Page 87 of Alonzo

But of course, I know why. I’ve been lying to her this whole time. I catfished this girl. Hooked her mouth, reeled her in, and now I have to choose. Throw her back and keep fishing? Or keep her.

The metaphor breaks down here. Because in the real world of fish and fishermen throwing something back is a good thing. You want it to grow bigger, and stronger, and be a better fish. Keeping it is the bad thing. Because you consume it and it’s gone forever.

Throwing Tara back would be saving her from the secrets the Dumas family has been keeping all these years.

Keeping her would be selfish.

But am I not entitled to happiness? Or, at the very least, am I not entitled to go find it?

I didn’t lie to her because that’s not progress. That’s stagnation. And maybe she’s OK with the part-time almost-relationship we cooked up? Maybe she’s fine with phone-fucks, and sexting, and coming during cam calls.

But I’m done. I’m over it.

And she’s here. So… yeah. I did the right thing.

Maybe she says, “No thanks, Lonnie. I’m out.” But I did the right thing. And every moment we have together from now on is precious. I will make the most of it. Starting right now.

I pull out my phone, bring up her contact, and I’m just about to message her something filthy enough to make her blush when my phone buzzes an incoming call from my father.

I press accept. “What’s up?”

“We need a meeting. Can you come now?”

“Uhh… sure, Dad. I’ll be right there.”

I end the call, put my phone away with a sigh, then wave goodbye to Quint through the window of the office and head towards the fish market where my dad, Tony, and I have all our secret business-y meetings.

It’s not a big market like you’d see in Miami or New Orleans. It’s just a small building adjoining the Lilot Bistro, run by the Locean family, who are cousins on my father’s side.

Tony and my father are sitting at the family table located near the kitchen. It’s a loud spot, which is good for us when we need to have a private conversation. There is no way for anyone to overhear us, and God help anyone who tries to bug this table. They will get nothing on their recordings but the cursing of an ornery French chef called Chief.

I slide into the half-circle booth next to Tony. “What’s up?”

“We have a problem,” Tony says.

“A big problem,” Dad repeats.

“Well? What is it?”

My dad puts his huge hands up, palms out, like he’s already trying to press back my objections. “Tara!”

“Tara? What about fucking Belinda?”

Tony huffs. “I can’t believe you’re calling her that.”

I shrug. “It’s what she wants to be called. I don’t give a fuck what her name is.”

“Tara is the real problem,” my dad says. “I’m not worried about Rosalie. She didn’t see enough to get any facts right even if she were to tell anyone. Who is this Tara girl, Lonz? How did she get here? You didn’t tell us you were dating.”

“Well, up until a few days ago she lived two thousand miles away and she thought I was an accountant called Lonnie.”

Tony guffaws.

My father does not. “Why is she here, Alonzo?”

“Ummm… well… I’m handling that, Dad, don’t worry.”

“Oh, fuck,” Tony says. “She’s connected to it, isn’t she?”