Chapter 5: The Party
The fire in the living room hearth had settled into a bed of glowing crimson coals, pulsing gently with the soft crackle of dying flame. It was the only light in the room, painting the walls in shifting shades of orange and deep shadow. Dominic sat in his favored armchair, a bulky silhouette against the warmth, a thick paperback held open in one hand. The other rested on the arm of the chair, a forgotten mug of tea gone cold beside him. The house was quiet, save for the settling creak of old timber and the distant hum of the refrigerator. Avery was upstairs, lost in a detective series on her tablet. Alex was out, likely causing controlled chaos somewhere.
The soft pad of bare feet on hardwood announced a presence in the doorway. Dominic didn’t look up, but a small, knowing smile touched the corner of his mouth. He turned a page, the sound oddly loud in the stillness.
Angel hovered at the edge of the rug, a pale figure in matching lilac sweats, his white curls messy from what was likely hours of lying in bed staring at his phone. He twisted his fingers together, then untwisted them. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, then another, until he stood beside the armchair, looking down at his father’s focused profile.
“Ciao papà,” he said, his voice soft as the ash settling in the grate. “Come stai?”
Dominic’s smile widened. He carefully folded a corner of the page to mark his place—a habit that made Avery wince—and set the book on his lap. He looked up, his dark eyes reflecting the fire’s glow. “Cosa vuoi, bambino?”
Angel’s expression shifted into one of lightly offended dignity. He placed a hand on his hip. “Cosa ti fa pensare che io voglia qualcosa?”
A low, rumbling chuckle escaped Dominic. He reached out and gently tugged a springy lock of Angel’s hair. “Parli italiano solo quando vuoi qualcosa. Or when you’re trying to butter up your mama for her tiramisu. Which is it? You look full.”
Angel’s posture deflated, the faux indignation evaporating. He slithered off the arm of the chair and slumped down onto the worn Persian rug, folding his legs beneath him. He leaned his side against Dominic’s knee, a silent request for contact that was as natural to him as breathing.
Dominic’s hand came to rest on top of his head, fingers sifting gently through the curls. “Alright,” he said, his voice dropping into the softer, indoor tone he used only with his family. “Spit it out, baby.”
Angel was quiet for a moment, watching the embers shift. The confession on the overlook had cleared a psychic airway between them, but it had also set a new precedent for honesty. Asking for things felt different now. Riskier. More exposed.
“There’s a thing,” Angel began, his words careful. “On Saturday. At Micah’s house. His parents are going to the coast for the weekend.”
Dominic’s hand stilled for a half-second. Then it resumed its gentle motion. “A thing.”
“A gathering. A party, I guess.” Angel rushed on, “But it’s not like… not like that party. It’s just people from the Arts Collective. Micah’s on the set design team with me. It’s mostly just… hanging out. Movies. Music.”
“Mostly just hanging out,” Dominic repeated, his tone neutral. “Okay.”
Angel turned his head, resting his chin on Dominic’s knee so he could look up at him. The firelight caught the anxious blue of his eyes. “Micah’s really responsible. He’s not going to let things get out of hand. He said no hard stuff. Just, you know, social drinks.”
“Social drinks,” Dominic echoed. He let the phrase hang in the air, thick with all the unspoken history it carried. The vodka cooler. The sick, paranoid buzz. The terrible decisions etched in ink and memory. “You’re eighteen. Legally, you can’t have social drinks.”
“I know.” Angel’s voice was a whisper. He pouted, not as a manipulative tactic, but as a genuine expression of thwarted desire. “But… everyone else will. And I don’t want to be the only one sipping ginger ale. I’ll stick out. I’ll get… anxious.”
“You get anxious in a room full of people you know holding solo cups,” Dominic said, not unkindly. It was a fact. “Adding alcohol to that doesn’t usually dial the anxiety down, kid. It just changes the flavor of it.”
“This is different,” Angel insisted, though he lacked conviction. He nuzzled his cheek against the rough denim of Dominic’s jeans. “I just want to… relax. Be normal.”
The word ‘normal’ struck a chord. Dominic sighed, a long, weary exhalation. He looked from his son’s pleading face to the fire, wrestling with the twin demons of protectiveness and pragmatism. Keeping Angel in a bubble wasn’t possible, nor was it kind. But the memory of his broken confession on the cold hillside was fresh, a raw wound they were both still tending.
“What are you asking me for, exactly?” Dominic finally said. “My blessing to break the law?”
Angel hesitated. “Micah’s older brother said he’d buy whatever we wanted. But he’s… sketchy. He’d probably get us malt liquor or something gross. I thought… maybe… if you were willing…”
He trailed off, letting the audacity of the request fill the space.
Dominic’s eyebrows shot up. He barked a laugh, this one short and surprised. “You want me to buy the booze for the underage party you’re attending.”
“Not for the party!” Angel scrambled, sitting up straight. “For me. For my personal consumption. At the party. Which is a private residence.”
“Oh, well, that makes it perfectly legal then,” Dominic said, the dry humor returning to his voice. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, the stubble making a sandpaper sound. “Jesus, kid. You don’t ask for much, do you?”
Angel just looked at him, hope and trepidation warring in his expression.
Dominic was quiet, thinking. The fire popped, sending a tiny spiral of sparks up the flue. “What’s the drink of choice for the Arts Collective these days? Cheap wine? Warm beer?”
“Hard seltzer,” Angel said, quickly. “The white peach kind. Or the black cherry. It’s just… fizzy. It doesn’t taste like much.”
“Hard seltzer,” Dominic repeated, as if tasting the absurdity of the phrase. He nodded slowly, his mind working through a maze of conditions and potential consequences. The father who wanted to shield his son from everything. The father who knew he couldn’t. The man who understood that trust, once broken, had to be rebuilt with concrete actions, not just words.
“Alright,” he said.
Angel’s eyes went wide. “Really?”
“Hold on,” Dominic said, holding up a finger. The single word carried the weight of a judge’s gavel. “If. You promise me. No weed. No pills. No vaping mystery juice from someone’s backpack. Nothing that isn’t in the can I hand you. You take a six-pack. You drink from that six-pack, and only that six-pack. You do not leave your drink unattended. Not for a second. You take a full bottle of water with you and you finish it before you go to sleep. And you call me or your mom the second you feel woozy, or weird, or pressured. No shame. No questions. We come get you.”
He leaned forward, the fire casting his features into sharp relief. “This isn’t a free pass, Angel. This is a test drive. With training wheels. And a tracking device. You fail this test, we go back to ginger ale and chaperoned events until you’re thirty. Capisci?”
Angel was nodding before he even finished, a frantic, earnest bob of his head. “Yes. Yes, I promise. No weed. Just the seltzer. I’ll keep it with me. I’ll drink the water. I’ll call. I swear, Daddy.”
“And you’re home by one,” Dominic added, sitting back. “Not 1:05. One. On the dot. Your sister can stay out til dawn fighting street racers for all I care. You have a different curfew.”
“One,” Angel agreed, his heart hammering with a giddy, disbelieving thrill. He’d expected negotiations, flat refusal, a lecture. This cautious, conditional permission felt like a trophy.
“And I’m telling your mother,” Dominic said, watching him closely. “This isn’t a secret from her. We’re a united front. If she vetoes it, it’s dead. Understood?”
Angel’s face fell slightly, but he nodded again. “Understood.”
Dominic watched him for another long moment, then reached out and cupped the back of his neck, pulling him forward until their foreheads gently touched. It was an old gesture, one from Angel’s childhood. “I’m trusting you,” he murmured, the words a warm breath against Angel’s skin. “Don’t make me regret it.”
“I won’t,” Angel whispered, closing his eyes. The gravity of the trust settled onto his shoulders, heavier than any six-pack could ever be.
Dominic released him, giving his neck a final squeeze before picking up his book again. He didn’t reopen it, just held it, staring at the cover. “Go to bed, bambino. It’s late.”
Angel scrambled to his feet, energy suddenly buzzing through him. He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to Dominic’s temple. “Grazie, papà. Good night.”
“’Night, kid.”
Angel padded out of the room, his steps lighter on the stairs. Dominic listened to the faint sound of his bedroom door clicking shut. He let out another long breath, one that seemed to come from the very foundations of the house.
A minute later, the couch cushions sighed as Avery dropped onto them. She had a way of moving through the old house with near-silent grace. She tucked her feet beneath her, wearing one of Dominic’s old band t-shirts and a pair of plaid sleep pants. Her eyes, the same sharp blue as Alex’s, studied his profile in the firelight.
“Hard seltzer,” she stated, her voice a low, amused rasp.
“You heard.”
“The floorboards hear in this house. White peach, huh?”
“He has refined tastes.” Dominic finally opened his book, then closed it again. He set it aside. “Am I an idiot?”
Avery considered this, pulling a worn afghan over her lap. “Probably. But you’re his idiot. And I think it’s the right call.”
He turned his head to look at her. “You do?”
“He told you the truth. The ugly, embarrassing, hurtful truth. And you didn’t blow up. You didn’t lock him in a tower. You talked. You set boundaries on the overlook.” She picked at a loose thread on the blanket. “If we say no to this—a relatively controlled, low-stakes thing he’s actually asked us for—what does that teach him? That honesty gets him nothing but more restrictions. He’ll just get better at lying.”
Dominic grunted in acknowledgment. That logic had been circling his own mind.
“He’s a gentle soul in a world that isn’t,” Avery continued, her gaze on the fire. “He needs to learn how to be in it without it breaking him. We can’t do that for him. We can only give him the tools and hope to God he uses them.” She looked over at him, a faint smile touching her lips. “And a six-pack of clown water.”
A real laugh burst out of Dominic then, loud and sudden, echoing in the quiet room. “Clown water. That’s what it is.”
“It’s basically LaCroix with a bad attitude.” Avery grinned, then it faded. “One o’clock curfew for an eighteen-year-old at a weekend house party is… tight.”
“It’s a probationary curfew,” Dominic said, his tone leaving no room for debate. “He doesn’t get to have the same leash as Alex until he proves he can handle the one he’s on. Alex got in trouble, she got a black eye and a parking ticket. Angel gets in trouble…” He didn’t finish the sentence. The implications of the tattoo, of the hollow first experience, hung between them, darker than the shadows in the corners.
Avery nodded, accepting it. “Okay. So we’re the weird parents who buy the alcohol and set the strict curfew. I can live with that.”
“We’re not buying it for the party,” Dominic corrected, a flicker of his earlier humor returning. “We’re purchasing it for his personal, private use. At a party.”
“Of course. My mistake.” She shifted, lying down on the couch and resting her head against the armrest. “He’ll be nervous. He’ll probably have two sips, hate the carbonation, and switch to water. You know that, right?”
“I hope so,” Dominic murmured. He stood up, his joints giving a soft pop. He walked to the fireplace, took the wrought-iron poker, and carefully stirred the coals. A small flame licked back to life, casting new, dancing shapes on the mural of the wolf across the room. The animal seemed to watch them, its silent howl a testament to a wildness contained within domestic walls.
He replaced the poker and turned. “I’m going to bed. You coming?”
“In a minute,” Avery said, her eyes already closed, her face serene in the flickering light.
Dominic walked over, bent down, and kissed her forehead, a mirror of the kiss Angel had given him. “Don’t stay up all night worrying.”
“I’m not worrying,” she said, without opening her eyes. “I’m strategically planning my motherly ‘I told you so’ for when he comes home perfectly fine at twelve-fifty.”
He chuckled and made his way upstairs. The door to Angel’s room was closed, a thin blade of light visible underneath. He paused, listening. He could hear the faint, tinny sound of music through the door—something dreamy and synth-heavy. Angel’s getting-ready music. He was probably already planning his outfit, a whirl of pastels and soft fabrics laid out on his bed.
Dominic moved to his own room, the weight of the decision still resting on him, but lighter now, shared. He’d given his son a measure of rope. The trick was to make sure it was just enough to let him feel free, but not enough for him to hang himself.
Saturday afternoon found Dominic in the glaring fluorescent light of a convenience store, feeling profoundly out of place. He stood in front of a chilling glass door, behind which were rows of brightly colored tallboys. The Black Cherry Bliss. White Peach Perfection. Tropical Pomelo Twist. The branding was aggressively cheerful. He felt the judging gaze of the pimpled cashier, a kid who couldn’t be more than twenty, who was probably wondering why a guy covered in knuckle tattoos and wearing a leather vest was pondering the nuances of fruity malt beverages.
With a sigh of utter resignation, he pulled open the door, the cold air wafting out. He grabbed two six-packs of the white peach, the least offensive sounding option. He slammed the door shut harder than necessary, the bottles clinking in protest.
At the counter, he added a giant bottle of water and a family-sized bag of salt and vinegar chips—Avery’s favorite, a peace offering for the domestic conspiracy they were engaged in. The cashier scanned the seltzer with a practiced boredom.
“ID?” the kid mumbled, not looking up.
Dominic slid his driver’s license across the counter. The kid glanced at it, then did a double-take, his eyes flicking from Dominic’s date of birth to his face, then to the seltzer. A weird, almost pitying smirk played on his lips. Yeah, yeah, Dominic thought. Laugh it up, junior.
He paid in cash, stuffed the receipt deep into his pocket, and carried his incongruous purchases out to his motorcycle, stowing them carefully in the saddlebags. The whole ride home, he felt the phantom weight of them, a absurd, fizzy anchor to his paternal anxieties.
Back at the house, he found Angel in the kitchen, meticulously arranging cheese and crackers on a platter to bring to the party. He was wearing a baby pink, oversized sweater that slid off one shoulder, and cream-colored trousers. He looked like a cloud with anxiety.
Dominic dropped the plastic bag on the counter with a thud. Angel jumped, then stared at it as if it contained radioactive material.
“There,” Dominic said, shrugging off his vest. “Your social lubricant.”
Angel approached slowly and pulled out the two six-packs. He held one up, the cans shiny and promising. “You got two?”
“One is for you to share, if you want. The other is for you to keep in your hand, so you never have an empty one and some jackass can’t slip something in it. Water,” he pointed to the large bottle. “And chips for your mother, so don’t touch them.”
Angel nodded, his throat working. “Thank you, Daddy.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” Dominic opened the fridge and grabbed a beer for himself. He twisted the cap off and took a long swig. It tasted like adulthood and decisions. “You got your phone charged?”
“Yes.”
“Location services on?”
“Yes.”
“And you remember the rules. All of them.”
“Yes.” Angel’s voice was small. The reality of the transaction was hitting him, the weight of the trust manifesting in the cold aluminum cans.
“Okay then.” Dominic walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. “Have fun. Be smart. Be you.” He pulled him into a brief, hard hug. “One o’clock. The door locks at 1:01.”
“I’ll be here,” Angel whispered into his chest.
The hours that followed passed with a strange, suspended quality. Avery and Dominic tried to watch a movie but couldn’t concentrate. Alex came home, took