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Huh. Interesting. My brain scans for possibilities but I can’t think of a single thing Parker would need onlymefor.
“Does it have to do with hockey?”
“No.”
“Dancing?”
Hesitation. “No?”
“Yes or no, Pete.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Dancing is … optional but not required.”
This game was a lot easier back in the day when the answers were simpler. When I knew Parker better.
But even now, my ability to read her comes in handy. Something non-hockey with optional dancing. Something that has got her nervous and has to do with me. The last part is the one I’m struggling with.
“Does it involve dressing up?”
Bingo. She looks away from me, shifting in her chair, which groans.
“Yes,” she says.
“And does it involve your family?”
She startles, the tiniest widening of her eyes and flex of her hand, still held in mine. “Yes.”
Parker and Brandon grew up in the kind of house that could be featured in a show about extreme mansions. Set on a slope in the foothills, it has stellar views of Harvest Hollow. It boasts something like ten bedrooms and the same number of bathrooms. There was an indoor pool and sauna. A full tennis court on the leveled field below the house. I spent more time there than the two-bedroom apartment my mom and I shared that somehow always smelled like feet.
But their awesome house came with their parents. Parker and Brandon’s mom was actually okay. Nice enough and friendly enough. Always busy, but with volunteer work rather than two jobs like my mom. Mrs. Douglas did keep my favorite snacks on hand. Always. Which is not nothing.
But their dad only barely tolerated my presence, probably because he didn’t know just how much time I spent there. He was almost always at the office.
While I wouldn’t call him cruel, he was strict to the point of controlling, with sky-high expectations for both of his children.
And, as I found out the hard way, of their friends.
I clench my jaw, banishing that memory. I wonder how Mr. Douglas feels about Parker’s current job? My guess: not great.
“Does it have to do with your dad?”
More fidgeting. And this time, a nod.
I’m in the right neighborhood but I’m stumped. I can’t possibly imagine what would make Parker nervous, have to do with her dad, and involve optional dancing. My brow is still furrowed as I try to think of my next question.
But it turns out I don’t need to.
Looking as stricken as if she’s confessing to murder, Parker blurts out, “I told a lie about you. I told a lie and I’m sorry because you just said you hate lies.”
I do hate that. But it’s different when it’s Parker. I know instinctively that any lie she might tell about me wouldn’t be to hurt me. Even with this agreement notwithstanding, I know she’d do her best to make me feel safe in anything we film.
So, I’m not scared of this lie. Not angry. More curious than anything.
“Just tell me, Pete.”
Squeezing her eyes closed, Parker grips the edge of her desk and says, “I told my dad I was bringing you as my date to his birthday gala.”
CHAPTER7
