him a half smile, and reluctantly get out of the car. I thought I’d learned to temper my expectations of my parents long ago. The fact that my dad hasn’t done shit about this all day shouldn’t be a surprise, but for some idiotic reason it is, and that pisses me off more than anything. How dumb can I be?
“Whatever.” I lean against the driver’s-side door of the Jeep and rub my eyes. “Expected this, right? It’s why we got the paint.”
Conor nods and I think I see a flash of pity run across his face, but it’s gone before I can figure out whether it was actually there or if it was just a figment of my imagination. He walks around to the back of the car and unloads the paint.
“Let’s get to it.”
It takes us about an hour and a half to paint the garage door. Gwen comes out with a couple bottles of water for us, which is pretty sweet of her. It’s been hot as balls this month. By the time we’re finished, my arm is aching and I’m sweating my ass off, but I still haven’t heard a peep from my dad. I know he must be inside; his car is in the driveway. I can’t work up the energy to ask Gwen if she’s seen him.
It wasn’t always this way with him. When I was little, he was a whole different person. I don’t know what changed, whether he became a shit dad when he lost his job and started trying to make his lame garage band a serious thing, or if it was a few years after that, when he started to realize his dream was never going to happen. Usually I don’t even think it matters which came first—the fact is, he changed. It’s too late, and I’m over it.
“Want to go inside and grab a bite before we go?” I ask Conor. I’d much rather head out to anywhere but here, but I need to change out of my paint-splattered clothes, and unfortunately, I don’t have a spare outfit in the car. Conor’s the one person I still allow inside my house—not that anyone else is beating down the door.
Conor shrugs. “Sure.”
We make our way inside and it’s dead quiet, as usual. After a moment, I hear faint music start to play from Gwen’s room upstairs, but there’s no sign of my dad anywhere.
In the kitchen, Conor swings a high stool between his legs and rests his elbows on the counter. “Man, my arm is sore. Practice is gonna be a bitch.”
I rummage through the pantry and start tossing random shit in his general direction. “Pretzels. They’re only, like, a couple weeks old. Potato chips…might wanna check the expiration date before you eat ’em. What else?” I stick my head farther into the cabinet. “Oh, sweet. Some old Goldfish. Probably stale as fuck.”
Conor sighs. “What the hell have you guys been doing for food since your mom took this case?”
I snort and turn to face him, leaning back against the fridge, arms crossed. “Since she took this case? Meaning, before this case we were just bursting with fresh fruits and, like, gourmet meals every night?”
He rolls his eyes. “No, but at least before, she was around sometimes. Like more than now…”
I shrug. “Yeah, I guess. Whatever. You know, I grab something for me and Gwen on the way home from school. It’s not like I have anything to do most nights, so I’ve been trying to learn how to cook….”
Conor lets out a huge laugh. “You? Cook? No fuckin’ way, man.”
I shake my head at him; I’d be embarrassed if I were talking to anyone other than Conor. “Yeah. I’m trying. Get over it.” I should have kept my mouth shut, but I hated the way Conor was looking at me, like I’m some poor orphan boy who needs to be rescued. He has no room to talk. It’s not like his home life is a Brady Bunch episode. His dad barely knows he’s alive.
“I’m gonna go change.”
“All right, man, I’ll be here, just chowin’