Free Tall Cool One by Zoey Dean

then, Sam noticed an open box of disheveled clothes on the far side of the bed and recognized one of the red flannel shirts that her grandfather habitually wore. Someone—Dee or Poppy—must have taken her grandfather’s clothes from their drawers and dumped them in this ratty cardboard box. Presumably to make room for Dee’s copious wardrobe.
    “Dee, please tell me you didn’t touch those clothes.” She pointed to her grandparents’ stuff.
    “No. Poppy did. I think Svetlana is bringing them to the Goodwill when she leaves this afternoon.”
    That did it. Without another word, Sam strode out of the room.
    “Wait!” Dee called. “Wanna go to Au Bar later?”
    Too late. Sam had already flown down the spiral staircase to the main level of the house. She was going to find Poppy and let her have it with both barrels. But all she could find was Svetlana, who told her that Poppy was getting a “special maternity massage” at Blooming Mama.
    “Iverson fakes left, spins right, and goes with the fadeaway jumper!” Adam used his best announcer’s voice to narrate his own play.
    Tonight on the white concrete driveway of the Flood house just off Coldwater Canyon, his opponent was merely his father. Ninety-nine percent of the time, his dad was no match for his younger, faster, and taller son. In fact, Adam would spot his dad ten points in a game to twenty-one just to make it interesting.
    Tonight, though, was a one-percent night. Jeff timed his leap perfectly, blocked the shot, then grabbed the ball and drove for an easy layup that Adam barely made an effort to defend.
    “Twenty-one to eighteen!” his dad chortled. “Score one for experience and cunning over youth and innocence.”
    “Good game, Dad,” Adam said, retrieving the basketball. It had rolled under a big rhododendron.
    Jeff used the bottom of his faded college T-shirt to wipe some sweat from his forehead. “Not really. You played like you were half asleep.” He tossed his son a quart bottle of iced Gatorade they’d brought out with them. Adam cracked it open and drank greedily. “I haven’t beaten you like that in two years. And that was when you were recovering from mono.”
    “What, I’m not allowed to have a bad game?” Adam asked, trying to keep his tone light. He knew he’d played poorly. Distractedly. More than that, he knew what was distracting him. Or rather,
who
was distracting him.
    “Maybe you were just going easy on me,” his dad suggested.
    “Nice out, Dad. But you really won.” Adam expertly spun the ball on one finger. “Got stuff on my mind.”
    His dad dropped down to the front step of the entryway to their house and motioned for his son to join him. Adam did, and for a few moments they sat in the Sunday night quiet together, no sound but the rumble of the occasional car on Coldwater Canyon heading from the city to the valley or vice versa. The Floods lived in a beautiful three-thousand-square-foot, two-story traditional home on a side street just off busy Coldwater Canyon. In any other neighborhood in America, it would be considered large. In Beverly Hills, it was considered a starter home.
    “You want to talk about it?” Jeff finally asked.
    Adam shrugged. He was one of the rare kids who sometimes really did confide in his father. Like the time in eighth grade when he’d lived through his unrequited crush on Betsy Cousins. And the time in ninth grade when he and all his friends had gotten wasted on Jack Daniels and grape juice at Nicholas Pacheco’s house; even though he’d been completely polluted, Adam had been the one to call his father to come and get them. The next day, it had been Jeff Flood who’d nursed him through a brutal hangover. After that experience, Adam had barely ever gotten even mildly drunk.
    But how could he possibly tell his dad what had happened with Cammie on the beach? Way too personal.
    “Nah.”
    “Is it about Anna?” his father guessed.
    Adam spun the ball again. “Right gender, wrong