#scenebreak
Farmer-C visited most mornings while I convalesced. We boxed a little and danced a bit. He showed me partner stretches from football. Dad started lessons with the two of us, and I talked him into taking Farmer-C’s money since his parents were loaded and we weren’t. Damn, it felt good to have Dad coaching me again.
Farmer-C didn’t visit the morning after the sleepover because I’d texted him at some point in the middle of video games with K-pop at two in the morning. After K-pop left, I lay curled up in bed watching dance videos on my tablet.
Glass shattered, and I jumped.
What now?
The sound of muttered cursing from Dad’s room pulled me out of bed. I ran through the bathroom and stopped in the doorway. He was alone and on his knees in the pants and shirt from the dragon jousting suit, sweeping up the remains of a lamp. An ugly lamp that had deserved to die, anyway.
“You okay?” I asked.
He looked up and went red. “Sorry.” He sat back on his haunches, letting the hand broom drop. “Just having a moment.”
“What’s wrong?”
He pushed to his feet, glancing at me sheepishly. “Nothing.”
“Dad,” I warned him. “We’ve done our bonding, right? Don’t get all distant on me.”
He grinned, which had been the point. “I’m just going to sound whiny and stupid.”
“Right, ‘cause I never do that to you.”
He regarded me for a moment and seemed inclined to experiment. “Mike arranged this lunch with some investors who might. . .”
I let him work it out.
“Okay. They might consider investing in a gym here.” He held up one hand. “Don’t get your hopes up, but. . .” He flailed at the closet. “Okay, it’s not like I was ever a fashion plate. . .” The understatement of the century. He actually used the words “fashion plate,” for Christ’s sake. “But the few power suits I had, I sold before we moved.” He wiped at the dragon jousting suit. “I stained the damn thing.” He met my eyes levelly. “See? Whiny.”
“Dad?” I asked. “How much do you trust me?”
Many responses to that question warred in his face, but considering everything we’d just been through he had only one possible response: “With my life.”
I nodded, pulled out my cell and hit Farmer-C on speed dial. “Then strip.”
His brow wrinkled for a moment, then he chuckled and started unbuttoning his shirt.
“Hey, bro,” Farmer-C said over the cell. “I thought you were nursing a hangover today.”
Knowing he’d play along, I gave him my best secret agent voice. “Forget about that. We have a fashion emergency. Dad has a power lunch and nothing to wear.”
There was a pause. “Local power or Austin?”
Dad stood awkwardly in paisley boxer shorts and a stained wife beater.
“Local investors or Austin?” I asked.
“They’re from Austin,” he admitted.
I nodded to Dad. “Austin powers,” I said to Farmer-C.
There was a moment of silence.
“Can you help?” I asked.
“On my way,” he assured me. “I got ya covered.”
I flourished the cell and returned it to my pocket. “To the Batcave,” I declared, leading Dad to my room.
After throwing a dozen t-shirts into a corner, I finally found what he needed: a white, v-neck with more Lycra than cotton. I held it out to him.
He pulled a face. “No way that’s going to fit, son,” he said. “No offence.”
I brandished the shirt again. “With this much spandex, it’ll fit the Hulk.”
Skepticism all over his face, he pulled off the wife beater and managed to squeeze into the shirt, which now highlighted every muscle of his torso. “See? Way too tight.”
I waited for him to realize that was the point.
He didn’t.
“Are you even gay?” I demanded.
Farmer-C arrived with an armload of his best clothes, all of which would be tight on my dad, but that was the whole effect we wanted. If he was trying to get sponsors for a gym, he needed to show off the fact that he knew how to build a perfect body. Since he had one, he should flaunt it, not hide it.
When Farmer-C and I were done playing Ken doll, Dad worked black cowboy boots, stylishly ripped jeans, the white t-shirt, a black leather jacket and a rumpled Stetson with so many Xs, it had to be worth more than Farmer-C would pay for a month of boxing lessons. When it threatened to fall over Dad’s eyes, Farmer-C slid in a spacer and plopped it back on Dad’s head for a perfect fit.
We each took an arm and made him face the full-length mirror on my bathroom door. He stared at his image for a full minute.
“Eyebrows?” Farmer-C asked.
I nudged him. “One little step into the twenty-first century at a time.”
Farmer-C nodded.
Dad finally spoke. “I look like a gay cowboy.”
“Well, Dad,” I began with every ounce of mock seriousness I could call up, “I know this may come as a complete shock to you, but. . . well, you are gay.”
Farmer-C fell out.
Dad smacked him on the shoulder, but Farmer-C kept laughing.
I threw an arm around Dad. “Be honest with me. What matters more to you, landing this deal or impressing Mike with how fucking great you look while trying to land this deal?”
He met my gaze evenly, and I could tell he was so going to lie through his teeth. “Mike’s freakin’ hot, Dad. Don’t lie to me.”
He smiled and stared at his reflection again. “I’m not trying way too hard in this getup?”
Farmer-C gave his arm a punch. “Dude, I’d almost do you. If you weren’t, you know. . . Dumbledore old. . . and a dude.” Another jab. “He’ll be putty in your hands.” A big wink for me.
Wow. It was hard not to break out in hysterical laughter.
Dad glanced from Farmer-C to me a few times before the motion turned into a general shaking of his head as he left us. “Wish me luck, guys.”
“I wish you get lucky, F-bomb,” Farmer-C called after him.
“Dude, he’s my dad.”
Farmer-C’s face expressed confusion. “You don’t want him to get lucky?”
Oh, my God, really? “I don’t want to think about him getting lucky, okay?”