22. Tristan #2
“Do we know if someone is trying to kill her?” Aunt Susanah whispers.
“She is more than welcome in my home,” Dad replies. “Especially if she brings my son with her.”
The aunties cluck, agreeing, while Dad shoots me a glance. He’s sincere about inviting Isolde, but his words are also a reprimand.
The door swings open, Antonio’s tall frame entering. “Look who I brought!” Elias follows him in, the kid a part of the family.
“Hey, Blue.” Antonio claps her shoulder like she’s a friend and not a client.
“That’s why I came,” Isolde explains. Everyone on my payroll is currently here.
Dad chuckles. “I apologize. They’re making a big deal out of this.”
“Happy birthday,” she offers.
“Blue!” Luis calls out. “I’m going to make you a drink.”
“No!” every single person responds.
“He makes terrible drinks.” Rae rolls her eyes, motioning for Isolde to join her.
She glances at me as she passes, a tiny smile on her face.
“Don’t worry,” Rae mouths behind Isolde’s back. “I’ve got her.”
Like that means anything. I might trust Rae to keep Isolde away from the savages, but that doesn’t mean my cousin won’t be nosy herself.
The party is in full swing the next time I find Dad. He’s had the same beer bottle in his hand all afternoon. I catch him pouring most of it down the kitchen drain before throwing it in the recycle.
“Good turn out,” he says when he spots me.
“Half the neighborhood is here.” As I knew they would. I lean up against the counter. The kitchen is tiny, and it’s had people in and out of it most of the day. I’m glad to find him alone, as it’s been several weeks since I’ve really checked in on him.
“I told them it was all too much,” he says for the hundredth time.
“They got you your favorite cake.” This seems to make up for the number of intrusive people.
“Thank you for my gift.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, pecking at the array of snacks on the counter.
I got him a DVD box set of his favorite TV show. The Trevino men have never had much use for gifts. We typically go with something useful or something small that will be enjoyed.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been around much.”
I understand how hard my dad has worked to keep me fed and clothed. Whether it was overtime or showing up at school events. He’s done a lot for me, and I can now see it all through the lens of adulthood.
“You’ve been busy.”
It kills me. Dad can make excuses for me so easily.
“Isolde,” he says, and I prepare myself. “She’s a good client.”
I try not to smile, but I’m afraid I fail. Dad pushes his glasses up again, and I wonder what he sees.
“I worked a gig for her best friend.” I don’t talk much about my clients, but then again, I don’t normally bring them to family gatherings. “That gig led to this one.”
“Ah.” Dad nods. “Fujimori’s right?”
My mouth dries.
“Luis told me,” Dad explains.
He’s a city worker who’s kept his head down his whole life. It doesn’t mean he never understood the inner workings of this place. Of where our neighborhood stood in the scheme of things. How easy it was for people to fall into certain lines of work or pleasures.
I’m not sure if it was because of my mother’s religious influence or just some good natured part of him. Dad has a rosier view of the world.
My grief turned to bitterness. Dad let his crumble away and went about paying the bills.
I wanted more. I wanted justice, and I wanted retribution, and I think deep down I also wanted pain. Maybe I thought I deserved it, or maybe there was some sweet edge to it. So, like a madman, I tore through things.
I never told my dad that I went to work for the Irish. He dropped a hint one day, though, and I knew he knew.
Same with the Ghost. People connected to Marissa started disappearing. They talked about the man in the mask. His skill with a gun. We don’t talk about it. But when he glances at me, I see how he knows the truth deep down.
I’m a little bit of a disappointment to him. He loves me anyway.
When I told him I’d started my new business as a bodyguard, he seemed genuinely impressed. The same way he did anytime I came home with a new hobby or venture.
I’ve worked hard not just for myself. My dad’s got a pension, but I never want him to worry.
“I met Isolde first, actually.” For the first time in a while, I talk to him about something other than a family member or home renovation. “She hired me to watch over Ren Callahan.”
Dad hums under his breath, having heard this name before.
“Then Isolde needed help.” I stop talking.
I don’t mix my private and professional life, but the idea of sitting down and talking to my dad about everything hits me hard.
What if I pulled up a chair in the kitchen and we ignored everyone while I told him about Cade?
About how Isolde ran from him. How I’m slowly coming to terms with the idea of Hadrian Hallow as her friend.
I could talk to him about living with her the past few weeks, and I’m wondering what life will be like when I have to move out.
When I have to leave her.
Dad stares at me until I force my brow to smooth.
“I think she’s very nice.” His hands have gone back to their normal position. Clasped behind his back. “Tristan, I must tell you something.”
“It’s your birthday.” Why bring up serious shit now? And why is he being so serious?
“I’m going to sell the house.”
Maybe I was expecting a cancer diagnosis. In the scheme of things selling one’s house is nothing in comparison. The announcement rocks me anyway.
“What are you talking about?”
My dad doesn’t do anything on a whim. This is something he’s thought about and begun to plan out.
“I’m going to move in with Rosalie,” he explains.
“But why?”
“So I can sell the house.”
“But why?”
He merely shrugs his shoulder, sucking on his tooth before finally saying, “I’m going to give you the money.”
“I don’t need the money.” My fingers curl into fists, pressing against the countertop. “Dad, I don’t need the money.”
He pours himself a soda. “You think I can’t keep up with economic news? Use it to get yourself something.”
“Dad, I don’t need it,” I repeat.
“Then why don’t you have a house?” he asks, clearly thinking this somehow negatively affects me. His eyes are serious behind his glasses. “I know you’ve been looking.”
The real estate market in New York City is something else. There’s looking, and then there’s actively doing everything possible to get a place before someone else snaps it up. I’ve perused, wondering where I want to set my base up.
“Don’t sell the house.”
“We are not sentimental men,” Dad declares, holding his soda. “This home. . .”