Kids These Days

Chapter 22: Finn

A retired cold-case detective, a British fiance, and an art-collector cowboy walk into a bar. This is the joke that pops into my head as I sit down for dinner on the patio with dad, Floyd, and Henry. It's a quiet night on the ranch. Sarah and mom are getting dinner in town (you couldn't pay me a million dollars to witness that conversation) and Becca is reading a book on the porch swing, so it's just the three of us hunkering down at a table set for twice as many.

There's something theatrical about the scene. As if we're all actors waiting to take our places and recite our rehearsed lines. A little voice in my head keeps whispering, this can't be real. It's persistent. I wish it was the truth.

Dad cracks open a glass of sweating Corona. Floyd pours himself some lukewarm water from the carafe. Henry sits alone at the head of the table, quietly bewildered, like a party guest just realizing they don't know anyone else on the invite list. I should feel bad for him, but it's hard to feel bad for someone who mixes up french fries with potato chips and also eloped with your sister. Maybe I'm not a very sympathetic person --maybe I don't have the extra room inside of me to feel sympathy. All I feel is tired. Worn out.

"So," dad says. "Your friend."

"He's gone." I watch a droplet of condensation trickle down the side of dad's Corona, too exhausted to dredge up the proper emotional response. Becca and I stayed up until two in the morning searching for Ronan, but all we found was his rented tux jacket slung over a chain link fence. "Missing, I mean. Not that he's in danger. He's just being a dick."

"Language," dad reprimands.

"Hey, go easy on the kid, he's had a long day." Floyd tips his glass in my direction, and I feel a weary smile tug at my lips. He didn't get angry at me when I finally broke down and told him about Rachel's party. He just sent me outside to move flagstones from the driveway to the patio until my thoughts went mercifully quiet. It was an oddly paternal gesture. "And he's having girl trouble."

"That's not true," I say quickly. I'd rather drink a bottle of Tabasco than discuss my disaster of a love life in front of my dad.

Henry perks up. "Oh, what's her name?"

"Take a wild guess," Floyd says, shrugging one of his massive shoulders toward the front door. (Holy hell, I hope Becca isn't listening. She'd never let me hear the end of it.) "If you don't believe me, just watch how red Finn gets around her."

"It's not girl trouble," I insist. "Really. I don't even like her."

"You should buy her flowers," Henry says. "It worked for me."

I raise my eyebrows at him. "Yeah, a little too well."

There's a long pause, during which Dad downs the rest of his Corona, and Floyd heads to the kitchen to grab him a second beer. (I don't think I've ever seen Floyd drink. The only alcohol he keeps in the house is for my parents.) Henry chews on his lip and stares at the place-mat. Once again, I almost feel sorry for him, but not sorry enough to apologize.

I'm debating if I should sneak a drink of my own out of the fridge while everyone is busy glaring at each other, but the door swings up before I can muster the confidence. And, speaking of confidence, Ronan is back. He careens into the dining room like a driver falling asleep at the wheel. For some reason, he's wearing Andy's favorite Stevie Nicks t-shirt (the one she swears the Dreams singer breathed on at a concert) and a pair of basketball shorts. (Oliver's basketball shorts? I'm so confused.) He also smells like a pack of Marlboro's. Not a surprise. (I should seriously consider staging an intervention...)

Breathlessly, Ronan says, "Finn, I need to talk to you."

I snap to my feet, shoving my chair away from the table. "Are you shitting me?"