Page 88 of After Midnight

Like someone I’d actually give a key to.

If only we didn’t live a whole state apart.

chapter 40

Sebastian

REMI AND I WOKE UP late today, both exhausted after the show and long night. I ordered brunch from Malibu Farm, and we ate on the patio together. When I asked Remi what she wanted to do today, she said she just wanted to hang out. So now she’s lounging in a bikini beside my pool, sipping on pineapple juice and listening to music as her toes trail slowly through the water.

I watch her from the kitchen, where I’m slicing up fresh mango. And I’m so distracted by her that I very nearly take a finger off with the knife. After that, I keep my eyes fully focused on what I’m doing, even if they keep wanting to glide back to her.

On the island beside me, my phone rings, and I get a knot in my stomach before I even read the name on the screen.

Dad.

I’ve been ignoring him since Remi got here on Friday, and his calls are growing more incessant. He never just stops. When I don’t answer, he pushes harder, like his pride won’t allow him to back down.

Putting the knife down, I glance out at Remi again. Maybe now’s a good time to talk to him; at least then he’ll finally leave me alone.

With a sigh, I quickly rinse the mango juice from my hands, then take a breath, steeling myself before answering the phone.

“Hey, Pops.”

Immediately, I can feel the tension in the silence that greets me, even without being able to see his face. My dad is good at that: using silence as a weapon just as sharp as his words.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he finally says.

The cutting words make heat lance through my stomach. On the countertop, one of my hands curls into a fist.

He treats me like I’m fifteen still, staying out past curfew. But my dad has never seen me as a man; my music made sure of that.

“I’ve been busy,” I say. “You do know I’ve got my own life, right?”

“Your mother’s been worried sick about you. What the hell are you doing, scaring her like that?”

Liar, I think. Mom texted me a couple nights ago, just to check in—and subtly apologize for Dad’s behavior. Again. But Dad has always used her to get to me, poking and prodding at any guilty spot he can find. And I’m starting to get pretty fucking tired of it.

I take a long breath, trying to keep my cool.

“What’s up, Dad?” I ask, choosing not to engage.

He lets out a rough sigh, probably frustrated that I didn’t take his bait. Then he does exactly what I expect of him.

“The roof is leaking.”

My teeth clench. I’m pretty sure I paid for the “roof” to get replaced two years ago.

“Again?” I ask.

Another silence, this one tighter than the last.

“Yes, again.”

I draw myself up in the kitchen, closing my eyes and taking another breath. These conversations with my father have never been easy or enjoyable, but recently, they’ve been digging deeper, cutting into old wounds that I wish would finally heal.

If only he’d call just to say hi, or to ask when our next show is, or to get backstage passes to come see me. But no. He came to one show when we were first getting started, and he complained about it for days afterward, saying it was just noise.

But dwelling on that doesn’t change anything. And Remi is waiting for me.