Preston
Dad stops walking and aims his iPad at the Desert Guard, a towering thirty-two-foot steel figure in Mongolian warrior armor that dwarfs everything around it on Fourth Street.
Mom sighs, but there's a soft smile playing on her lips. "I can't take him anywhere."
Even as recently as two months ago, I would have completely agreed with her.
Heck, I'd probably have chastised Dad at least a dozen times myself since this is the latest in a series of stops we've taken tonight.
Something gets into him when he travels, and he morphs into the biggest, dorkiest iPad dad ever.
But despite losing a lot of weight, he's surprisingly active, and I'll take it.
These days I'm clinging to any and every scrap of positivity I can find.
"He's alright." I hook my arm through Mom’s. "I'm going to miss seeing it."
"Oh, honey." She turns to me, her face full of worry, her almond-shaped eyes a blink away from tears.
"No. You promised."
"I know, I know."
She sniffs, turning her attention to Dad who, satisfied he's taken a dozen photos he'll only look at again once to decide which to cull, is clipping the tablet into the crossbody strap slung across his front.
All that's missing is a bright neon sign over his head flashing Tourist!
Tourist! to go with his blindingly white sneakers, and the lanyard he's worn around his neck since our visit to the National Automobile Museum earlier today.
"Are you going to miss that, too?" she asks.
I chuckle. "Actually, yes."
Dad wanders back over, his gaze darting between us. "You both good?"
"Yep," I answer for us. "Could do with a drink though."
He gives a firm nod, lifting his index finger into the air. "I know just the place."
I grew up in Alum Rock, a working-class part of San Jose, but have lived in Reno for three and a half years now.
It's a five-to-six-hour drive back home, depending on whether the I-80 backs up near Sacramento.
I try to visit my folks as often as I can, which hasn't been as often as I would have liked recently.
Between near-full-time clinical placements during the day—I'm in the final year of a three-year physical therapy program—and working nights and weekends, it hasn't left a lot of time for family visits. Or to have much of a life really.
But since I got my latest diagnosis two months ago, Mom and Dad have visited me three times. I take them to every cheesy tourist trap Reno has to offer and try to keep the mood fun and light. Anything to distract us all from the health crises hanging over both Dad and me like dark clouds.
"Where are you taking us?" Mom calls out to Dad who's a few paces ahead.
"It's a bar I discovered on YouTube," he answers. "Meant to be really hip and cool."
Mom snorts. "I warned you getting him an ad-free subscription for Christmas was a bad idea. He now gets most of his information from YouTube and is addicted to shorts."
I pull Mom closer against me and plant a kiss atop her head. "There are worse things to be addicted to."
As if dealing with all my shit isn't bad enough, Dad got mesothelioma from a fire he responded to years ago because some greedy developer cut corners on asbestos reporting.
So now, instead of spending their empty nester years somewhere warm, my parents have been forced to take out a second mortgage to sue the developer in a protracted and very costly legal battle.
"It's only half a block away," Dad announces over his shoulder. He turns around and gives us a triumphant ta-da when we arrive at The Butterfly Lounge. "Have you been here before, son?"
I exchange a look with Mom then blink up at the sign and neon butterfly logo. "No, can't say that I have."
I wave Mom through ahead of me. One brow lifts as she walks past. "You never know who we might run into."
My face falls as I follow her in.
I've done something truly, truly awful. I panic-lied to her during a call a few days before they arrived and blurted out I was seeing someone, just to get her off my case about it.
I thought I was smart, keeping it super vague and saying we'd only just met, intimating that it'd be way too soon to introduce imaginary him to my parents.
I was hoping she'd either forget about it or wouldn't bring it up on this visit, but she's been dropping a steady stream of hints about seeing him "even if it's only for a few minutes" from the moment they arrived two days ago.
They leave first thing in the morning tomorrow, so I thought I'd dodged it, but nope. Looks like I haven't.
Inside, it takes me a moment to get my bearings.
Low amber light pools over a long walnut bar.
Neon beer signs buzz softly against exposed brick.
A blues track that Dad recognizes and starts bobbing his head to hums throughout the space.
It sets a nice vibe, and it's not as packed as I would've expected it to be considering it's a Friday night.
Dad gets our drinks while Mom and I claim a high table toward the back of the bar. He joins us a few moments later. I slide my fingers carefully around the glass and lift my lemon soda. "To another wonderful visit. It's been great seeing you both."
They both smile somewhat awkwardly as we clink our glasses together. It takes me a minute to cotton on.
Oh, right. Not the best choice of words on my part.
Dad pulls his iPad onto the table and begins scrolling through the endless rows of photos he's taken today. "Alright. It's time to make some decisions. Don't want to clog up my memory with all of these, so I need help choosing which photos to keep, which to delete."
I zone out, partly because dissecting the differences between essentially the same half a dozen photos of the "The Biggest Little City in the World" sign, which he photographs every single time they come, is about as exciting as it sounds, but also because my focus is drawn to a lone figure sitting at the bar.
He's facing away from our table, so I can only make him out from the back. Slick, neatly combed sin-dark hair. The broad sweep of his shoulders under a tailored black jacket that seems too formal for a place like this.
And there's something about the way he's sitting. Alone. Not hunched over his phone. Not fidgeting. Not looking around. He's perfectly still. A red-and-green neon sign bleeds light across his shoulders, draping him in something that looks almost holy.
"So, honey…"
I force my gaze from the guy—shit, I hope it's a guy and not some art installation propped at the bar; that'd be embarrassing—and turn to Mom. "Yeah?"
She shuffles in her seat. Dad isn't paying attention to us. He's in full-on photo assassin mode with the iPad pressed up to his face, practically touching his nose.
"I've been thinking," she continues. "About this young man you've just started dating. You haven't even told us his name."
That's because he doesn't exist.
"Like I said, Mom, it's early days. I don't want to jinx it."
"I understand, but…" She sighs. "With everything else that's going on, it would make me, us—she turns to Dad to back her up, but he's otherwise engaged—happy knowing you're not all alone out here."
"Are you trying to guilt me?"
She smiles at me as she shrugs, being all cutesy like. "Is it working?"
I have to look away, otherwise I'll smile.
Or worse, cave.
"No."
"Come on, Pres. Can't he just stop by for a few minutes? We'd love to meet him."
"I, uh…"
"What's he doing tonight?"
Good question. What is the non-existent guy I've just started seeing doing on a Friday night? A tumbleweed rolls through my head as my brain blanks out. This is why I don't lie. I'm terrible at it.
"Let me see. I'll—I'll give him a call."
It's the only thing I can come up with that buys me some time and gets me out from under her watchful gaze. She beams, practically vibrating with excitement like it's already a done deal.
I wave my phone and get up.
What the hell is the plan here, Pres?
I start walking toward the bar and frown when I notice the guy I'd spotted before isn't there anymore. On the plus side, it proves he was a real person and not a statue.
Changing direction, I head toward the men's room, holding my phone out at arm's length then drawing it closer, bringing up the name of the only person I can turn to at a time like this.
My best friend, roommate, former chaos agent, and guy who owes me more favors than I can count.
Ellie LeBon.