Intercepted (Page 11)

But before I can reminisce any further, the screen door swings open and my dad comes out, already in the middle of a full-blown, on-the-verge-of-gloaty rant.

“I told you, Marlee. I told you when you came home with hearts in your eyes at sixteen I didn’t like that damn kid. He was a squirmy little fucker then and he’s still a squirmy son of a bitch today. Flying girls out here like he didn’t already have the prize in that ugly-ass palace he stuck you in.”

I love how my dad goes all papa bear for me. “I know, I know. You were right.”

“Damn straight I was.” He says the words, but it’s clear he takes no joy in this as he walks to me and wraps me up in a tight hug. “You all right, baby girl?”

“I’m fine. It’s been a long time coming. I’m just grateful I found out before I wasted more of my life on him.” It’s the truth. Crazy how fast perspective can shift over the course of a car ride. “Where’s Mom?”

“She went to the store to get some of that healthy crap you like to eat.” His lip curls up in disgust.

“It’s not like I’m juicing kale all day, but margarine isn’t real food.”

“You say tomato, I say ketchup.” He’s totally where I get my elegance from.

We’re both laughing when he looks over my shoulder and almost as fast as he grabbed me, he lets me go, straightening to his full, six-foot-three-inch height (how I’m only five foot two is still a family mystery). He growls at somebody behind me. “Who the hell are you?”

“Gavin Pope, sir.” Gavin, more swoon worthy than ever, holds his hand out to shake my dad’s. “I happened to be there when Marlee was ready to leave and offered her a ride.”

“The new quarterback, huh? Good first game. Everyone around here was glad to find out Jacobs still has some sense, bringing you in.”

What in the fresh hell is this?

Never, not once in my twenty-seven years on Earth, has my Dad ever straight-up complimented a person. Not even me!

“Thank you, sir. Hopefully he’ll get a new receiver I can throw to.”

“My man.” My dad slaps him on the back and laughs. Laughs! “Call me Jarod.”

Okay. What is this trickery?

“Nice to meet you, Jarod. I’m going to grab Marlee’s bags, where should I put them?”

“I’ll help—dropping them by the front door will be fine.” They start down the stairs, laughing and talking and going on their merry way together. I stand in the same place my dad left me, watching them, catching a few flies with my open mouth, and decide that of all the not okay things that happened today, this is the most not okay.

My dad and Gavin are not allowed to be buddies.

They’re walking back together, the perfect yin to the other’s yang. Gavin’s olive skin and blue eyes are the direct opposite of my dad’s chocolate on chocolate features. They’re both about the same height, but Gavin’s broad shoulders and defined arms make him look larger than my dad.

“Why didn’t you just drive your car, Mars?” Dad asks.

“Ummm . . .” Crap. Gavin and I started talking about the merits of country music verse hip-hop in the car and I forgot to figure out a game plan for when this question inevitably came up.

My non-answer gives away more information than I hoped. I know this because the happy-go-lucky guy who laughs and tells people to call him Jarod is long gone. His nostrils flare, and his lips are pulled in a thin, straight line. I instantly revert to my fourteen-year-old self who got caught sneaking Old Lady Jenkins’s cigarettes. My palms are sweaty, and I’m desperately searching for any plausible reason I wouldn’t have a car when Gavin decides to speak up.

“Chris told her she had to leave it.”

My nerves disappear, and I turn my hard eyes to him. He must not feel my anger—or know about my boxing skills—because he just shrugs a shoulder my way.

Traitor.

And that’s the moment my Dad loses his ever-lovin’ mind.

“He what?” He’s so loud, I swear I can feel his words. I look around to see if our neighbors rush to stand in their door frames, mistaking Jarod Harper’s wrath for an earthquake.

“It’s not a big deal, Dad. I didn’t want anything he bought me anyways.” Except my shoes. I might not care about many material items, but shoes are like mini sculptures. And what kind of designer (graphic still counts!) would I be to deny such an art form?

“I’m gonna kill him.” His volume has decreased, but the low, menacing tone manages to make the words come out ten times scarier. I think the only reason he lowered his voice is so the neighbors can’t tell the police what they heard.

I shoot a glare Gavin’s way, trying my best to say look what you did now without having to say it. Again, he just shrugs. Jerk.

“Dad, really. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. You had a car. One you bought yourself and were almost finished paying off. That fuckin’ scumbag convinced you to sell it when he gave you that ugly thing.”

“Whoa now. No need to insult Honey-Blossom. She’s innocent in all of this.” I try and pull the anger away from my car, who’s a victim just as much as I am.

“Honey-Blossom?” Gavin asks.

“Her hippy-dippy Prius,” Dad says at the same time I tell him, “My Prius.”

With this new bit of information, I can’t tell if Gavin is going to laugh at me or join my dad in his quest for blood.

“You named your car Honey-Blossom?” Gavin’s eyebrows reach his hairline, and his jaw comes dangerously close to the pavement.

“Yeah . . .”

“Why?” he asks.

“Because it’s an awesome name for an awesome car.” Am I missing the real question here? Why would anybody not want to name their car a name they found on a list for “Top Hippy Baby Names”?

“Alexander is such a fuckin’ idiot,” Gavin mumbles.

I’m not really following how he got there after asking about my car.

Dad seems to get it though. He turns his wide, brown eyes on him and says, “You get it!”

“Of course I do. The only one who didn’t is Alexander. Everything around her and all she wanted was a Prius she named Honey-Blossom.”

Ugh. And men say women are confusing?

“You guys are so strange.” I ignore the weird tingly feeling I have watching these two get along so well. I won’t be going to games anymore, and there’s not a chance I’d ever move back toward where the players live, so the chances of running into Gavin after this day are slim to none. But I still think about it.

“You wanna ride with me to go get it?” That is Gavin . . . Gavin asking to give my Dad a ride to Chris’s.

“Yup. Let me grab my bat first.” That’s Dad agreeing to go, but only after he gets a potential weapon.

Oh sweet lord, where is Dixie when you need someone to pray for you?

“Oh no. It’s really not that serious, you two.” Not as serious as five to ten, that is. “I have money in savings. I’m not loaded or anything, but I’ll have enough for an apartment and lightly loved car. I’m thinking I’ll name this one Bluebell Sparkle.”

“Bluebell Sparkle?” Gavin asks incredulously.

“This damn girl. You see, Gavin, you see what she does to me?” My dad sounds defeated. Like he’s accepted I’m the reason he will have a heart attack one day.