Page 74 of Silver Sweet

“I have a second,” I tell her.

“Good. I’m adding your father on the call. He’s flying home from Paris.”

I frown. That sounds ominous. Most of my joint calls with them result in me being reprimanded for something.

You do know it’s illegal to…

Ride an e-scooter on the sidewalk.

Release helium balloons (even if they are shaped like miniature balloon versions of your uncles).

Vape at Coney Island (or any beach nearby for that matter).

Feed the pigeons and squirrels.

I glance at my squirrel friend munching on the remaining peanuts.Shit.I scan the area. Is my dad around the corner? Seriously, sometimes it feels like he has eyes in the sky. He knowswaytoo much. But Ian, my bodyguard, is the only one watching me. He leans an elbow on the fence and casually adjusts the mic in his ear. He’s been my bodyguard since I was fifteen. I’ve broken enough rules and petty laws to know for certain he doesn’t snitch unless I do something incredibly dumb.

Staticky noise on the phone cuts me out of my thoughts.

“Hello?” I ask. “Mom? Dad?”

“Richard,” my mom says in her usual curt, cold tone. “Remove yourself out of whatever microwave you’ve stepped in.”

“It’s called a Faraday cage, Rose,” my dad replies, his voice a little crackly. “And unless you’d like me to tell the pilot to ground the plane in the Atlantic, there’s going to be some interference.”

“I know what a Faraday cage is,” my mom snaps. “But by all means, go swimming with the sharks. I’m sure they need to be quizzed on electromagnetic fields.”

“I’m sure I’ll be dead if the plane hits the ocean.” I can hear the grin in his voice.

“And I’ll be sure to wear my ugliest heels at your funeral.”

I’m smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. Nothing entertains me more than my parents’ hyperbolic banter.

I slip into the conversation. “Dad, I can’t believe you’d voluntarily step inside a cage when you’re so dominat?—”

“I’m still on this phone call.” It’s my mom cutting me off. “Keep talking, and it will be you swimming with the sharks.”

“So you’re going to drop me in the ocean?” I stare around at the city high-rises flanking the park. “I’m a little far away. What’s the plan here? Snatch me from behind? Blindfold me? Toss me in a helicopter? Do you have a hit man on speed dial?” I gasp. “Can I have his number?”

“Tom Carraway.”

“Oh, sorry. Is she a hit woman? Can I have her number?”

“You can have the number of my surgeon. For when I remove your tongue.”

I hiss a breath through my teeth. “Is this because I mentioned you and Dad being into BDSM?—”

“Tom Carraway Cobalt,” she seethes, and that’s when I know I am pushing too far. When Eliot and I were teenagers, we stumbled on various Wiki facts about our parents that we’d never know otherwise. It just became easy fodder to try to make our dad squirm.

Spoiler: it hasn’t worked.

I think our dad might have unbreakable armor. Doesn’t get embarrassed. Barely gets flustered. If I hadn’t seen him bleed after slicing his thumb on a broken Christmas ornament, I’d think he was made of iron.

“Sorry, Mom,” I apologize. “What’s with the group call anyway? Not that I don’t love catching up with both of you at once. But I’m sensing an impending lecture.”

“Did you do something we’d need to lecture you for?” my dad asks, and the static has noticeably cleared.

I suck in a tight breath. “Nope.”