Finding Mr. Brightside Read Free

can tell he’s proud of her, worries over her, loves her … mostly because I’m reading some of their texts right now. Lots of tech-support questions from her about her iPad and patient responses from him.
    “Give me two minutes to lie to my dad,” I say, handing back his phone.
    “Take your time.”
    *   *   *
    I find my father hiding from the world in his cluttered den, sitting at his desk reading several opened books at once. Ben Flynn is a full-time novelist who’s been working on his first book for the last twenty years, thanks to a large trust fund he inherited from his grandfather. Considering I’ve permanently borrowed his credit card, I’m not one to judge. Tonight he’s dressed in his favorite flannel shirt and sweatpants, his hair sticking out in Einstein-inspired tufts. A mug of thick, black coffee sits cold in front of him; that’s actually how he likes it. Don’t touch his papers! There are passwords written all over them, and he gets nervous.
    I wish he’d let me burn down that old dollhouse perched on the table behind him. It’s his real-life inspiration for how the serial-killer character in his book plotted his murders, right down to the last ketchup-blood stain and overturned piece of mini furniture. If Dad ever finishes The Dollhouse Killer , no one will publish it because it’s basically a rip-off of this one CSI episode that he doesn’t remember watching and I don’t have the heart to remind him he’s seen.
    Careful not to disturb his rhythm, I set the box of Hot Tamales next to his coffee. He looks up from his book and does his best to turn up the corners of his lips. I do the same, re-creating his pain; it’s only fair. Hi, Dad.
    “Get yourself some new socks?” he asks, popping a Hot Tamale into his mouth and pointing to the pair in my hands.
    “They’re for you,” I say, placing them on his desk. He reaches out and runs his fingers along the circulation-improvement material, his sleep-deprived eyes full of gratitude he can’t express without stumbling over his words.
    “How’s the writing coming?” I ask.
    “Technical difficulties,” he says, pointing to the blue error screen of his 1990s computer. My eyes roll over to the unopened MacBook Pro box leaning against the wall next to his desk. Mom’s gift to him two Christmases ago. Even as she was avoiding him, or screwing him over, which I believe she was at that time, Mom kept trying to help my dad stop being his own worst enemy. He hated the laptop, and she knew he would, but she still took the risk. I always admired her fearlessness. In contrast, what did I get him that year? The safe bet: socks and an ink cartridge for his equally ancient printer. He loved them.
    “I’m going back out for a few minutes,” I say. “Heidi’s having lady problems.”
    Dad shudders and peeks out the window. “You sure that’s her car?”
    “What?”
    “Doesn’t Heidi drive a white Volvo with expired license plates?”
    “Impounded. That’s her mom’s car.”
    He takes off his reading glasses, his gaze steady and full of skepticism. “Or is it the Morgan boy’s?”
    I shrug like it could be his car, too, wondering why I didn’t tell Abram I’d meet him at his house.
    “What’s the point of this, Juliette?”
    “I don’t have an answer to that.”
    Dad leans back, runs his fingers through his hair, mulls over this unlikeliest of plot developments. “I’m sure you can understand why I wouldn’t want you riding around in a car with the son of that man .”
    “Yes, Dad … but I’d understand more if we weren’t just going right down the road.”
    “Most accidents occur five miles from home.” He starts talking about this teenage girl he saw on the news who ran into a mailbox and killed herself. Unless she had a gun in the car, this outcome sounds highly unlikely, but I don’t interrupt; my dad should get the words out of his system after spending all day, alone, in this dank room, trying to force them onto