A red suspender–wearing fireman keeps him at bay with a strong hand. “Sir, you’re going to have to exit the parking lot.”

  Nick rips off his shades, a horrified look in his eyes. “Was anyone hurt? Where’s Bob?”

  “No. No one was in the building when it caught fire. But again, I’m gonna need you to leave the scene while we get this under control.”

  Good Lord. Can we have one day on this tour where everything goes according to plan? “We’re supposed to perform tonight,” I say.

  He raises an eyebrow. “You’re a comedian?”

  I step up. “Yes, I am.”

  “Well, no one’s performing here anytime soon.”

  Nick paces, clawing his fingers through his hair. “What the hell happened?”

  The fireman looks back at the destroyed club. “We’re still looking into the origin of the fire, but it looks like someone left a lit cigarette in the office.” Nick and I trade glances. “But you didn’t hear that from me. Now, please. You two need to go. I’m not kidding.”

  Not to rub it in but . . . “Told you smoking kills,” I say.

  Nick gives me a sideways glare. It’s like he’s really beginning to resent this truth but not enough to quit himself. “I’m calling Bob.” We head back to the Jeep and after a minute, he hangs up without a word.

  “No Bob?” I ask.

  “No Bob. No job. And no place to stay.” Nick starts the engine, looking over the scene again. “Ah, man. I love that club!” he says, pouting.

  “What are we gonna do now?”

  “I’ve been driving for eight hours already. Let’s just get a motel and forget this whole thing ever happened.”

  A whole night free and Nick wants to spend it moping in a motel in Dallas. And we can. It would be easy (and somewhat necessary) to catch up on my sleep. But I’m here. In Texas. So close to home. What if the comedy club fire isn’t a disaster? What if it’s an open door? An invitation to go back to Midland and maybe get some answers.

  “Pull over,” I say, gripping on to the dashboard.

  “What? Why?”

  “I want to show you something.”

  We find ourselves at the back of a busy Walmart parking lot. I get out of the Jeep, open up the back, and dig into the front pocket of my suitcase. Eddie Murphy smiles back at me from the old album cover. My hands begin to tremble like I’m about to reveal the biggest secret of my life. Back in the cab, Nick waits, fidgeting to all hell, but he stops when I hand him the record. “Remember when I told you my dad loved comedy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This was his. He listened to it in his last days. Laughed every time like it was the first time he heard it,” I say, and Nick flips it over, tracing his hand over the set list on the back cover.

  “I know this one. It’s funny,” he says.

  “It is. Sometimes when we’d listen to it, I’d feel guilty for laughing. It didn’t seem fair, you know? That I could have all this time to laugh and listen to great comedy and great music and he couldn’t. His time was up.” Nick listens quietly and I clear my throat. “Anyway, he said I could do whatever I wanted with all of his things, but that he wanted me to keep this album.”

  “It must’ve meant a lot to him.” He looks at me, setting the record against the steering wheel. “Why are you showing this to me now?”

  “Because after his funeral, we all went back to his house. It was weird because it felt like he was there even though of course he wasn’t. I had basically moved back in to take care of him. And that night was the first night I was totally free to go back to my own place. But even after everyone had gone home, I couldn’t bring myself to leave. So I sat on the living room floor and put this record on again. When I pulled it out of the sleeve, this came with it.” I slip out the photo of my dad and hand it to him.

  “Is this him?” Nick sounds as surprised as I was the night I found it.

  “Yeah.”

  “Whoa, whoa. He was a stand-up too?”

  “Crazy, right?”

  “You look like him,” Nick says, smiling. “Same nose. Same smile.”

  “Yeah, I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” I say.

  “Where’s The Hoot?”

  I shake my head, taking my dad’s keepsakes back. “I don’t know. He never told me about any of this stuff. But I think he must’ve left it for me to find. Anyway, I was thinking instead of staying in Dallas, maybe we can drive to my hometown. Maybe I can get some answers there.”

  “Where’s your hometown?” Nick reaches for his cigarettes again but then drops them like they’re on fire.

  “Midland. It’s on the way to El Paso. About four hours away.”

  “Four hours?” Nick vetoes the idea with his tone. “I don’t know, Olivia. I think it’s really cool that you shared that with me and I’d love to help you out, but I can’t drive another mile. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, then, let me drive. It’s a straight shot on the highway. You can sleep and I’ll get us a place to stay.” If he doesn’t hand over the keys to this Jeep, I might just have to hijack it. “Please, Nick. I swear I’ll be a perfect angel with your Jeep. You said you would help me land The Late Night Show and I think this will help. I know it will. Please,” I beg.

  He shakes his head and I’m sure he’s going to say, No, capeesh? But he clenches his jaw and says, “All right.”

  “Really? I can?” I cheer and he nods. “Does that mean I command the radio too?”

  “Don’t push it.”

  * * *

  —

  It’s a miracle I don’t get a ticket. After four hours, passing a slew of stinky cow farms along the way, we arrive in Midland about forty-five minutes ahead of schedule. Nick’s passed out cold with his sunglasses barely hanging on his face, looking like Bernie. From Weekend at Bernie’s. Not our agent. I pull off the highway, braking at a red light.

  Nick startles himself awake. “Oh my god, I had a nightmare I let you drive the Jeep.”

  I glance over at him and give a flat, “Hardy-har-har.”

  “Bring me my brown pants,” he jokes, then takes a swig from his water bottle and sits upright. “So this is your hometown, huh?”

  “Yep.” Driving around the loop feels familiar and foreign all at the same time. Finally, after two years and four hours, I pull up to my destination. My mouth’s bone-dry, heart pounding in my chest. I’ve had the entire trip to mentally prepare for this moment but I don’t know if I’m really ready. Will I ever be ready?

  Nick peeks out the windshield and reads the garage sign. “Midland Auto.”

  “It’s my dad’s auto repair shop. Well, it wasn’t technically his but he was such a longtime, dedicated worker, it might as well have been.”

  Nick sets a gentle hand on mine, nearly distracting me from my mission. “Want me to come with you?”

  As much as I’m loving his support, I can’t bring him inside. I’ll get grilled for sure. “It’s probably best you wait here. I won’t be long.” I inhale that hot, dusty Midland air, then step out of the Jeep. Nick does the same.

  “Hey, Olivia,” he calls. “Good luck.”

  I smile and raise a pair of crossed fingers. Inside, the garage looks exactly the same—like being in a time warp. All of the techs either have their heads under hoods or bodies beneath engines.

  Oh, there he is. The one I came to see.

  The man lifts his head out from under a hood and wipes his wrench with a greasy, dull red shop towel. His black hair is sprinkled with more salt and pepper and his face has filled in some since the last time we met. But he’s still my Uncle Artie.

  “Hey, Tío!” I call.

  His eyes are awestruck, like he’s seen a ghost. “Mija? Is that you?”

  No one’s called me that in ages. I guess I really am home. And it’s okay. “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Oh my gosh, Livy, get over here.” He waves me forward, walking my way, and embraces me in a long time, no see hug. The smell of sweat and grease brings back memories of my dad coming home after a long day’s work. Artie isn’t my uncle by blood but you’d never know the difference. He was like my dad’s penguin. Of course, bros would never say some sentimental shit like that. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m just passing through on a comedy tour. I thought I’d surprise you.” When really, I surprised myself.

  “Mission accomplished. And perfect timing. I’m heading home for dinner now. You’ll come with me?”

  “Yeah, sure.” I tug on my ponytail. “But I’ve got a friend with me.”

  He cleans off his wrench. “Okay. Bring her too.”

  “It’s a guy. Nick. He’s headlining the tour.”

  Artie raises a brow and peeks over my shoulder. “Uh-huh. And where is this Nick guy?”

  “He’s outside. I asked him to wait there.”

  “Well, don’t be rude. Introduce me to your friend.” Artie makes a beeline for the exit, ditching the friendly smile he sported for me. Uh-oh.

  I chase after him, pulse racing. I should’ve prepared Nick for this. “He’s my colleague so be nice to him.”

  He makes a clicking noise with his tongue. “Why wouldn’t I be nice?”

  Growing up, Artie took the protective role when it came to boys I was hanging out with. Probably because my dad was always chill about them as long as they didn’t interfere with my studies and brought me home on time. Artie always had resting gangster face, giving my boyfriends a hard time, almost verbally hazing them. “Are you trying to scare my boyfriend away?” I’d complain, and he’d say, “Mija, if he can’t take a joke then he has no business being with you. You should be thanking me.”

  Outside the garage, Nick leans against his Jeep, taking a long drag from his cigarette. When he spots us, his eyes bug out and he ditches his smoke. I run ahead, beating Artie to the punch. “Artie, this is Nick. Nick, meet my Uncle Artie.”

  My road buddy offers his hand. “Good to meet you, sir.”

  Artie takes it without a sliver of a smile. “Uh-huh.”

  I smack Artie’s arm. “Be cool, Tío.”

  “We’re just talking,” Artie remarks gently, then turns back to Nick. “So you and Livy will come to my house for dinner tonight.” It sounds less like an invite and more like an order.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Thirty-Five

  Nick and I sit across the dining table from Artie and his wife, Carla. We pass serving dishes politely to one another—tender, leftover brisket, feathery cilantro, bits of onion, and warm corn tortillas. When Nick agreed to come here, he couldn’t have anticipated walking into an interrogation. He bravely endures Artie’s friendly third degree while Carla and I continually scold him between bites. My road buddy takes it on the chin like a champ.

  “So, Livy,” Carla says, commanding my attention, keeping the heat off Nick for a moment. “How’s law firm life in New York?”

  It’s a good thing I took this big ole bite—buy myself a second. “It was very busy. Stressful. Such a grind.”

  “Was? Did you say was?” Artie narrows his eyes at me.

  “Yes.” I flash them my sweet niece smile. “I’m no longer working there.”

  “Then what are you doing?” he asks.

  I send him a you’re being silly sort of wave and chuckle. “Touring the country, of course. Livin’ the dream.” My surrogate aunt and uncle look somewhat horrified at the news. But I remember what Nick said back in Atlanta about not needing others to validate my choices. It’s easier said than done when I see my dad’s and Imani’s concern mirrored in their eyes.

  Nick clears his throat and places his hand around my shoulder. “Actually, Olivia has an audition next week for The Late Night Show with Anderson Vanderson.”

  “That’s right!” I say, thanking Nick with a look.

  Carla drops her taco. “Anderson Vanderson! I love him!”

  “Why are you touching her like that?” Artie points a hostile finger at the outsider.

  “Huh?” Nick flinches away with his hands up. “I’m not touching anything.”

  “That’s right, young man.”

  I roll my eyes. Oh, Lord.

  “So you’re like a real comedian now?” Carla asks.

  “Can you believe it?” I say, trying to sell the idea. But I’m not here to talk about my comedy career. I’m here to ask about my dad’s.

  “Are you staying nearby?”

  Nick and I trade uh-oh glances. “Yeah, we’ll get a place nearby.”

  “Two rooms, right?” Artie adds. He doesn’t know the half of it.

  “Yes,” I say.

  Carla slaps another heap of rice on my plate, then piles the rest on Nick’s. “Why don’t you both just stay here. We have the extra room.”

  I’m familiar with the extra room. Not because I spent a lot of time there but because Artie’s holding some of my dad’s things there for me.

  “But you take the couch,” Artie orders Nick. “I don’t know what kind of funny business you’ve been up to but you won’t be fooling around under my roof.”

  My cheeks go hot like burnt biscuits, then Carla comes to my aid. “Artie! Livy’s a grown woman. She’s not that little toothless pipsqueak hanging around the shop anymore.”

  “If Vince were here—” he starts.

  “If Vince were here, he’d offer Nick a beer!”

  Nick turns to me, a swirl of wrinkles on his forehead. “Your dad’s name was Vince Vincent?”

  “No, Vincent’s my stage name.” I shake my head and watch Nick add up the details.

  It was the name I chose back when I started doing stand-up in college. Before my dad knew. I never told him about using his name. A homage to the man who passed down his love of the art to me. When I moved to New York, I wanted to change it. Let everything from my past go. Everything but that Eddie Murphy comedy album. I had another stage name picked out and everything. But when it came time for me to sign up for the open mic, I wrote Olivia Vincent. And that was that.

  “Speaking of,” Artie says. “Where’s your next show? Are you performing at the LOL Lounge in Odessa?”

  “El Paso,” I say.

  “That’s a long drive,” he says, though not compared to what we’ve driven so far. “I insist you stay here. Rest up for tomorrow.”

  I swallow a bite of rice. “I’ll stay but I’m sure Nick will be more comfortable in a hotel.”

  “Why? Is something wrong with our couch?” Artie asks.

  “Tío—” I start.

  Nick places his hand on mine beneath the table. I know it’s meant to be an innocent sign to stand down but it feels so forbidden in all the right ways. “Thank you, Artie. I’d be happy to stay the night.”

  * * *

  —

  Thirty minutes later, the sun’s gone down and I’m helping Nick dress the sofa with a sheet. “You really don’t have to stay over.”

  “Yeah, right. I’m not saying no to that guy. He’s scarier than the mob,” Nick mutters quietly even though Artie’s way out of earshot.

  “Eh, he’s all bark.”

  Nick plops down on the couch and yanks off his shoes. “So what’s the plan?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I mean, I let you drive my Jeep and now I have to sleep with one eye open in case your uncle tries to murder me in the middle of the night. You said you needed to get some answers. So are you gonna talk to him?”

  Now that I’m here at Artie’s house, the moment has finally presented itself and even Nick can see I’m stalling. “It’s getting late,” I say.

  Nick gives me that you’re being ridiculous look. “Don’t be a wimp. He’s still up.”

  “All right, I’m going.”

  “Good,” he says, leaning on the pillow. “Leave your door cracked so you can hear me scream for help.”

  “Good night, Nick.” I turn out the light.

  “Night.”

  I wander back to the spare room and find the photo in question. Sneaking out the back door, I step through the dark dirt yard to the detached garage. Artie’s fiddling with something while ESPN plays in the background.

  “Isn’t it past your bedtime?” I ask.

  “Nah, I hardly sleep.” He pulls up a stool. “Come sit down and visit with me, Livy.” I take a seat and push my glasses up the bridge of my nose. He snickers. “You’re so much like Vince.” Yeah, and I’m about to find out just how much. “You push up your glasses just like he did.”

  Now there’s a shared habit I never realized. Funny how we subconsciously mirror little things our parents do. “Hey,” I say, my voice a little shaky. “I need to ask you about something.”

  “Anything, mija. What is it?” he asks, and I hand over the old photograph. Artie squints in the light, then his expression unravels. “Oh, wow, I remember this.”

  “You do?” My heart nearly leaps out of my chest. I knew he would have some answers for me. This simple affirmation is worth all the trouble (not sure Nick would agree).

  “Yeah.” He laughs. “That was at The Hoot.”

  “So you knew my dad did stand-up?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Artie can’t take his eyes off the photo, in the same way I couldn’t when I first discovered it. “He was a funny guy.”

  “Because I had no idea. Not until I found this.”

  “Well, Livy, it was a long time ago. Must’ve been ’83, ’84. We were still in El Paso.” So it was before I was born. Makes sense. “Look at those pants.” Artie covers his mouth, and his cocoa-brown eyes grow misty. I may have lost my dad but he lost his best friend. If Imani died, I think I’d be misty-eyed too. “We were so young back then.” Then my super tough, auto mechanic uncle wipes a tear from the corner of his eye.

  See, all bark.