Stay With Me (17 page)

And then, because I’m not a healthy individual, I undeleted the message and played it one more time. My ringtone broke through my playing of the message for the third time, and I answered reluctantly. “Hello?”

“You ready?”

“Hello to you too, Robert.”

“We’ll be by in ten, so if you don’t want the old man in your place, you’d better be outside and ready.”

I looked up toward the ceiling with a quick prayer of thanks. “Sometimes you’re a good brother.”

“See you, twerp.”

I growled as we disconnected. After a long glance at the cooler, I thought about my irritating brother and removed the fruit. Then I crammed another half a case of beer into the container. We would need it to make it through the day with one another.

I sped through my living room and dove into my closet, digging through my abundant Florida wardrobe for anything weather appropriate to wear. As I sifted through at least three dozen tees with mostly foul sayings, beer slogans, and
No Fear
mantras plastered on them, I kept an eye out for anything long-sleeved. While the weather made you want short sleeves and short pants, I had no intention of being bitten a million times over—the Everglades Mosquito Posse rode deep and took no prisoners. I finally decided on a pair of faded jeans and a long-sleeved Nike shirt warning me in white letters about being a first-place loser.

I jammed on my Hurricanes baseball cap on my way out and hurried to grab the cooler. Just as I lifted the handles, my dad started in on the horn, and I gritted my teeth.

“A pause between honks would be nice,” I yelled.

I thought better of my earlier decision and removed the lunch meat and cheese and stuffed them back in the fridge. Then I crammed the other half of the case of beer into the cooler. It was going to be a long day.

My dad’s black Dodge Ram was a bit of a monster truck, with a quad cab and dual tires in the back. The headlights cut through the early morning gloom like spotlights, and I waved as I locked my door.

I slung the cooler in the backseat, barely avoiding Robert’s lunge (to give me a noogie, no doubt), and closed the door on his irritating face. Robert’s son, Case, slept peacefully on the other side. Thank God. I don’t think the little shit said anything that didn’t begin with “epic fail” or (an oldie but a goodie) “your face” nowadays. I slid in the front after levering myself up and shut the door.

“Dad.”

“Mac. You like the new fog lights?”

I was proud of myself. I didn’t say
one
snarky word about him not needing fog lights. “They’re nice.”

“Grill guard is new too.”

I grunted.

“You going to be this talkative the whole way, boy?”

“
Dad
. It’s early.”

“Can’t fish at noon, son.”

When I was a kid, my dad had had a small stick-shift Isuzu that jerked like the very devil. I remember sitting in the back of that truck, clinging to the silver toolbox on the bed, ears laid back in the wind. I guess sitting comfortable in the cab is one of the perks of being almost thirty. The conversation? Not so much.

A stop at McDonald’s for coffee and Egg McMuffins all around had me two steps closer to feeling human again. By the time we pulled into a tackle shop, it was nearing six fifteen, and my dad didn’t even wait for us to all clamber out of the truck before disappearing inside the shop. Case finally woke and joined us, dragging at least ten feet behind.

One foot inside the tackle shop, he sniffed the air and announced, “I’m going to the car. It stinks in here.”

“It’s a bait shop,” I managed to get in before the teenager plugged his ears with whatever MP3 player he had in his pocket. Disturbed’s “Criminal” blared out briefly before he slammed the Ram’s cab door.

I wandered around the shop, seeing what was new in bait and tackle since the last time I’d been fishing. In a word? Nothing. I could hear laughter on the other side of the shop, and I peered through a bucket of rods and reels to see my dad introducing Robert to another guy in tall fishing boots. A manly man from the looks of it. No one would wear all that flannel unless he was okay crushing beer cans on his forehead. I rolled my eyes as Robert preened under the attention, and slunk off to the Pepsi machine.

I’d brought enough beer for a NASCAR race, but I’d forgotten about Case. As I fed the machine quarters and bought three cans of Pepsi, I wondered how someone as old school as my retired police officer father had ever accepted a gay son. I guess it helped that I still watched sports, built things with my hands, had no idea of how to decorate, cook, or keep house, and was basically, well, let’s face it, a bit of a slob.

I’d actually told him over
Sports Center
blaring on one TV and C-SPAN on the other—how the man listened to two televisions at once, I’d never know. As my voice had warred for supremacy with Ted Koppel and Charles Barkley, I’d snatched the remote and muted both televisions in my version of a hissy fit. I’d repeated myself firmly and slowly. “I said, I’m gay.”

“I have ears, boy.”

“Then
say
something about what I just said.”

“What do you want me to say? Nothing you don’t already know.”

“Say it anyway,” I’d demanded, my eyes hot and dry.

“Oh for God’s sakes. If I didn’t know you were gay before, I’d know it now.” He’d cut a glance my way, and something in my face had made him sigh. “All right, then. I ain’t happy about it. I think you’re making a mistake. I think you’re a little touched in the head. But you’re my son. And I love you.” He’d gone as red as the plaid on his ratty old armchair. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna change that.”

“That’s… all you have to say?” I’d asked. Nothing about dishonoring the family? No f-word? No slinging my clothes out on the lawn?

“No. Turn back on my damn C-SPAN.
That’s
all I have to say. Damned Republicans,” he’d muttered for no reason at all. He’d always loved to blame everything on the damned Republicans.

I’d shrugged and done as he’d asked. If he wanted to blame my gayness on the damned Republicans, that was fine by me.

“Minnows or fly fishin’?”

I blinked to find my dad standing in front of me with a bucket and a questioning look. “Sir?”

“Minnows or fly fishin’?”

I don’t know how long I’d been there clutching Case’s sweating Pepsi cans, stuck in the past, so I shrugged. I may have always tried to be manly for my pops, but there was no way I was touching live bait. He knew that by now. He just had a strange sense of humor.

“Up to you,” I said gamely. “I’m not touching anything living.”

Robert snorted, and I made a face in his direction. Yep, my father still baited my hook, and I wasn’t ashamed to admit it.

As our dad made off to the minnow tank, I touched one of the ice-cold cans to Robert’s neck. He yelped and swatted at me.

“You look stupider than usual,” I said, pointing at the strange glasses he was wearing. He looked like the henchman in a steampunk film.

“They’re high-power fishing goggles,” he said, taking them off and turning them over in his hand. “They’re supposed to tell the fisherman exactly where the fish are. Like X-ray vision for the water.”

“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?” I asked, squinting at the package. They were two hundred dollars’ worth of overpriced garbage.

Robert, despite the hemming and hawing, would eventually purchase them. The man loved his toys. The motorcycles, the ATVs, and the bumblebee Camaro in his garage were only second to the gigantic flat screen that he crowed about every single game day. And while I thought most of his toys were pretty damn cool, I didn’t see the point of the fishing goggles. If I wanted to know where the fish were, I’d go to Publix.

In the end, we all left the store clutching our bounty—Robert and his stupid goggles and me with my soda. Our dad followed behind with a bucket full of swirling yellow minnows, darting back and forth as if they knew what was waiting for them. I crammed my reflective aviators over my nose, watching the steam rise off the hood of the truck. The sun was starting to peek over the horizon, and heat was starting to make my back prickle in the long clothing as I clambered into the AC of the truck.

We passed a Miccosukee reservation and two wildlife reserves before my dad found a spot he liked. He didn’t like the spots actually designated for fishing; he liked the small openings in the forestation that led down to the water. Less traveled and better fish, he always swore by them. Robby carried the cooler while I carried the minnows gingerly as we made our way behind our dad down the steep slope. My dad carried his machete, carving away misshapen bushes and grass like he was freaking Indiana Jones. The machete wasn’t for show, in case we met something that thought
we
would taste delicious on some bread. Case carried himself and a blue Nintendo DS.

My bum leg started to burn as I strained to take the steep slope, but I wouldn’t say a word. I didn’t even have the pleasure of a grimace as my dad watched me with a gimlet eye, just waiting to take the bucket from me.

It wasn’t long before we were set up on upturned buckets and a beach chair, each swearing by the spot we’d picked, and waiting for a bite. As I stared at my lure, willing it to go under, I was soothed by the soft chattering of my father and brother. They were talking about his job, and I tried to be happy for the two peas in a pod. So what if I was a carrot? Peas and carrots still went well together… sometimes in the same dish.

My lure bobbed under briefly, and I was excited before I realized I’d been picked clean. “Damn,” I mumbled under my breath. “Sneaky little devils.”

“Epic fail, Uncle Mac,” Case announced in a way that made me want to bean him with my fishing rod. He was lucky I loved him like he was my own son. Whoever created “epic fail” should be tied and stuffed in a sack with whoever created work, discrete calculus, and “Where is this relationship going?” then drowned in a river.

Feeling quite snarky, I snapped, “What’s the point of fishing if you’re just going to have your nose buried in a DS all day?”

He shrugged, flipping a wave of overlong caramel brown hair out of his eye, and I felt like an ass. Maybe he just wanted to spend time with his dad. Or his grandpa. Or hell, judging from the distance of his bucket chair from mine, maybe even his Uncle Mac. I tugged the DS from his hands and stuffed it in my back pocket.

“Here.” I handed him my line. “I’m going to show you how to cast.”

The quiet murmur of my dad and Robert faded into the background as I showed Case the basics, and we cast and cast again. The kid had a good arm—probably would make a great ball player someday. Terrible fisherman. But a great ball player.

“Back over the shoulder,” I instructed, and he slung it over his shoulder like a Louisville Slugger. The bait sailed into the trees, and the hook caught on a branch. When he pulled, the tree shook, as if it too were holding back laughter.

Three minnows and two hooks later, he was throwing a pretty good line. “You’re in the reeds, Case.” I mimed pulling the line back. “You need to cast again.”

“Stuck again?” He frowned down at the dark water. “How can you tell?”

“See mine? It’s bobbing and shifting a bit with the wind and current. Yours is—”

“Still as a rock.” He scowled, yanking the line back into the trees. “Don’t worry, Uncle Mac,” he assured me as we tried to find his lure in the bushes. “By summer, I’ll have the hang of it. We can come out here anytime then.”

“Maybe.”

Weren’t children dragged off to summer school anymore? I had no intention of spending my summer on the fishing creek, but I was hesitant to ruin any of Case’s nonteenager, I-hate-being-alive moments. We picked our way through the bushes to find his caught line, branches and hidden mangrove scraping at my jean-clad legs.

When we returned from our search and rescue operation, Robert had apparently tried on his new fishing goggles and was staring down into the water intently, brows furrowed.

“See anything, Rob? Fish? Spare tires? Loose change?”

He gave a noncommittal grunt to my ribbing, and I wondered what had put him in such a foul mood all of a sudden. I mean really, I groused to myself as I grabbed a beer out of the cooler, one moment he was talking to Dad, and the next…. Oh, man. A little too late, I saw my father’s eyes narrowed in my direction, and I knew he was making the rounds. Rare it was when my father decided to get nosy, but unpleasant nonetheless.

“How about you, Mac? How’re things going down at the firm?”

“Good.” I bobbed my head, clutching my beer like a lifeline. Calling my tiny PI gig a firm was a bit ritzy, but why not? “Real good.”

“Meet anyone nice lately? Anything new on the dating scene?”

Oh dear Lord. I couldn’t meet my brother’s eyes. Even if they were covered by those stupid goggles, that would set us both off. I would
not
laugh at my father when he was trying so hard to make conversation.

“No, but you’ll be the first to know.”

“I tried to set him up with this great guy I know, but he’s got a crush on some straight guy,” Robert tattled for reasons known only to him and the Lord above.

I sent him the darkest glare I could muster, which, as far as I could tell, bounced right off his thick head. “Thank you, Robert.”

“Welcome,” he sang.

“Chasing after someone who is straight.” My dad nodded. “Sounds productive.”

A snigger came from Robert’s general direction, and I suddenly knew where I was going to wing my beer can when it was empty.

“It’s more fun than you can possibly imagine.” I sighed and dropped the sarcasm. “But even a hope that we could have been something more is gone.”

“Oh?”

I had to give him props. Even though his face was beet red discussing his gay son’s love life, he seemed to be determined to stay his course. I rewarded his effort with the truth, embarrassing as it was.

“He told me that he’s uncomfortable with the idea of dating a man and can’t see or talk to me again.” He wasn’t that specific about seeing or talking to me, but I was an expert at reading between the lines.