CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN Chad

"Check this out," I said, turning my laptop toward my father. "For sale and practically brand new," I added, tapping the screen.

Dad slid his glasses down his nose and leaned toward the screen. "A food truck?" he asked, redirecting his eyes to me. "For whom?"

"For me," I said, moving the laptop back in front of me. "If a motivated person came up with a cool menu that had the right vibe, I think it'd be a moneymaker."

"You don't cook Vietnamese, son," he argued, gesturing toward the screen. "I mean, you're a great cook, but Vietnamese?"

I shook my head in displeasure. "I wouldn't serve Vietnamese, Pops. I'd repaint the rig and design a new logo for what I would sell."

Dad pulled the laptop back to him, once again sliding his glasses down his nose and squinting his eyes. He touched the lower corner of the screen. "Eighty-grand, Chad. Did you see the price?" I glanced at the screen as a courtesy and then at him before shrugging my shoulders like I had zero worries in the world. "And where do you assume you'll find eighty grand?" he asked.

"More like ninety, maybe even ninety-five," I corrected. "Because there'll also be the paint job, redesigned graphics, new menu boards, inside and out," I stated. "But the entire kitchen and exhaust hoods inside are new, so that should about cover it."

"And?" he asked. "The money part? What about that?"

"That's where you come in, Pops."

Dad was already shaking his head no. "Mom and I paid for your college education, Chad. We didn't say business loans were included afterward."

"Then why'd I get a business degree?" I asked. "Seems to go hand in hand, dontcha think?"

My father looked like I'd asked him for a kidney. "But…"

I interrupted him. "But why a food truck, you ask?"

"Well, yeah. Why that?" he asked, motioning to the image on my laptop, a sneer of disgust on his face. "I was thinking more of a CEO-type thing when we educated you, son. Not this… this… food truck?" He stared at me in disbelief. "Really?" he added.

I leaned back in my chair and sighed. "I'll be my own CEO, Dad. I'm not corporate like you. My vibe is mellower. I want to experience the world, not sit at a desk all day," I declared. "That type of life would harsh my light," I added.

"Nearly a hundred grand should harsh your light, son, and I don't see Mom and I supporting this enterprise," he said.

We stared at one another like we were in a Western movie standoff. He didn't budge. I didn't look away. The only thing missing were the guns. I'd hoped he'd be excited about my idea, or at least want to encourage me with a little financial support in the guise of a loan. I was a good cook, and food truck fare is kept simple so you can sell large quantities and keep costs down. I knew I could be successful.

"I need a career, Dad. I want to do this and I think I can," I insisted.

"I'm sure you can do anything you set your mind to, but it's a no from me and Mom."

"Mom?" I asked, exaggeratingly looking around the room. "I don't see Mom. Can we at least include her in this idea by asking her opinion?"

"She'll agree with me on this, Chad."

"Well, Pops. I was hoping to cut you in as an investor, but I do have another option," I revealed.

"And who is that?"

"Myself," I said. His brows furrowed in confusion. "I have my trust from Grandma. I don't know the exact amount that's in it but, it should be a start. And I'm over twenty-one now, and after speaking with Harold Willis yesterday, it's mine to do with as I see fit."

"You called my attorney yesterday, Chad?" he asked, looking stunned that I'd gone behind his back. "Harold can't… Harold shouldn't…"

"I hired him as well, Pops. He also represents me and my financial interests now."

I swore I could see smoke coming out of his ears. "I will not… he cannot…" Dad muttered, suddenly losing his mind. "No fucking way Harold Willis accepted you as a client," he stated, raising his voice in frustration. "My attorney? The Harold Willis on Beach Drive?"

"Sure is," I confirmed. "What's the big deal, Pops?"

My father took his glasses off and gave me a stern look. "Not a goddamned chance, son."

Just when things were getting heated between me and my father, Mom walked in.

"I heard you two all the way out in the driveway," she said, turning to Dad. "And, Alex, honey, what's with the swear words?"

Dad turned to her, throwing his arms in the air before motioning to me. "Our son has lost his God-forsaking mind, Maggie," he cried. "Thinks he's accessing his trust fund to buy a food truck. He suddenly fancies himself a business owner. He thinks he's hired Harold Willis."

"And his idea to use his business degree is a bad thing?" she inquired.

"The damn truck is nearly a hundred K, Maggie—no way!" he stated.

Mom came up behind my father after setting her shopping bags on the kitchen island. She rubbed his shoulders and kissed the top of his head, before sliding into a chair beside me, both of us facing Dad.

"I'm proud of you, son. Your father just worries about you," she said, patting my hand. She turned to my father. "But, Alex, you've been riding Chad all summer about getting focused on a career. I say we listen to his idea and if it's a sound one, then we support our son."

"Thanks, Mom," I interjected. "Dad's also pissed because I called Harold without telling him about it."

"You're an adult, Chad, but maybe a heads up for Dad would've been a better plan, don't you think?" she advised, always playing her part as Switzerland in any debate. Neutrality was her go-to plan, unless one of us was way out of bounds.

"Dad would have said exactly what he's saying now if I'd brought it up though," I argued. I turned to my father. "Look, Dad. I want to do this because I believe in the idea. I respect your opinion, but I'm an adult now and I have the means."

"Your means is your grandmother's generous gift," he replied. "I don't think Gramma would've supported this. She would have preferred a long-term sort of investment."

Mom's attention jerked toward Dad. "Um, excuse me?" she sarcastically asked. "My mother would've absolutely encouraged her only grandchild to pursue this, Alex. That's why she funded the trust all those years ago," she defended.

"The cost is too much, Maggie," Dad argued. "That is a lot of money to remove from his future."

Mom abruptly stood up and walked down the hall toward the office she and Dad kept in the house. Dad and I glanced at each other, wondering where she went. Three minutes later, Mom returned to the table, opened a manila file, selected a sheet of paper, and laid what looked like a bank statement between Dad and me.

She placed her finger at the bottom of the page. "Two point three million, Alex."

Mom sat down while I quickly snatched the sheet of paper, my eyes scanning the numbers. My name and the legal name of the trust were on the Fidelity Investment account statement. "What the fuck?" I muttered.

"Chad!" Mom exclaimed. "Enough of this language, you two. Not in my house."

"I have two million bucks?" I asked, looking from Mom and then back to Dad. "What the …? How?" I laid the paper on the table but quickly grabbed it again. "Gramma left me two million dollars? Holy shit!"

Mom gave me a look that said knock it off. Dad looked sick to his stomach. "Your grandmother was wealthy, son," Mom said. "She actually left you a million dollars, but your father shrewdly managed your trust for the past fifteen years to this amount."

"Geesh, Pops. Great job," I said. "Harold told me I had assets, but whoa, dude."

"But, son," Dad began, still appearing like a huge secret he'd been avoiding talking about was tearing him apart inside. "This was for your future and I do not want you blowing this money."

"We are talking about my future, and I appreciate that, Dad. I really do. But you know me. I am not motivated by money. I have zero interest in flashy stuff, and I live frugally," I explained. "But now this money that you so wisely managed for me can be used to start a business. It will fund my future now, not when I'm dead."

"No one is dying," Mom said, jumping in. "And I, for one, am totally with you, son. One hundred percent," she added, turning her recently polished nails to her face to admire them, and basically lobbing the proverbial ball onto Dad's side of the court. "Alex?" she asked coolly, tapping her nails on the tabletop.

"A frikken' food truck?" he mumbled, shaking his head from side to side. "But I'm going with you to meet Harold. I will insist on making sure you do this all correctly. No shortcuts, son."

"I'd expect nothing less, Pops," I said, jumping up from my chair and hugging my father. I winked at Mom behind his back. "I love you both."

Dad pointed at my mother. "Your fault, woman."

"You're just lucky my mother agreed to let you marry me, mister."

I was on cloud nine and hurried to the pool house to start making plans. I wanted to share my good news with someone but was unsure who. For the first time in a very long time, I felt optimistic about my future, and that perhaps there was another someone for me to share it with.

I reached for my phone, wondering if I should call Cole. I twisted the screen to face me as I ran the question of why I'd call him through my brain. Sure, I liked him, and we'd had sex, but this was one of those lifetime moments. Was Cole a lifetime moment person?

I set the phone down and listened for a message from the universe. Some kind of hint about Cole and me. Something. Anything. Hello?

Silence.