As soon as I press the cell to my ear, Tara takes off toward the staircase. I suppose it's to give me privacy, and everything about the situation feels wrong.

"Hi," I say, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice.

Cars honk in the background, and the howl of wind muffles my father's voice.

"I can't hear you, Dad."

A car door slams, and he sighs into the phone. "Sorry. The traffic's crazy. I need to see you. Are you home?"

I swallow, glancing at Tara, who's examining the old stairs. "No. Can't it wait?"

"I wouldn't have driven all the way here if it could. I'll wait for you at a coffee shop."

Having a busy father comes with the knowledge he wouldn't waste time for nothing. What if it's about money? Or even worse, what if something's wrong with Mom? I slump against the wall and run a palm over my forehead. "Okay. Text me the location."

Dad hangs up, and my eyes dart to Tara. 

"I love this place," she says. "I wonder how old it is. Is everything okay?"

"Yes. No." I groan, throwing my head back. Light filters through the small windows, and I don't hear the rain, meaning the storm has calmed. 

I should've left my cell in the car.

"My father wants to see me now. I guess it has to do with Mom," I say.

"Don't worry." Tara clutches the straps of her purse and gives me a smile meant to reassure me. All it does is make me feel like a dick.

A dick who still wants to kiss her. Badly. 

I can't think about her lips or how she felt pressed against me. That's a different level of masochism. But not touching her is even worse, so I cross the fuck-knows-how-many inches separating us and cup her face, rubbing my thumbs over her flushed cheeks. "Wait for me at home, okay?"

"Okay," Tara whispers. "Let's go?"

I keep my arm around her as we stroll to our cars. She says goodbye to me with an awkward kiss on the cheek and gets into her Maserati.

I fucking hope whatever Dad needs to say is important.

♡♡♡

Dad changed his mind. Instead of meeting at a warm coffee shop, he asked me to drive to a park — the same park where I convinced Tara to be my roommate. 

As soon as I get out of the Mustang, I pull the hood of my parka over my head and glance around.

"Bast."

Dad strolls toward me, carrying two cups of coffee, and nods at the wrought iron gates

"Over there."

Bare trees line the deserted alley, and wind threatens to break the thin branches. "What's so important?" I ask, shivering.

Dad hands me a cup. I grip it and cut my eyes to him, expecting him to pull out a cigarette, but he doesn't. At least, not yet.

"I thought a private place is better."

"Better for what? Is it about Mom? Listen, if you're cheating, don't expect me to—"

"Sebastian. Nobody's cheating. Mom's okay. Let me speak."

I don't remember raising a fucking sign with Silence on it, but whatever.

I take a few sips of the coffee. It's how I like it — a small reward for having to cut the date short. I guess it was a date. I wanted it to be.

"It's about Tara."

Dad looks at me as if I'm supposed to know what the hell he means. 

Of course, I don't. "Tara?" I ask, hoping I misheard him.

"Tara Van Doren. Your," his jaw works, "friend."

Despite my father's job, he's never been nosy or meddled in my private life. He's never told me who to date or be friends with. So why the fuck is he starting now?

"What's going on with her?"

"That's what I'd like to know. How long have you known each other?"

Answering my question with one of his. Typical.

I roll the half-empty cup between my palms. "For a while, but we hadn't talked until last year."

"Do you know anything about her family?"

"Her father owns a chain of restaurants, and I have no clue what her mother does. What does it have to do with anything?"

Dad downs his coffee and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "I need you to keep your distance."

I fail to stop the sardonic laugh from escaping my mouth. "I don't think so."

He tosses the cup in a trash can and gives me a sad look. "More than friends, then."

"I don't know. Maybe. It's new. I just know I like her."

And I don't owe anyone an explanation.

Halting in the middle of the alley, I level Dad with a look that'll hopefully tell him how pissed I am. "You can't expect me to ghost a girl just because. What's really going on?"

"Where did I put them," my father mutters, patting his pockets.

The damn cigarettes again. I clench my jaw. "Just spill it, for fuck's sake."

"Language, Sebastian."

"Look how many fucks I give. How about none?"

Dad crosses his arms, widening his stance. "Vincent Van Doren is under investigation. In case you didn't know, he's Tara's father."

Shit.

I bite down on my lip. The same lip Tara had sucked into her mouth earlier. The jolt of pain catapults me to the lighthouse, and anger rises from the pit of my stomach. 

He can't blame her for whatever her father did. The same father who left her alone at Thanksgiving and Christmas.

I discard my coffee in the trash and spin around to face Dad. "Okay, thanks for the info. Still no fucks given."

"Sebastian." My father's voice carries a hint of impatience, and he runs his hand through his graying hair.

"She's not him, okay? You want me to say it? Aiden Kennedy. Remember the guy? Remember how outraged you were that they blamed the kid for what his father did? You fucking quit because of that case and made us move to Ass-wick where Mom has zero chances at a decent job. And now what? I have to ghost Tara because of someone I haven't even met?"

"I know you're upset." Dad puts his hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eye. "I was there, Bast. I was right next to you three years ago. My sweet boy, believe me, I know."

Tears burn the back of my eyes. My father's face blurs, and I shake his hands off me. "Don't go there. Just don't. It's not the same."

"Tara might be called to testify eventually. If she knows her father is being investigated, she can warn him, and years of hard work will go to hell because of you."

"What did he do?"

"Nothing until proved otherwise."

"Awesome. Anything else?"

Dad clasps his hands behind his neck and looks skyward, growling. "Sebastian, it's not the time to be stubborn."

"We're roommates too. And last time I checked, my parents weren't loaded. I need the apartment because it's quiet, and I can study. And even if I wanted to live in the dorms, it's too late."

"Mom and I can make an effort."

I kick a stone. "Right. A smaller house? Town? Mom will be thrilled."

Dad rubs his brow. "Mom… Alright. I guess there's a solution. Can I trust you to keep quiet? I'm not kidding, Bast. I'm not in charge of the case, and I can't give you details, but Tara can't know anything until they're sure. Too many people are involved."

"Are you guys watching her too?"

"There was no indication we should. Yet."

My gut twists. It fucking hurts because for the first time in my life, I've felt what being a detective's son is like.

Justice comes first. I can stomp my feet like a toddler and throw tantrums, but my father won't budge. His impassive face tells me as much.

"Okay." I shove my hands in the pockets of my parka. Partly because it's cold, but also because they tremble from helplessness and anger. "I'll keep quiet. Just don't expect me to stop being Tara's friend because you don't like her."

"I never said I didn't like Tara. It's for the best, Bast. Friends, but nothing else. Too much is at stake, and I'm already risking by telling you this. Are we on the same page?"

I nod, staring at the ground. "Sure."

"Good. Let's go?"

"Yeah."

Carrying on as if nothing has happened seems easy enough. But when I sit in the driver's seat of my car in the deserted parking lot, the gravity of my father's words slams into me, and my heart lurches. 

He's not the one in charge, meaning it's more than he can handle. Tara's father's business might be illegal, but I doubt she knows. Even if she doesn't, there's some fucked-up logic in my father's words. 

I wish he hadn't told me.

I pluck the phone out of my pocket. Unlock the screen and lock it again. Toss the cell onto the passenger seat only to pick it up and open the chat with Tara.

Each word I type hurts.

Me: Don't wait for me. I'm sorry.

That hurt me too. Writing romcoms must be nice.

I want your theories. And opinions.

Love,
Alwyn