Almost Impossible

by Nicole Williams

  “Not really.” Zoey sniffed a vial of tea-tree oil.

  “You guys go to the same school; you work at the same place.” I followed her around the booth as she checked out every last oil.

  “It’s not like we’re good friends.” After taking a whiff of the key lime, she dug around in her big tote for her wallet. “It’s not like he’s particularly forthcoming, either. I mean, I’ve babysat toddlers more willing to share than he.”

  “You think he’s covering something up?”

  Zoey dropped her key lime vial into her tote and moved on to the next stand. “Or he’s got trust issues, maybe,” she mused, sorting through a mason jar of honey sticks. “Doesn’t he tell you things?”

  My hands slid into my back pockets. “Yeah. He just closes up over some stuff.”

  “Like what?”

  My lips pursed thinking about saying her name. “Blaire.”

  “I don’t know much. Just that she was his old girlfriend at his last school. Lindsey makes it sound like this Blaire chick has a heart made of ice or something, but I don’t know any of the details. Want me to see if I can get the scoop from her?”

  I chewed on my lip for a moment. Her offer was tempting. “No thanks. I should hear it from him.”

  “A little mystery’s kind of exciting though, right? Like cute Kale Boy—leaves something to the imagination.” Zoey gave the kale pusher across the lawn a dreamy stare.

  “A little mystery’s fine. A whole suspense novel’s worth, not so much.”

  “I’m sure it’s no big deal. We’re talking about Quentin freaking Ford for crying out loud. He was probably the patron saint of something in his last life.”

  I pretended to seem interested in the glowing lamps on the table, but my head was totally somewhere else. “I hope you’re right.”

  “Why don’t you just ask him? Straight-out. Give him the he-can’t-touch-you-until-he-spills ultimatum.” Zoey tugged me along to the next vendor. “Ask him.”

  “Okay. I will,” I said, conjuring up a smile, like that was so simple.

  But it wasn’t asking him I was afraid of—it was what his answer would be.

  Suburban life was definitely not as simple and straightforward as I thought it would be. It was every bit as surprising and chaotic as life on the road had been. Just because a person had the same place to come back to each night didn’t mean everything else was predictable.

  At least that was my experience so far this summer. Right when I thought I had everything under control and had found my groove, life issued me a reality check. For as much time as Quentin and I had been spending together, I still felt something big hanging between us. One minute he’d be sharing some embarrassing moment from puberty, and the next he’d clam up at the slightest mention of his old school and his past.

  He was the most open closed-off person I’d ever known.

  Boys were confusing. That was the great takeaway of the summer so far.

  Crashing on a lounger in Aunt Julie and Uncle Paul’s backyard, I pulled up my dad’s band’s tour page for the tenth time that week. They were still scheduled to play at Mac’s Bar tomorrow night. Tomorrow night, I was going to meet my dad.

  Thinking about it made me feel super-anxious. Zoey had sent me a text a few hours ago having to cancel on the concert, so I was flying solo, which made it that much scarier.

  “Hey!” I shouted above the shrieks and squeals. “Ten minutes until dinner, so get the sprinkler games out of your system because it’s bath time after dinner.”

  The twins acknowledged me with a wave, while Abe and Silas didn’t even seem to hear me. I was on babysitting duty tonight, and this time I hadn’t spaced out. When Aunt Julie had asked if I could watch the girls, I was surprised she was giving me a second chance. I was thankful for it, too. So I’d set reminders in my calendar and left random notes in my bedroom, bathroom, and purse so there was no conceivable way I could forget about tonight.

  Nothing drastic, but definite changes were happening in the Davenport household. More dinners where Uncle Paul’s chair was occupied, time spent playing with his kids, and an evening set aside to take his wife to dinner, like tonight.

  “Can Abe and Silas stay?” Hannah hollered, after pirouetting over the sprinkler.

  “Sure. If they want to have tofu hot dogs and kale salad.”

  I don’t think I’d ever seen two boys look so grossed out. “No thank you,” Abe said, cringing.

  “Yeah, they’d rather eat hot dogs made of questionable food content and nitrates. Way more appetizing,” Quentin huffed.

  Before I could turn around in my lounger, Quentin was stretching into the one beside me. I had the day off, but it looked like he’d come from the pool. He was in his lifeguard shirt and shorts, his sunglasses still in place.

  When I stayed quiet, he slid his glasses on top of his head. His eyes gave away how little sleep he’d been getting. They were all dark shadows and bloodshot. We’d gotten into an argument last night when I took Zoey’s advice and “just asked him.” That didn’t go how I’d hoped it would. Instead of answers, I received a whole lot of deflection that escalated into our first fight as an official couple.

  “Sorry, Mom asked me to come and get the boys for dinner. I should have given you a warning or something first.”

  “You don’t have to alert me before you come over.”

  Quentin watched the backyard sprinkler scene for a minute, but it didn’t look like he was really seeing it. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said last night.”

  “I said a lot last night,” I said, going through the endless list of things I’d fired at him.

  He shifted on his chair, like he couldn’t get comfortable. “How you want to do all of these big things with your life. But I can’t do them with you.”

  Ah, that thing I’d said last night. Not exactly the topic I was hoping to broach with him. “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not that guy,” he said, his expression reading that-was-that. “You’re looking for some other guy.”

  “I’m not looking for some other guy. I wasn’t even looking for a guy.” I motioned at him sitting in the chair. “But you showed up in my life and refused to be ignored.” I had to remind myself to keep my voice down, since we weren’t exactly alone. “I’m not looking for another guy. I’m happy with the one sitting in front of me.”

  For the first time, his eyes moved to mine. It was like he was searching for some lie or half-truth in them.

  He wasn’t going to find one.

  “You’re leaving at the end of the summer,” he said at last.

  “So?” I said. He sat up, turning so he was facing me.

  “That shouldn’t matter,” I continued. “You shouldn’t willingly give up something great if you don’t have to. You shouldn’t give it up because of something that might happen. Live in the moment, right? You taught me that.” I turned so I was facing him, too, our knees bumping together.

  “I’m trying to give you an easy out, Jade.” His head fell a little as he studied the patio at his feet.

  “I don’t want an out.”

  “My life is complicated.”

  I didn’t disagree, but I wasn’t sure I viewed Quentin’s life as complicated. Busy, yeah. A slew of responsibilities, sure. But complicated?

  “My mom’s the lead singer for one of the biggest bands in the world right now. I’m a vegan, a hippie who has never once had a home address.” I touched his knee with mine. “I can work around complicated.”

  He stared at the ground like it was filled with answers he was trying to decode. “Okay. Live in the moment. I can do that.” When he looked up at me, he was smiling. “So? What are we doing next?”

  With Zoey canceling, I didn’t want to go alone to see my dad’s band. One, because Mac’s Bar looked like a rough place a young gir
l would not want to walk into by herself, and two, because I guessed I’d need some support, no matter what went down tomorrow night.

  I couldn’t imagine anyone I’d want at my side more than Quentin.

  “There’s this band playing tomorrow night.” My palms broke out in a cold sweat thinking about it. “You in?”

  Quentin’s hand capped over my knee as he scooted closer. “I’m in.”

  * * *

  —

  I was about to be in the same room as my dad, breathing the same air, for the first time ever. I never knew I’d be such a wreck when this day finally came.

  I hadn’t been able to eat anything all day, and my hands had been shaking nonstop ever since Quentin picked me up. The rest of my body pretty much felt like it was going to shut down at any moment.

  “You doing okay over there?” Quentin asked again after he’d found a spot in the dark parking lot behind Mac’s Bar.

  I reminded myself to breathe. “I’m doing great. Really,” I added when he didn’t appear convinced.

  “Who’s this band we’re seeing?” Quentin peered through his windshield, appearing concerned when he inspected the venue. I couldn’t blame him, though—it looked like a total dive. Neon signs, half of them burnt out, dozens of patrons in back smoking, and from the lack of windows, it wasn’t the kind of place that welcomed light inside.

  “Anarchy Artists,” I said, swallowing when I started to open the door.

  Quentin had already jogged around and was swinging the door open for me, helping me through it and keeping me close as we moved across the parking lot. He kept checking over his shoulder, like someone was about to pounce out of the dark any moment.

  “And you listen to this band?” Quentin shot his arm around me when the sound of a beer bottle breaking came close by.

  “Yeah. A little.” At least a few times, when I forced myself to try to make it through a full song. I was counting on them sounding better in person.

  A guy was stationed at the front, but it looked like he was there to break up any fights that started, because he barely checked Quentin’s and my IDs. On live-music nights, Mac’s let in minors, which was a good thing, since I wasn’t sure what my aunt would do if she ever caught me with a fake ID.

  “Stay close, okay?” Quentin locked his fingers through mine, then started to push his way into the crowd.

  I held on so tightly that my fingers started to ache, but once Quentin had shoved our way to the stage, he let go of my hand long enough to position me in front of him. He braced his arms on either side of me and caged me in. I didn’t think I’d be more protected if he’d wound me up in ten layers of bubble wrap.

  The bar was dark inside, but the lights dimmed even more when the band started to move on to the stage. If you could call that a stage. It was more a small perch where a set of drums and a couple of guitars could barely fit.

  I held my breath as I watched the four musicians take their spots. They all had beers in their hands, which they placed within reach as they got situated. The crowd barely seemed to notice the band was taking the stage. No shouts or hoots or anything. Glancing around, it appeared like I was the only one paying attention.

  Even Quentin was watching me more than the stage.

  The low lights flickered back on when the first few notes echoed through the bar. The lighting wasn’t good. Even when the Shrinking Violets had been the opening act for small bands, their setup was better. Ten times better.

  My attention was quickly diverted from the poor lighting to something else, though. The man standing front and center, working his guitar as he kinda staggered up to the mic.

  My God. That was him. My dad.

  I wasn’t sure how I’d feel when I saw him, and I wasn’t sure I could even explain the way I was feeling right now. It was an odd mix of surprise and relief, shock and disappointment. The music began to play, but I barely noticed it as I scanned my dad’s face, searching for physical similarities—the harder I looked, though, the less we appeared to have in common. I’d built him up in my head for so long. The bleary-eyed man practically swaying in front of me, his fingers not able to keep up with the chords, was not the person I’d envisioned.

  I reminded myself to be open-minded and fair. This was who my dad was, no matter what I’d imagined.

  “Is it me or do they all look drunk?” Quentin had to cup his hand around his mouth and speak right into my ear because it was loud. Screeching, shrieking, acoustics-suck loud.

  “They’re probably tired from touring. It’s exhausting with all of the travel and performing.” I didn’t mean to sound defensive, but from the look Quentin gave me, I knew I did.

  “What kind of a tour have these guys been on?” He cringed when the lead singer, aka Dad, hit a particularly bad note. “The retirement-home scene? I’m sure they’re huge with people who are hard of hearing and seeing.”

  I bit my tongue to keep from saying anything I’d regret. Quentin was right—they were bad—but this was my dad’s band. I couldn’t laugh and joke with him about how terrible they were. What kind of daughter would that make me?

  When he didn’t get the reaction out of me he was expecting, he stayed quiet. No more jokes, no more pretending his ears were bleeding; he stayed silent and still beside me, shoving the occasional jerk who stumbled into us.

  I knew what he was thinking when we were still standing there as the band struggled to get their eighth and final song out. He was wondering what we were doing here. I didn’t blame him.

  When Anarchy Artists finished their set, no one applauded. No one called for an encore. The crowd barely acknowledged that there’d been live music at all. I might have clapped to at least show some appreciation, but I was too shocked to move.

  My mom and her band were the real deal. They always had been, even before they finally got noticed and picked up by a big label. Music was their passion, the way writing was mine.

  Anarchy Artists, with their drunken fumbling, clearly had no passion. Well, except for one thing.

  As the band came offstage, I noticed a few girls started to circle around them, touching and talking, giggling and grinding. The bartender made sure they had fresh drinks in their hands, too. So, booze. And women. God, maybe his social media posts had been an accurate depiction of who he was.

  “Ready to go?” Quentin asked, slowly steering me away from the stage toward the exit.

  Maybe I should have gone. Maybe I should have been content to keep my dad in the box I’d kept him in for a while now, happy to imagine he was whoever I wanted him to be—the Kale Boy of dads.

  But I’d come so far. Worked so hard to get to this moment, going behind my mom’s back and investing hundreds of hours cyberstalking him. I couldn’t walk away. I couldn’t do the same thing he’d done to her, because what if he’d been wondering about me, too? What if he’d been trying to find me?

  He’d walked away years ago. But I couldn’t.

  “Wait.” I pulled away from Quentin and headed toward the bar.

  Quentin closed in behind me instantly, shielding me from a big guy who’d staggered, spilling his drink all over Quentin’s back instead of down my front. He didn’t even flinch, but I did. “Sorry,” I said, peeking behind to see how drenched he’d gotten. Of course the guy’s cup had been full.

  “Trust me. Coming out of here smelling like beer is the least of my worries.” Quentin’s eyes flickered up to where the band was perched on stools, entertaining their admirers. The jig was up. Quentin knew I was here for a reason—other than wanting to listen to live music.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on now, Jade?” Quentin’s hand came around my arm, but he didn’t stop me. He let me keep going, moving with me. “Why we’re here?”

  I was a few steps away from my dad. I should have been feeling something, right? Something other than uncer
tainty? This person had given me half of my DNA, and all the emotion I could conjure up was doubt, mixed with a bit of resolve?

  “That’s my dad,” I said, swallowing. “And I’m finally about to meet him.”

  Quentin broke to a stop the moment he heard me say dad. Even though he snapped out of it quickly, it wasn’t fast enough to pull me back before I’d shoved my way up to the groupie herd.

  At first he didn’t notice me. He was too busy “watching” the girl who’d pretty much plopped herself directly in his lap. It wasn’t until I cleared my throat and said his name—his real name—that I got his attention. At least some of it.

  “Robbie Devine.”

  He kind of gawked at me, taking me in standing there in front of him, a seventeen-year-old girl in a sea of half-naked women. “Who the hell are you?” he asked, still grinning at me like I was providing free entertainment.

  By then Quentin had come up behind me, shoving his way into the circle. “Let’s get out of here, Jade,” he whispered, trying to steer me away. “You don’t want to do this.”

  I shook him off, lifting my shoulders and trying to look “Dad” in the eye. “Hi. Robert Devine, right? I’m Jade Abbott, your daughter.”

  At first there was silence. A few shocked faces and a few disbelieving ones, but there was only one face I was watching. My dad’s stayed frozen in that same amused way for a moment, and then his mouth fell open and he started to chuckle. Like this was one big joke.

  I felt Quentin start to move around me, his body tense. Suddenly it felt like Quentin wasn’t trying to pull me away anymore but trying to hold himself back.

  “It’s true. I am your daughter.” When a few others joined in the laughter, I blurted out, “Meg Abbott’s my mom. You two were together when you were both seventeen and she got pregnant. You walked away, but she had me, and now I’m here.” Not sure what else to say. I’d told him. I’d given him the details. What happened next was up to him.

  “Kid, I don’t have a clue who Meg Abbott even is. I wasn’t exactly an exclusive kind of guy when it came to relationships back then.” His arm wound tighter around the girl still sitting on his lap. “I’m not exactly an exclusive type of guy now. Maybe I did get it on with your mom, maybe I didn’t.” His shoulders lifted in the most dismissive way possible. “But if I were to take the word of every kid who’s ever marched up to me proclaiming I’m their dad, I’d owe millions in child support.” He shook his head, chuckling again, like I hadn’t just poured myself into this moment. Like I hadn’t invested time and energy and heartache to get here, looking this man in the eye and telling him who I was.