The Last Guy

Still . . . I’m suspicious.

Tonight my dad has left the suit and tie at home for khaki slacks and a maroon V-neck sweater. At sixty, his hair is snow-white and thick, combed back in a slick style he’s worn for as long as I can remember. Still broad-shouldered with a tapered waistline, he’s aged with class.

It’s his stubborn heart that pisses me off.

“What’s his game?” I say.

“Regrets about the past?”

I scratch at the scruff on my jaw. “But why would you invite him?”

He thinks about it, a serious expression flitting across his normally carefree visage. “He’s my dad. I still love him.”

He takes a sip from the Diet Coke he’s holding. “Part of me feels sorry for him. He’s ignorant—and is it stupid that I still crave his approval? Me. A twenty-six-year-old man.” He shakes his head as if bemused.

Trent loves hard and forgives quickly. Impulsively, I give him a shoulder squeeze. “I just don’t want you to be hurt by him again.”

I’d been there to pick up the pieces when he’d moved out of the house, and I never wanted to see him go through that again.

They turn and make their way toward us, and Mom rushes up to me with a big smile, glowing. I nod at my father then hug her. She smells like lemon shampoo and I ruffle her hair.

“I swear it gets longer every day.”

“You just saw me yesterday!” She laughs and fingers the small gray curls on her head.

Classy and elegant as usual, she looks radiant in a black flowy dress that fits the theatre style. A white beaded cardigan is thrown over her shoulders, and I smile; she never goes anywhere without a sweater.

“So . . . how was the date with Sissy?” she asks, looking up at me.

“You mean the worm farmer, a detail you conveniently forgot to tell me?”

She laughs. “I didn’t think it mattered what she did. Isn’t she beautiful?”

“She left me for a Vulcan.”

Trent snorts. “Dude. I’m confused. Why are you going out with this Sissy when you have the hots for Rebecca Fieldstone, monkey wrangler extraordinaire?”

Mom perks up. “The girl on the news? Her video is everywhere!” A gleam grows in her eyes. “I like her. She does that little wink at the end of her broadcasts and her outfits are so stylish. I bet you’d make pretty babies.”

Babies? FUCK.

“I do not have the hots for her. She’s a professional career woman—”

“Who wants to get in your pants.” Trent smirks as he tosses an arm around Mom’s shoulders and whispers conspiratorially. “When I had dinner with them at the station, they could barely keep their eyes off each other. Not that I blame him. If I were straight,”—he shoots a look at Dad—“I’d be all over that. We must invite her next Sunday. I suggest dinner at Raven. The lighting there is perfect for falling in love, plus the piano player is delish. I predict a marriage proposal by the spring.”

Mom claps. “You always have the best ideas. Let’s do it. Text her and invite her for next week. Oh, better yet, see what she’s doing tonight!” She wiggles her eyebrows at me.

“Yes! Invite her!” Trent pipes in. “And ask Chas too!”

My jaw tightens. “I’m not texting Stone.” She’s probably resting from our wild night of sexcapades, not to mention I don’t want her at the center of my family’s machinations to get us together.

“Who’s this girl?” Dad asks, and we all turn to look at him as he stands a few feet behind Mom, fidgeting as he holds a cardboard tray with a tub of popcorn and two beers.

He’s the outsider and knows it.

“Rebecca Fieldstone,” Mom says. “She’s the reporter who flashed her boob to all of Houston—but Cade’s being all secretive about her.”

I groan. “There are no secrets . . .” I stop. It’s no use explaining Stone to them. It would only make things worse.

“Friction in the workplace?” she exclaims. “Sounds exciting.”

I exhale. “Mom. Don’t get any ideas. Stone and I—it’s complicated. She’s trying to get an anchor spot.”

Trent’s eyes are dancing. “You like her. Admit it. Call her.”

I glare at him. “We aren’t in third grade, Trent. Plus, it’s too late to call.”

“You’re probably right,” Mom says. “Anything this last minute is a booty call.”

Trent laughs, and I just shake my head, steering the conversation to Deadrick and the football team.

“You think they might win a championship?” Dad asks a bit loudly as he inserts himself in the conversation. He looks uncomfortable as hell. Good. It’s going to take more than one movie date to make me change my mind about letting him in our circle.

“Undefeated so far,” I say. “I just wish I could do more for them. Those kids need everything: better security, laptops in class like the more affluent schools.” I think back to Marv’s comment about fundraising. “They need money.”

“I can help with that,” he says.

I arch my brow. Hill Global is worth billions, but the only charities the board supports are renowned research hospitals in Houston. I can’t see them jumping to help a forgotten school—not enough publicity involved.

Mom ushers him farther into the little group we’ve unintentionally formed. “What are you thinking, Baron?”

He pauses a moment, and I think I see a bead of sweat on his brow. “Well . . . we need to branch out with tax breaks and helping a local school seems advantageous, especially if my sons are involved.” His gaze flickers to Trent, and he clears his throat. “In fact, I think—and this is just off the top of my head—Trent would be a great help with getting a charity gala together for your school. He’s creative . . . that type of thing . . .” his voice dwindles and he fidgets, an unsure expression crossing his face—almost as if he’s surprised by his own words.

We stare at him, and it’s quiet except for the bustle of moviegoers as they brush past us.

Trent’s the first to speak. “Would I get paid?”

Dad straightens. “Of course. You’d be in charge of the event, organizing it, being the liaison between the company and the school.”

Sounds like a completely made-up position.

“What’s your fucking game?” I ask.

There. I say what I’ve been thinking since I walked in.

He just blinks at me.

Mom pops me on the arm. “Be nice and stop saying the F word.”

Trent focuses on Dad. “You know I’m still gay, right? And no matter what you do for us—or me—I’ll still be gay.”

He stares at his feet for a few ticks and then looks up. “I’m okay with that.”

Am I in the right universe? What is up with my dad?

Regrets?

Mom?

Terminal illness?

I don’t know.

An announcement lets us know the movies are about to start. Dad glances around nervously, his eyes bouncing off the various posters. “So, um, which show are we seeing?”

I follow his gaze and check out the lineup of films. There are only three screens in the entire place—and it’s Gay Pride Month at the theatre.

Trent smiles brightly. “It’s either Brokeback Mountain, Philadelphia, or Transamerica. I’m open. I love them all.”