"WHAT ARE THE GODDAMN ODDS?" Flock said, and it made me smile. He stuffed stack after stack of pancakes into his mouth. His fingers pried apart the kitchen blind where a congregation of people was beginning to picket on the front lawn. "How many Parkers in Epinosa, and they find your house by 8 am."

'Help the Aged' were boycotting my father. Hanging Hills was a quiet retirement community on prime real estate soon to be torn down to make way for five high-rises. My father was no builder, but it was no secret that he was aiding the bankroll so he could be the first realtor to sell.

"The attention will die once Dad demolishes the old folks' home. Plus, as soon as we head over to Hanging Hills for the junket, they'll follow, I expect."

Sweat beaded on my forehead. It was hotter than six hells. The City Council had declared a Level 1 Water Shortage Watch in response to extreme drought conditions. Yet, the message failed to reach Dean Parker, who was currently irrigating the back lawn.

The house was ten degrees cooler than the searing sun outside, but the arctic chill prevented me from sweating through my suit jacket. Last week, it was headshots for the open-house pamphlet—my father was rebranding; apparently, his clientèle was getting on and starting a forthcoming baby boom, and he wanted to switch tactics to appear the wholesome family man. That's what he said anyway, but I knew better.

We were shaking the image of his former pot-smoking accountant. But any family picture taken in the last year only highlighted the absent. The way he put it, I would appear beside him for pamphlets that would be left at any open house event. My buy-in had come with a reluctance which had morphed into persuasion when he dropped an offer for the deposit on my first car.

Today, it was suits and dress pants for a press junket at Hanging Hills ahead of a Ramada Inn press conference in a day's time. As Dad always said, show them the plans, then tell them what you just told them—officially. All I needed to do was show up, plaster a smile for the reporters, and generally stay out of the way. It was too politically sensitive to do anything else.

I was all thumbs when it came to my tie. With dads media campaign heating up, I thought about Alex. There would be little place for him to seek seclusion from my family after this, and I from them. I was at a loss after last night. Alex was clearly as unhappy with our parents' situation as I was.

But what was to be done about it? His father had suffered severe reputational damage, and his employment opportunities had dried up. How did I help with that? I didn't see a way back for him.

The more he'd talked, the more I'd smiled. It should have been as simple as that. But it wasn't.

"Why do you have a silly grin on your face? You have nothing to smile about that I'm aware of," Flock asked, picking some leftover board wax off of his shirt.

Flock was a California surfer who'd never set foot in the Pacific or any other ocean because he once watched Jaws but remained committed to the image of a surf bum, letting off an air of confidence he did not possess. Girls would find it sexy. Deep tanned skin complemented his light brown hair that was sun-bleached on the tips, falling just under his jawline. He was constantly waxing his board in front of his house. For the most part, it worked. Girls did flock to Flock, and it was in their ignorance that he flourished.

He'd smile, dimples popping, and talk about what the waves were doing that day—that he'd never rode, the hazards of rip tides—that he'd never seen, and the last big wave he apparently shredded. What he didn't say was that he was painfully anxious, so the mere thought of doing anything dangerous was laughable.

He took vitamins to avoid cancer, wore a special prescription brand of factor eighty sun cream, and would never cut his hair on a leap year—I had no idea why he held that bizarre tradition. What I did know was whatever combination of supplements he took from the local health-food store always gave him massive trucker shits. He would often clog up the toilet and need help plunging it back into action.

I shrugged as Flock stood. "Nothing that you need to have your ears in, Flock."

"It's that time in the morning," he announced. "I'll be out in five minutes. Then we can detour to the store before I drop you at the junket." He walked around the kitchen island and off toward the bathroom. Even from this distance, I still heard the ping of a cell phone notification and grimaced, wondering if the person he was texting knew that Flock wasn't great at multitasking.

Then my own cell pinged. An unknown number flashed once on the screen. I grabbed the phone and tapped it to read the text. As I took in the words, my eyebrows shot up in surprise.

Unknown: It's Alex. I need to speak to you. Meet me in ten, please?

I had an hour before meeting my father at Hanging Hills. Before I could think whether I should, my legs moved toward the door. I reached for Flock's car keys, knowing I'd have an apology to make when he'd finally cleared that turd.

The commute to Alex's took five minutes as I avoided the streets surrounding the open-air weekend markets. This wouldn't be the first cruise I took past his block. Flock and I had come at one point, looking for Derek, who lived three doors down.

When I pulled up, I cut the engine and looked out all four sides, unable to shake the feeling this was the worst idea I ever had. My hands were clammy on the steering wheel, and I wiped them on my jeans, trying to shake off the nerves.

On the fourth window, at the back, I saw where my sense of doom had originated. Tyson was perched on a low brick wall, smoking a cigarette. My heart still raced from the fear of being recognized. But then it hit me—this wasn't my car; it was Flock's. His beat-up old station wagon, adorned with surf stickers and a faded paint job, was practically invisible in this neighborhood.

After an eternity, Alex emerged from a side gate while my attention was focused on the front door. "Hey, Tate!" Alex called out as he walked towards me. "Ready to change the world?"

"Sure, why not," I said, offering him a smile.

He bent, arms resting on the wound-down passenger window. "Nice ride," Alex said with a grin. "You never struck me as the surf bum type."

"Neither did Flock, but here we are," I replied, a hint of amusement in my voice. "This is his car."

He nodded. "Then where's Flock, and why the suit?"

"Flock is—busy, and I have a press thing with my dad in an hour. Then it's all about the press conference tomorrow. So, I'm giving you a fair warning. Maybe you could incapacitate your cousin for a few days and give me a head start on my next beating." I smiled.

He frowned. "In a day's time, I'll have to suffer your father on TV and the giant billboard?"

"It's not me, remember. Are you getting in and telling me what was so urgent?"

He climbed into the car, and suddenly the smell of his body wash was everywhere.

"I don't want you to think we're cool now just because I texted you."

"Noted. And just because I came within ten minutes of your text, don't think that's me trying to put the moves on." I cranked the engine and checked my blind spots, ready to pull away from the curb.

"Pretty sure if you had moves to make, you would have made them already, Tate Parker. Guess you don't have any after all."

I laughed, my most genuine one in days, and shook my head. I had moves. Epic moves. "I value my life more. So much more than you know." I used my turn signals and pulled out, hitting a pothole.

"Doesn't often appear that way." He slouched in the seat and crossed his boots, resting them on the glove box.

I did a double-take. "Says you. Put your belt on."

He did as I asked and said, "You remind me of that cartoon dog... the baby one." Alex turned and smiled at what I imagined to be a look of confusion on my face.

"A cartoon dog?" I compare him to Timothée Chalamet, a severely underestimated actor in my opinion, and he gives me a cartoon dog. "Do I want to know which one?"

He let his head fall to the side, giving me a clear view of the caramel flecks in his deep brown eyes. "Scrappy Doo. But don't go changing for me or anything."

My chest began to chug with a laugh, and I shook my head. "I'll take that, and I won't." I grinned back. "Unless you have treats..."

He smiled and turned away, glancing back out of the window again. I had no idea what direction we were headed. If I used up Flock's full gas tank, I'd be in even more trouble, so I began searching for a place to pull over.

"Does Flock know you have his wheels?"

"Nope," I answered, popping the P as I spotted an exit I wanted to take. "Flock doesn't like surprises."

"Tell me about it," he nodded. "I once changed plans, and he got all sulky with me."

"I've seen a sulky Flock. I'm good with only seeing it once."

"You been friends long? You seem tight." Alex asked.

"All my life. Everyone should have a Flock or an enabler because, let's face it, they're both the same thing. What I don't need is a Derek. Like I said last night, his image is not the one I want for myself anymore, but before I can commit, I need him to lay off."

He nodded once. "That's why I called you. I heard what you said last night, and I need something to change as much as you."

"You two are nothing alike, you know. You and Derek that is."

"You got that right," he said smugly, running his fingers through the air out the window. Then he turned to me. "I've never thrown a punch in my life—don't intend on starting now."

"Again, good to know."

"So, how did you think we could change our narrative?" Alex gestured to two cans of Pepsi I'd grabbed before leaving the house. I nodded, and he opened his. I hadn't planned on being out long, but if it were to get as hot as was predicted, I didn't want to die of thirst before being able to see what had prompted Alex to message me.

It was too awkward for me to turn in the seat and drive at the same time, so I cast a side glance to find him staring back, waiting for an answer. I turned the question around, mostly to know what he had in mind but also because I liked hearing him talk. "We don't have a lot of options. What do you think?"

I balanced one arm on the wheel and reached for my can, pulling back the tab before taking a long gulp of froth.

He sighed, long and dramatic, and I got the sense that was the most he had ever been disappointed in an answer, but I didn't have them all. I still followed up quickly because I didn't like the look on his face. "The way I see it is, Derek won't stop until your dad's reputation is restored, and that can't happen unless we manage to get our fathers talking and hopefully move on to see the damage they're causing us."

"So, we show, what, unity?" he questioned, "and they start talking. It's that easy?"

"I mean, it can be, maybe. If we were publicly unified, our parents would be forced to see there's no truth to the rumors about your father or me?" I didn't believe it for a second, either. For my father, to even see me with Alex would prompt a shit-storm at home, the likes I have never seen. But what else was there to do? A shit-storm was better than a daily beating because at least that had the potential to pass.

Alex smiled differently this time. I'd never seen it before. I wasn't sure what I'd done to deserve it. "What did I just say that's making you look at me like that?"

"That is the first time you've ever said that you believe there's no truth to my father's rumors."

Shit. He was right, but that wasn't exactly what I'd meant. What I had meant to say was—see no truth that his father was a degenerate. I'd never thought that about Rafael Benitez. I only had warm memories of the time he worked alongside my father.

As a much younger kid, I remember him having a voice that was hushed but commanding. It could soothe you and give you confidence in his words simultaneously. Alex didn't know this, but Rafael's presence amplified once Nadine passed. Long days were spent at my father's office after school because she would never tolerate the idea of a live-in nanny. But like everyone else, it was difficult not to see the settlement as an omission of guilt. But my god, was I not saying anything that would take that look off of Alex's face.

I stopped at a red light when Alex suddenly barked a laugh, clutching his stomach.

What did I say now? He pointed behind my head, with fresh tears streaming down his face. I turned in the direction he showed toward a giant billboard of my father.

I shrugged. So what? That's nothing new... I checked the billboard again. Oh, he fucking didn't. I sat straighter in my seat.

Open-house pamphlets, my ass...

Next to Dean Parker was me, and they'd tweaked my teeth into an obscure unnatural chalk-like glow. My father had done the dirty because what I had signed up for wasn't this. My eyes closed solemnly before a car horn beeped behind me, indicating the light had changed. Something close to rage simmered below the surface. I pulled away. The reins of restraint were already too tight, and I didn't want Alex to see me this way.

I gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles turned white.

Alex's laughter trickled off as he sensed a shift in the atmosphere. "Uh, you didn't know that you were a poster child? That's... pretty messed up."

My head shook ever so slightly in disbelief, but I couldn't speak. I was beyond disappointed but not at all surprised, which was even more disappointing. Did he think I wouldn't find out? Did he expect me to go to his junket and help him project an image so grossly different from the one we lived in? No, not today, not tomorrow, and never again, as far as I was concerned.

As we drove in silence, my thoughts swirled around the implications of that billboard. Was I doomed to be forever tied to my father's reputation, no matter how hard I tried to break free? Or would I always be seen as just another Parker—destined for infamy?

Alex's gaze amplified the heat I had already felt on my cheeks. "We can't control what our parents do, but we can control our own actions. That billboard doesn't need to define you, Tate."

"Maybe not," I replied, "But it's a reminder that I'm always going to be fighting an uphill battle, just trying to distance myself from him."

"Then we'll fight together," Alex replied. "We'll show everyone that we're not just our fathers' sons. We're more than that."

His words brought me a small measure of comfort, but the image of that billboard still haunted me. "You know what, Alex? I do have an idea. Do you own a suit?"

He clicked instantly. "Turn the car around," he said.

Tate

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