Father Knows Best Read online

  We’d stumbled across the sedan at the zillionth place we stopped (Denver sure has a lot of car dealerships!), and the moment I laid eyes on it, I wanted to drive it straight back up the mountain to White Peaks and park it in our driveway—locked, of course, so The Puke wouldn’t try to take it for a spin.

  There is sooooo much to love about it, but here are the highlights: the heated seats move up, down, and all around at the touch of a button, and the dash has this fake woodgrain stuff (cooler than it sounds) that just gleams. It features a sun / moon roof, leather seats, low mileage—all things considered—great tires, and a fresh blast of New Car Scent.

  Oh, and the stereo rocks—MP3 compatible and the whole nine.

  Despite the higher sticker price, we’d taken it out for a test drive after I’d nearly gone apoplectic begging. It drove like a dream and didn’t bounce around like some of the other SUV-type vehicles we’d tried. I hate that bouncy feeling.

  Back at the dealership, as predicted, my dad and Dylan stuck their heads under the hood for about three hundred thousand years pointing at various boring-ass hoses and metal things, until my eyeballs nearly exploded. It’s not that I don’t have the capacity to learn about car engines, it’s that I just don’t care.

  Finally, just before I snapped into a homicidal frenzy and started looking for a hatchet and some crack, they finished their annoyingly tedious perusal and closed it up, both of them side by side brushing engine blech from their hands.

  It wigged me out for a sec, seeing them mirror each other’s actions right next to each other, like they’d both attended the same Super Secret How-to-Be-a-Guy School, or something. It made me picture Dylan at my dad’s age, which wigged me out further until I simply had to shove the whole creepazoid observation out of my mind.

  After that, Dylan (young as ever, thank God) and I sat in the car while my dad engaged in a deep conversation with the sales dude. Chloe went with him, which was a huge relief. Can you imagine if she’d climbed into the backseat instead? All chipper and friendly-like? Dylan and I wouldn’t have been able to talk about anything. As things stood, I was too tense to talk about much with Dyl, but that’s beside the point. At least we were alone.

  “I take it you like it?” Dylan asked me, smiling from his sprawled position in the passenger seat. He reached over and laid his palm on my thigh—yummy!

  “I love it. Do you?”

  “For sure. The engine looks great.”

  Like I care. I staved off an eye roll. I mean, I care. I want a safe car in good condition, but you know what I’m saying. “Doesn’t matter, though,” I said with a sigh, twisting my mouth to one side.

  “Why not?”

  I shrugged. “Do the math. Even if my dad matches my savings dollar for dollar, I can’t afford it.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yep.”

  “That blows.”

  “To an epic level. Which begs the question, why are they wasting their time talking about it? At length.”

  We both stared through the windshield in silence at my dad and Chloe a few yards away talking earnestly with the excessively jovial man sporting the golf shirt and khakis over a physique that said he swilled just a bit too much beer after quittin’ time, if you get my gist. I squeezed my eyes shut, sending pretty-please-with-sugar-on-top vibes toward the (pointless) negotiations. Which took forever. Almost as long as the engine perusal, if you can believe that. If only I could read lips.

  After a series of shrugs, chin rubs, gestures, and nods—and a whole lot of jolly blabbing—Mr. Golf Shirt finally shook my dad’s hand, then walked away.

  No one looked giddy, but then again, why would they?

  Definitely a good-bye handshake.

  “Darn,” I said to Dylan, deflating as Dad and Chloe approached the car, heads down. I wanted to throw a fully unwarranted and inappropriate seventh-grade-esque tantrum. I swear. “I knew it. You’d think the safety features would count for a few extra thousand on my dad’s part, but oh well,” I said, trying to leach the shakiness out of my voice and stay positive. “I’ll find something I can afford.”

  When they reached the front bumper, I glanced at Dylan. “Come on.”

  We reluctantly got out of the car. My car. Wah! My best, most perfect car in the history of motor vehicles.

  My dad crossed his arms. Pursed his lips.

  “Too expensive, huh?” I asked in a depressed tone, knowing the answer already. I don’t even know why I bothered to ask.

  Dad blew out a breath, bestowing an apologetic cringe. “It is a little more than I wanted you to spend, m’ija—”

  I nodded, with unexpected tears stinging my eyes. I couldn’t believe I had to walk away from my car! But Dad was being generous with his whole fund matching deal, so I wasn’t going to act like a jerk. “It’s okay. That’s what I fig—”

  “So…you’ll have to work to pay me back for half of the difference.” He eyed me.

  Time skidded to a stop.

  I blinked, replaying his words in my head. “Heh?”

  Dad shrugged. “The car has excellent safety features—a big plus in my book. In fact, the Subaru Outback is the only all-wheel-drive car that I’ve never seen roll.” He winked. “Besides, you look good in it, and it’ll last for years.”

  Dylan and I bug-eyed each other across the hood.

  I gulped back my burgeoning excitement, smoothing my palms against the sides of my shorts as I tried to remain calm. No sense jumping to conclusions just to be smacked down by reality. I mean, I could be hallucinating right here. For all I knew, Dylan and I were still sitting in the car watching Dad and Chloe talk to the man with the bulbous belly.

  “Wait. Just wait a sec.” I gulped. “Dad, do you mean—?”

  “I need to sign the paperwork, my dear daughter, and the car’s yours. That’s what I’m saying.” He grinned. “Congratulations.”

  My jaw went slack. He’d been pimping me, faking like it was just too pricey and all that! I started jumping and squealing in a highly uncool way considering my boyfriend was witnessing the entire spectacle, but I didn’t even care—that’s the thing!

  I had my dream car!

  I threw my arms around my dad and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll wash it every week and get the oil changed every three months, and—cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye—I’ll never speed.”

  Laughing, he lifted me off my feet and spun me around, then set me down. Lowering his chin, he said, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Lila Jane. Just be sure to drive safely always.”

  “I will, I swear. I love you, Dad.”

  “Love you, too. Let’s go sign those papers, I’ll call my insurance guy, then we’ll get out of here.” He patted his super-flat tummy with smiles all around. “Don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m ready for a celebratory lunch.”

  “I’ll ditto that,” Dylan said.

  Chloe and I shared a conspiratorial eye roll.

  I was so feelin’ the parental warm fuzzies right then big-time, despite the whole pops-hitting-on-my-boyfriend’s-mom foul, that our little “chick” moment didn’t even oog me out. “Thanks, Dad. I mean it.”

  He raised one eyebrow and speared me with the chief of police look he’d perfected over his years on the job. “Thank me by being a conscientious teenage driver every single day, claro? An example. That’s all the thanks I want or need. Oh, and get a summer job, will you?” He grinned.

  Ohhhhh, he meant pay him back now. I get it.

  I attempted a cheeky reciprocal grin, but it felt brittle. A brick of worry dropped to the bottom of my gut. “Sure,” I said, managing to hide my instantaneous stress spike.

  Dilemma.

  See, here’s the prob. We live in White Peaks freakin’ Colorado. It’s not like we have a mall there with a bazillion different shops. Where in the heck was I going to find a decent job at this point in the summer? Sure, school had just ended, but—hello!�
��small town. Guaranteed, all the good jobs had been nabbed long before now, and I’m embarrassed to admit I’d planned on just hanging out for my pre-senior-summer, staring at clouds and sniffing flowers. No such luck, eh?

  But I had a killer car. No complaints. Just worries.

  I started to rack my brain for employment possibilities. Dylan was teaching grass-skiing and off-season ski fitness at the resort, like he always did, but I knew jack about that stuff. Meryl still worked at Inner Power, the coolio metaphysical shop downtown. We all know what Caressa had planned. If you want the whole truth, I’m sort of lacking in the job skills department. But, hey, there was always Burger Wonder. I’m sure I knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy who could hook me up there. Snort!

  The thought of resorting to the fast food route didn’t appeal, but I’d do it if I had no other options. No sense sweating it now, though. I had a car to buy and the longish drive back to White Peaks before I could do anything about the job sitch anyway.

  After glancing lovingly back at my car—my car!!—I took Dylan’s hand and followed Dad and Chloe into the dealership. Dad had grabbed Chloe’s hand, too, I noticed, and she’d moved closer so their shoulders were sort of bumping all intimate-like. Ew. My stomach soured, and the day dimmed a bit.

  Just like that.

  I struggled to stay positive and not be…well, a self-centered bitch, like Jennifer Hellspawn Hamilton. I wanted to bask in this milestone moment for me, whether or not my dad was doing my boyfriend’s mom.

  Um, double ew. Strike that last thought, ’kay?

  Chapter Four

  I can’t believe it. Dylan and I had our first fight. Like, not the normal fun snarkfest in which we often (okay, daily) engage, but a real fight, and it totally sucked.

  Here’s how it went down:

  After buying my car, our happy little foursome (whatev) went to lunch at the Paramount Café—a rockin’ spot on the 16th Street Mall. I admit, I was over the whole “foursome” schtick by then. I wanted to be alone with Dylan—is that so wrong? Anyway, we scored a primo table on the outdoor patio. I people-watched while noshing on burgers and huge mounds of super yummy fries and subtly ignored my dad’s attempt to draw me into conversation with Chloe. This isn’t to say I acted like a Paris Hilton–esque entitled snot after just having received the car of my dreams. I didn’t. I was polite, just not chatty. I wasn’t going to buy into the whole happy family propaganda. I needed my boundaries.

  After lunch, we rode the free Mall Shuttle up to the turnaround near Union Station, then back down to the gigantic Adam’s Mark Hotel, because really, how often do I get to come to Denver? I wanted to check out the street mall, the horse-drawn carriages, the street kids and old guys playing chess together right in the middle of everything.

  It was fun, but it would have been a million times better if my dad and Chloe weren’t there trying so hard to bond with Dylan and me. I mean, dude, bond is the beginning of bondage—need I say more? It felt like they were throwing their relationship in my face. Sigh! On the shuttle, I did my best to ignore them and focus on Dylan, as Caressa had suggested, and it was working at first. But at the Larimer Square stop, a lady lugged her double stroller filled with identical twins onto the bus, and my ever-active (or should that be over-active) imagination kicked into high gear.

  Like, what if my dad and Chloe Sebring had a baby sometime down the road? He or she would be my half-sibling and Dylan’s half-sibling, too.

  Is it just me, or does that seem insurmountably weird?

  How could we continue to date if that happened without appearing…creepy? Almost—I hated to say the word, but there it was—incestuous. And, you know, if you worry about this kind of thing long enough, it starts to feel totally real. Almost like you’re thinking it into existence.

  In any case, by the time I slid behind the wheel of my brand-new car, the whole potential twin siblings thing had me thoroughly freaked out. I was more than ready to be as far away from the parentals as humanly possible.

  The first several miles I concentrated on getting used to the car and the controls and the road—just driving. Dylan kept me company by reading to me from the owner’s manual. Dude! Ever read one of those suckers? I couldn’t believe it, but that fat ol’ book is chock-full of valuable information, and some of it isn’t even boring. Who’da thunk?

  When we hit the highway Dylan put the manual back into the glove compartment, then slid in a CD. He’d thought to bring a few because radio reception can be spotty at places in the mountains—isn’t that sweet? Music filled the car, and we settled in for the rest of the drive.

  As the highway became more twisty, and vast, pine tree-filled valleys overtook the vista, my tension started to ease. I blew out this big, noisy breath and laid my noggin back against the headrest. “God, I’m glad that’s over.”

  Dylan peered over at me. “Searching for a car?”

  “No. Hanging out with our googly-eyed parents.” I scoffed. “I mean, how uncomfortable can you get?”

  Dylan didn’t say anything. He stared at the side of my face for a minute, then focused his attention out the passenger window. Silent.

  After the current song ended, I reached over and squeezed his leg, which, incidentally, is totally muscular from being on the ski team. Yum. I’m such a dork. Don’t tell anyone.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, breaking rule-number-one I read in one of the current teen magazines. It said (with authority) you should never ask a guy that question, because it “shuts him down.” Well, Dylan was already shut down, so I risked it. What did I have to lose?

  At first I thought he hadn’t heard me over the music, because he didn’t move or react or, most especially, answer. Just as I was about to ask again, he shocked the hell out of me by saying, “No. I’m not okay, Lila,” in this cold, stony voice that gave me the sneaking suspicion I might’ve somehow pissed him off. He lifted my hand off of his leg and sort of threw it back toward me. Uh, yeah. Suspicion confirmed.

  Dylan? Totally pissed.

  Fear wavered in my vision like gasoline evaporating off of hot pavement, but (be proud, Dad), I kept my focus on the road anyway. Still, my throat dried up and my thoughts raced as I placed the dissed hand back at the “two” position on the wheel. “W-what’s wrong?”

  “Like you really want to know,” Dylan said, derisively.

  Dang, he really was upset. My heart pounded out a funeral dirge in my chest. We’d never fought before. Not even close! I didn’t know quite how it was supposed to go. “Dylan, I do want to know. Tell me.”

  Nothing.

  “If you don’t, I’m going to pull over until you do.”

  “Fine.” He adjusted in his seat wrenching some slack in his seat belt so he could almost face me. “You want me to tell you? Here goes. I’m sick of you constantly acting like my mom isn’t good enough for your dad.”

  I accidentally screeched the brakes going around a curve. Whoa! Where did that bombshell come from? My mouth dropped open and I shot a quick double take in his direction.

  “Keep your eyes on the road,” he said, all scowly, reaching out to smack off the stereo. “You want to wind up being one of those idiot teenagers in the Denver Post who crashes her car on the first drive off the lot?”

  Dead silence ensued.

  Now there wasn’t even music to break up the tension.

  My jaw clamped shut as I white-knuckled the steering wheel and tried to figure out what to say next.

  See? If my father weren’t dating his mother (no matter what anyone says), we wouldn’t be having this argument. We would not. I swallowed thickly, scared to say anything, scared to say nothing. “Dylan, I have never once said Chloe—I mean, your mom—isn’t good enough for my dad.”

  He snorted. “You don’t have to say it.”

  So he was clairvoyant now? “For God’s sake, what are you talking about?”

  “Damnit!” he said. “The four of us spend one measly day together, a
day where your dad helps you buy a pretty pricey car and treats all of us to lunch, and all you can do is watch them with thinly veiled disgust—if you acknowledge them at all—act ungrateful, and whine about wanting to be away from them—”

  “But—”

  “—and why? Because your dad happens to be dating my mom.” He knocked on his temple with one knuckle, which I caught in my peripheral vision. “I know I’m a dumb jock and everything, but it’s pretty clear why you don’t want to be around them—”

  “But—”

  “—because you don’t think my mom, who happens to be awesome, by the way, is worthy of your perfect dad.”

  “No, that’s not—”

  “—And that sucks, Lila. It really does. For someone who claims to care about me, you sure have a funny way of showing it.”

  To say I was stunned did a disservice to the complete reeling, screeching brain mode his outburst had thrust me into. Chloe? Not good enough for my dad? That wasn’t even in the same ballpark as the issue.

  I concentrated on breathing deeply until I could manage to speak without squeaking or crying or yaking. Still, my stomach trembled beneath my T-shirt, and the pulse pounded so hard in the side of my neck, the sound was actually distracting in my ears. “How long have you been feeling this way?” I managed after another tense silence.

  “I don’t know. Awhile,” he said, through clenched teeth.

  Awhile?! “Why didn’t you say something?”

  He snorted again. “Because I hoped you’d get over it, that’s why. Besides, I knew you wouldn’t listen to me.”

  Stunned again.

  Had our relationship gone so sour, so quickly, that Dylan thought he couldn’t even communicate with me? Was I really such a total suckass girlfriend? My leg started quaking so badly, I had a hard time keeping my foot steady on the accelerator. “I h-have to…pull over.”

  “Why?”

  “Because! Because you just laid all this on me and I want to talk about it. I can’t keep my focus on driving when you’re so pissed off.”