Chapter 32

The full moon above them reflected perfectly — maybe a little too perfectly — how Henry was feeling: like a bloated celestial body.

“Wow I ate waayyyyyy too much,” he said to Paul without an ounce of real regret.

Despite the temperature, they were sitting in a couple of patio chairs on Paul’s back deck, looking purposelessly into his backyard as they sipped on after-dinner beers. It was cold enough that they’d each put on jackets, and Henry really was starting to wish he’d worn gloves, too. But with a couple of kids in the house, this was the best place to be able to just talk — “to speak as men do,” as Paul had put it.

“Good, gotta get a little more meat on those bones!” Paul responded, jabbing Henry lightly in the ribs.

“Okayyy, Mom.”

Paul cleared his throat. “You’re skin and bones, my boy!” he said in what Henry assumed was supposed to be an attempt at sounding like a pushy Italian mother. It was definitely only an attempt, though, and the fact it was a horrible one probably just made it better.

The sliding door opened behind them and they both turned. Paul’s son, Brandon, was wearing a slick, black, untucked dress shirt with the collar popped and had a fedora cocked on his head. Everything was a little bit big for him — except where it was a little too small for him. The eternal curse bestowed upon middle schoolers since time immemorial.

Brandon did his best to make an entrance, but apparently the wooden deck wasn’t cooperative, so whatever Risky-Business-esque slide he’d attempted ended up in more of a stumble — although Henry gave him credit for a decently smooth recovery as he landed on his feet next to his dad.

“Mom says I’m supposed to show both of you this with the hat—” he said, then took off the fedora, “—and without.”

Paul and Henry looked at each other in instant agreement.

“With the hat,” they said in unison.

Brandon’s face broke into a victorious grin. “I told her!” And he stomped back inside, sliding the door closed again.

The two adults broke into good-natured laughter and went back to their beers.

“So he’s real into jazz band, huh?” Henry said. At least, he assumed that’s why Brandon had been dressed like that. He knew he was in the middle school’s jazz band, anyway.

Paul nodded and gave Henry a look that said he couldn’t believe the answer was yes.

“I have no idea where he got it, but that boy can play any instrument you put in front of him. Me and LeAnn, neither of us ever played more than a recorder in elementary school. But him?” Paul shook his head with a marveling grin. “Piano, guitar, trumpet, I think I saw him playing a saxophone once — doesn’t matter. Picks it right up.”

“He’s a good kid,” Henry said, which is what he figured you say about somebody’s kid when you don’t really have anything to say.

Paul nodded. “Oh yeah, he absolutely is. Not sure where he got that either,” he said with a smirk. “But, you know, it seems to work for him. You know he even has a girlfriend?” Paul shook his head again for good measure. “Which ... messes with my brain.”

Henry looked at his friend slyly. “Must be the fedora.”

They both laughed and took another couple of sips, soaking in the night. Muffled sounds from inside said that the crisp evening air was probably worth the tradeoff.

“Really, everything about him messes with my brain,” Paul began again, then turned to Henry. “He’s got this piano solo he’s been working on for that concert he’s got coming up.”

“The one he’s getting outfit feedback on?”

Paul nodded with another amused smile. “But, when he’s practicing — and, I mean, I don’t pay that close attention — but I noticed I never hear him play the same thing twice. So finally, I ask him, ‘Brandon, what are you doing, my man? Can you not read music??’”

Henry snorted. “I’m sure that went over real well with your teenage son.”

Paul took another drink and nodded emphatically. “Of course!” They laughed, then Paul continued. “So he rolls his eyes — which, to be fair, is about 75 percent of his communication — and he’s like, ‘noooo, dad,’ you know, like he got stuck with the dumbest idiot in the dad lottery — hey don’t make that face!”

They laughed again.

“Anyway he says, ‘no, you improv it. It’s jazz.’” Henry could hear the implied eyeroll. “Well, okay then, sorrrrrry! So I can’t help myself, I ask him, ‘so, how do you know if you’re doing it right? Like, if you’re playing the right notes?’

“And he looks at me like he’s amazed I could ask a question that might not actually be completely stupid — which, not gonna lie, made me feel pretty good!”

Henry laughed along. “So, what did he say?”

“He says, ‘you can’t play the wrong note. It’s the next note that makes it good or bad.’”

Paul sat back, tipping his beer bottle at Henry meaningfully, as if he’d given out some sage wisdom. Henry wasn’t sure he knew how to apply it to a real-life situation, but he was willing to play along.

“That’s pretty good,” he said, taking a drink from his own bottle. “So ... what did you get out of that?”

Paul seemed to take the question more seriously than Henry had expected — or even probably intended. “I think it means you just gotta keep trying and trying things ‘til you find some notes that sound like they fit together,” he said with a shrug, then waited a beat. “So they’ve got this concert scheduled for a few days, just in case.”

They laughed again, harder this time, and let the laughter fall into another comfortable silence.

The moon was lighting things brighter in Paul’s backyard than it seemed like it had any right to. The silence stretched on for a minute, maybe two.

“Hey man, I’m sorry about the ambush we sprung on you,” Paul said, a little quieter, and looked over to Henry.

Has that been on his mind all night?

Henry waved it off. “Nah, I get it. I mean ... you guys definitely made me think about some things. I know where you were coming from.”

He wasn’t entirely sure how much of that he meant. He did understand where they were coming from, but ... they didn’t even know Cameron. They’d come on a little strong. Or, maybe they’d just made too much sense at the time. Either way, he still felt some lingering resentment toward Paul and Heather because of what they’d said to him.

Definitely not because of how quickly I was ready to give up on this thing with Cameron after one conversation with them, right?

“Good,” Paul said, although the tone in his voice said he didn’t really expect Henry was telling the truth, either. But he knew that meant they’d get past it. “You know, I thought we were doing the right thing. We just don’t wanna see you get hurt, man.” Then he shrugged. “But as either of my kids will be happy to tell you, I really don’t know shit.”