What A Kiss Is

Chapter Two

Two

It’s raining. Of course it’s raining. I’m in Seattle. What else would it do here? My hair gets all weird and curly in this weather. It makes me crazy. My friend, David, would harass me to no end over it, but mostly cause he’s obsessed with his.

I walk slowly through the halls of the airport, unwilling to move as quickly as the people around me. I don’t know what Dad and I are going to talk about on the drive to his boat, much less for the next few months.

This sucks. Maybe we can boat up to Canada or something. I laugh. That’s probably about as international as Dad gets. These three months will be an eternity.

The more I think about it, the more I feel dumped here. Mom keeps telling me I’m spoiled. I keep insisting I’m not. She probably thinks this’ll be one of those life-changing experiences, when I’m already one of the nice guys. And the only good thing I can imagine coming from this is Mom feeling really guilty about leaving me here when she gets home. Guilt can go a long way—I still might get Paris for my birthday. She said she’d be back in time.

Baggage claim in the public airport is ridiculous. I can’t remember the last time I flew commercial, but Mom wasn’t with me, and I’m guessing part of her thought it would be pretentious of me to make Dad go to the private airport. So, apparently a half hour of his discomfort is worth a seven-hour flight of my discomfort. See? Dumped.

I’m not even looking for Dad. Part of me hopes he doesn’t show. Then I could grab my bag and my passport and head to Paris. Mom and Arnaud may have had another falling out, but Arnaud and I haven’t. We get along great. He’s younger than Mom, I’m younger than him, and I think he likes dragging me around. Makes him feel younger. So, all I need to wish for is that Dad won’t—

“Antony?” Dad’s gravelly voice booms out behind me.

I cringe, and almost wish I could disappear, because really? Do we have to yell?

I turn to face him. My dad. His light brown beard now has a few grey hairs. It’s not a nice, neat trim, beard. It’s the kind of beard I’d expect to see on a guy who lives on a boat, grows his own tomatoes at a community garden, and drinks organic beer. His black-rimmed glasses look like something from 1968. He’s wearing a rain jacket, worn jeans and his dirty, white canvas boat shoes. Of course. Because why would you wear anything else?

“Hey, Dad.” I keep my voice low. Appropriate.

He walks through the edges of people hovering around the carousel. But when he stops in front of me, I’m not sure what to do. Do we hug? Shake? I think it’s been more than two years—he’s a stranger.

I don’t have any more time to think about it. He grabs me in a tight hug. I pat his back, holding my backpack with my laptop, iPad, iPod, phone, and camera off to the side. No need to smash those things together. The reality that I’m actually going to be stuck here for a while, works its way through me. I hate feeling betrayed by Mom like this.

“You look exactly like your mom.” He’s staring at me as he pulls away. Dad and I are the same height now—an even six feet. I’m kinda proud of that. Dad’s a bit broader than me, but he looks trim, healthy, as always.

“Yeah,” I say. “We get that a lot.”

“So, you must be like, seventeen now?” he asks, adjusting his dark glasses.

He’s my dad. Shouldn’t he know stuff like this? My birthday is one of the for-sure call days from him. “Yep. Seventeen.” And I’m so close to the magic eighteen.