’m facing him. He keeps his arms on either side of me and nods.
“Close to it,” he says, still looking at the city over my -shoulder.
I want to ask him where, but I don’t. I can tell by his body language that he doesn’t want to talk about himself. He never wants to talk about himself.
“Are you an only child?” I ask, trying to see what I can get away with. “Any brothers or sisters?”
He looks me in the eyes now. His lips are pressed into a firm, agitated line. “What are you doing, Tate?” He doesn’t ask it in a rude way, but there’s no other way his question can come across.
“Just making conversation,” I say. My voice is soft and sounds offended.
“I can think of a lot more things I’d rather talk about than myself.”
But that’s all I want to know about, Miles.
I nod, understanding that although I’m technically not breaking his rules, I’m bending them. He doesn’t feel comfortable with that.