CHAPTER 11 – AN UNEXPECTED PROPOSITION
Jack
You can tell how old a man is by the number of microbrews and health supplements in his fridge.
At my house, tonight, it’s a full squadron of both.
I line up the bottles on the kitchen island—IPA, stout, a token gluten-free thing for Gerald, who claims he’s “pre-diabetic” now that he’s near fifty—and it’s almost artistic, the color gradient from urine yellow to engine oil black.
The poker table’s already set up in the living room, cards fresh from the box, chips in neat little Fort Knox stacks.
I’ve even lit a fancy “man candle” someone got me as a joke, so the whole place reeks of woodsmoke and a touch of aviation fuel.
Gerald arrives first, five minutes early because he can’t break the habit.
He’s wearing a North Face pullover and his usual Gophers cap, his Dad bod bulging over the waistband of his khakis.
He spots the poker chips, grins, and gets right to shuffling, hands twitchy like he’s been mainlining Red Bull all day.
“Ready to lose your pension?” he cracks.
“Only if you up the stakes,” I reply, grabbing a beer for him and water for me. Tonight, I want to keep my wits sharp.
The other two guys—Brent from the gym and Ken from the VFW—show up within minutes.
Brent’s brought a sack of gas-station beef jerky, which he rips open and leaves on the table like it’s a centerpiece.
Ken’s got a bag of “artisanal” cigars and absolutely no intention of going out to the porch to smoke them.
We settle in, deal the first hand, and the banter gets loud fast. War stories, ugly jokes, every hand another excuse to take the piss out of whoever’s lost the most weight or the most hair since last time.
I play tight, stacking chips and letting them underestimate me.
After years flying with these guys, I know all their tells.
Gerald’s got a tick where he taps his cards three times before folding.
Brent scratches his ear if he’s bluffing.
Ken can’t keep a straight face to save his life, which is why he’s already down twenty bucks by the second round.
After an hour, the air’s thick with cigar smoke and competitive bravado.
I let Gerald win a few hands, just enough to keep him happy, and then rake in a huge pot on a straight flush that makes them all groan.
Brent fake-pouts and throws a fistful of chips at me.
Ken slaps the table and howls, “Goddamn, Jack, you cold-blooded bastard.”
I raise my glass. “You boys make it too easy.”
The table erupts in laughter, and for a moment, I let myself relax. I almost forget that I’m dating my best friend’s daughter, and that he has no fucking idea. But then, in the lull between hands, Gerald says, “Hey, Jack, quick word in the kitchen?”
He makes it sound casual, but there’s an edge in his voice that reminds me of the night before a big deployment. I nod, wipe my hands on my jeans, and follow him.
The kitchen is colder, quieter. The hum of the fridge and the faint pop of glass settling in the dishwasher.
Gerald goes straight to the counter and leans on it, back to me, staring into the depths of his beer like he expects an answer to rise up from the foam.
He stares at the floor, thinning strands of brown hair unable to fully cover his shiny pate.
“What up, bud?” I ask in a mock-cheerful voice. “Something going on?”
He pauses before glancing up at me.
“You notice anything off about Eliza lately?” he asks, voice low.
I feel the knot in my gut tighten a notch. I play it smooth, grabbing another beer from the fridge. “What do you mean?”
Gerald turns around, mouth twisted in a frown. “She’s… I don’t know, different. Out late. Not telling us where she’s going. She’s always on her phone, but never says who she’s texting. Nancy’s convinced she’s hiding something.”
My heart races, but I make myself stay calm on the outside. I pop the cap on my beer and take a long, slow sip. “Your daughter’s twenty-one, G. Not a teenager. She’s got her own life.”
He shakes his head. “Yeah, but she’s still living at home. That means I have a right to know what’s going on.”
I shrug and smile, but my heart’s doing double-time. “You want me to talk to her?”
Gerald huffs crankily. “She won’t tell you any more than she tells us. You’re just the ‘cool uncle’ now.” He makes air quotes, like it’s a joke, but his eyes are sharp.
I lean back against the sink, arms crossed. Obviously, Gerald suspects something, but I’m not sure what he suspects exactly, so I play it cool. “Eliza’s a good kid. Never gave you a reason not to trust her.”
He grunts. “It’s not her I don’t trust. It’s the world.
You know what’s out there? These apps, these…
these men, looking for girls who don’t know any better.
Hell, Nancy showed me a news story last week—a girl from St. Paul, good grades, sweet kid.
Turns out she was seeing some married guy, letting him pay her for…
you know.” He trails off, expression disgusted.
I keep my voice even, but every word costs me. “You think Eliza would do that?”
Gerald doesn’t answer right away. He stares out the window at the dark yard, then says, “I don’t know. But I can’t take that risk. I’ve been thinking of putting one of those tracking apps on her phone, just to be sure.”
I bristle, instinctively. “That’s a bit much, isn’t it?”
He shakes his head slowly, still staring at the floor. “No, I don’t think it is. You don’t have a daughter, Jack, so you have no idea what it’s like to have a young girl under your care. You’d do anything—and I mean anything—to keep her safe.”
Oh shit. The fact is that I do spend my time with a delicious young woman— his daughter, in fact. But I hold his gaze, refusing to blink. “Eliza would hate you for it.”
He shakes his head. “Better she hates me now than hates herself later,” he says in a grim tone.
I exhale, slow. “I think you’re overreacting.”
Gerald squints at me, and I know it’s coming. “You know, Jack, sometimes I get the feeling you know more about what’s going on with Eliza than you let on. What do you know?”
I let that hang in the air, keeping my face neutral. “Nothing. She comes to me for advice sometimes, but it’s the usual stuff. Just her job, managing her boss’s expectations, and that kind of thing.”
He steps closer, voice dropping to a growl. “You’re sure? Because if there’s something you know—anything—that could help me protect my daughter, you better damn well tell me.”
I shake my head, keeping my expression neutral. “She’s not in any danger. She’s not hooking up with a married man. I’d bet my life on it. That was just a random article in the paper. It’s not your daughter.”
He stares at me, trying to read my poker face. I stare right back.
After a beat, Gerald sighs, shoulders sagging. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m losing my mind. Shit.”
I soften, just a hair. “You’re a good dad. But sometimes you have to trust your kids.”
He nods, distracted. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s get back to the game before those jackals eat all the jerky. Thanks, bud, for listening. You have no idea of the conversations Nancy and I have had. We’re a mess.”
I clap a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m here for you, my friend.”
But as we exit the kitchen, the words are sour in my mouth because obviously, I’m lying.
Maybe I’m not married, but I am the man sleeping with his young daughter.
Would Gerald kill me if he found out? I don’t know about that, but it wouldn’t be fun, that’s for sure.
As we sit back at the table, deal the next hand, and the noise ramps up again, I can feel his eyes on me, checking for cracks.
Shit. If there’s a war on, it just went hot.
Poker night ends the way it always does: empty beer bottles, crumpled napkins, the smoke of spent cigars and money in the air.
My living room is a wreck of folding chairs, sticky glass rings, and a drift of salty crumbs across the carpet.
Gerald and the others peeled out an hour ago, Brent vowing never to let me “shark” him again, Ken’s laugh echoing down the driveway.
I run the dishwasher and throw the windows open to the brittle March air. On the wall, a squadron of die-cast fighter jets—my one “decorative” concession—catches the moonlight. A model of the F-16, battered and missing a wingtip, stares down at me like a one-eyed prophet.
I’m halfway through stacking the chips when the doorbell rings, once, hard and fast.
Three knocks, one after the other, like gunfire.
My first thought is “Gerald, round two,” but when I check the peephole, all I see is a blonde blur and the shine of a phone screen.
What? Why is Eliza here? Sure enough, when I open the door, my gorgeous girl hurls herself inside: hair wild, face streaked with mascara, parka unzipped over pajamas and slippers.
She’s clutching a pink duffel bag with both hands, knuckles white.
“Oh, shit. Baby, what—”
She barrels further into the house as I shut the door, worried. Did Gerald go home and confront her? Did he continue our conversation with his daughter? Oh shit, oh shit.
For a moment, the beautiful blonde just stands there, chest heaving with a distraught look on her delicate features. All I can do is stare.
“Are you okay, sweetheart? What’s wrong?” I ask.
She drops the duffel and grabs my arm. “Can I stay here tonight? Please?”
I don’t hesitate. “Of course. But are you okay? What happened?”
Eliza shakes her head, and now the tears come in earnest, hot and primal. She hugs herself, sleeves pulled over her hands. The smell of her perfume—mesmerizing, as usual—cuts through the leftover cigar smoke. She’s so raw it hurts to look at her.
I steer her to the couch, clear off the poker chips, and wrap her in an old Air Force blanket. She tucks her knees under her chin and hides her face. For a minute, all I can do is sit next to the young woman, rubbing small circles on her back, the silence broken only by her hitched breaths.