Free Live Wire by Harlan Coben Page A

watching anything.”
    “Yes, Mr. Sophistication over there would never ever watch any television. This from a man who wants to buy the box set of The Carol Burnett Show and still longs for those Dean Martin roasts.”
    Dad just shrugged.
    “Your mother,” his mother went on, loving that third person, “is much more hip, much more today and watches reality shows. Sue me, but that’s how I roll or rock or whatever. Anyway, I’m thinking of writing a letter to that Kourtney Kardashian. Do you know who she is?”
    “Pretend I do.”
    “Pretend nothing. You do. No shame in it. What is a shame is that she’s still with that drunken idiot with the pastel suit like he’s a giant Easter duck. She’s a pretty girl. She could do so much better, don’t you think?”
    Myron rubbed his hands together. “So who’s hungry?”
    They drove to Baumgart’s and ordered the kung pao chicken plus a bunch of appetizers. His parents used to eat with the gusto of rugby players at a barbecue, but now their appetites were small, their chewing slow, their whole manner suddenly dainty.
    “When are we going to meet your fiancée?” Mom asked.
    “Soon.”
    “I think you should have a huge wedding. Like Khloe and Lamar’s.”
    Myron looked a question at his father. Dad said by way of explanation: “Khloe Kardashian.”
    “And,” Mom added, “Kris and Bruce got to meet Lamar before the wedding and he and Khloe barely knew each other! You’ve known Terese for, what, ten years.”
    “Something like that.”
    “So where are you going to live?” Mom asked.
    Dad said, “Ellen,” in that voice.
    “Shush, you. Where?”
    “I don’t know,” Myron said.
    “I’m not butting in,” she began, which was nothing if not a prequel to butting in, “but I wouldn’t keep our old house anymore. I mean, don’t live there. It’d just be bizarre, the whole attachment thing. You’ll need a place of your own, someplace new.”
    Dad: “El . . .”
    “We’ll see, Mom.”
    “I’m just saying.”
    When they’d finished, Myron drove them back home. Mom excused herself, claiming that she was fatigued and wanted to lie down for a bit. “You boys talk.” Myron looked at his father, concerned. Dad gave him a look that said not to worry. Dad held up a finger as the door closed. A few moments later, Myron heard the tinny sound belonging, he assumed, to one of the Kardashians saying, “Oh my God, if that dress was, like, any sluttier, it would be taking the walk of shame.”
    His father shrugged. “She’s obsessed right now. It’s harmless.”
    They moved to the wooden deck out back. The deck had taken almost a year to build and was strong enough to withstand a tsunami. They grabbed the outdoor chairs with the faded cushions and looked out over the backyard Myron still saw as the Wiffle-ball stadium. He and Brad had played that game for hours. The double tree was first base, a permanently browned-out grass spot was second, third was a rock buried in the ground. If they hit the ball really hard, it would land in Mrs. Diamond’s vegetable garden and she would come out in what they used to call a housedress and scream at them to stay off her property.
    Myron heard laughter from a party three doors up. “The Lubetkins are having a barbecue?”
    “The Lubetkins moved out four years ago,” Dad said.
    “So who’s there now?”
    Dad shrugged. “I don’t live here anymore.”
    “Still. We used to be invited to all the barbecues.”
    “When it was our time,” his father said. “When our children were young and we knew all the neighbors and had kids going to the same school and playing on the same sports teams. Now it’s someone else’s turn. That’s how it should be. You need to let things go.”
    Myron frowned. “And you’re usually the subtle one.”
    Dad chuckled. “Yeah, sorry about that. So while I’m playing this new role, what’s wrong?”
    Myron skipped the “how do you know” because what would be the point? Dad wore a