I let him have a moment to take it in. At the same time, I’m ravenous for the details. “So what’s the story?”

  “Well, he loved stand-up. Just like you. When we were kids, we worked at the nightclub sometimes. This place, The Hoot. Setting up band equipment. A lot of low-key music—jazz, R and B, that kinda thing.”

  “So then what?”

  “Then they started booking stand-ups and one day he decided to go onstage. He didn’t really know what he was doing so he’d mimic other comics with his own material. Sometimes he was like Cheech Marin and sometimes he was like Steve Martin and sometimes he was like Eddie Murphy. He never really found his own style.”

  I laugh, easily able to imagine him putting on a show in a Marin, Martin, or Murphy flavor. “Is that why he stopped?”

  Artie hands the photo back to me. “I don’t know. I think once your mom got pregnant with you, it got harder and harder for him to do things like that.”

  Knowing her, I’m sure she ditched us both any chance she got. I let this sink in. “So he gave up his dream because of me? Do you think that’s why he never told me about it?”

  “Who knows, mija? Only he could really say. But knowing him, I think he was okay with growing up to take care of you and just being a fan of good comedy.”

  That sounds familiar but it still doesn’t add up.

  “I just don’t get it. How could he discourage me from stand-up when he himself did it? I mean, what a hypocrite. Then he leaves the evidence for me to find like he’s playing some mystery game that I can never solve. It’s not fair!” I have half a mind to tear up the photo, forget I ever saw it, forget everything he said about stand-up, and move on.

  Artie exhales a heavy sigh. “You’re right. It’s not fair. And you have every right to be angry. But your dad, well, he didn’t know anything about raising a daughter by himself. He just had to figure it out. At the shop, he’d always say to me, ‘If I can just get her through this next year, it’ll be okay.’ He never knew if he was doing the right thing but he did his best. And when you went away to UT, he was so proud of you. Like he knew you were gonna be okay. But when he found out you were doing comedy, it scared the living shit out of him.”

  “Really? He said that?” I ask.

  “In so many words, yeah. I dunno, maybe on some level he knew he wouldn’t always be there to take care of you if you needed it and he wanted to make sure you could take care of yourself.”

  Something about his words rings true, but the truth is, we’ll never really know how he felt. Or what he wanted me to take from finding the photo. I lower my head, wishing that somehow I could have a little more time with my dad to ask these questions and so many others. “If only I could talk to him, you know. There’s so much I want to know.”

  “Then talk to him,” he says, making the idea sound so easy. But it’s not, even if all I have to do is say things out loud. “There is one thing I do know for sure.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “He loved you no matter what. And speaking as a father myself, the rest doesn’t really matter as long as you’re happy.”

  Who knows if my dad would share his sentiments exactly but it’s nice to think he might. After all, I don’t think I’d choose anyone over stand-up but he chose me. How can I be angry about that?

  “Thanks, Tío,” I say, relieved to have some questions answered. “You still have his records, don’t you?”

  “Right where you left ’em.”

  * * *

  —

  Artie and I retire to our respective rooms, careful not to wake Nick—assuming he’s even asleep with both eyes closed. The poor guy must be exhausted. I creep over to the guest room closet and crack open the door, quiet as a country mouse. There it is. The box of my dad’s vinyls. Then, I hear someone slinking down the hallway. It’s Nick coming out of the bathroom. “Psst,” I hiss, waving him into my room.

  “What’s up?” he whispers.

  “C’mere, I want to show you something.” I shut the door and lift the top of the storage box, inviting him to sit on the floor next to me.

  “What’s this?”

  “These are all my dad’s records.” I begin pulling them out one by one. “George Carlin. Richard Pryor. Rodney Dangerfield. Redd Foxx.”

  Nick holds each of them like priceless artifacts of the past. “These belonged to your old man?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The guy had a good sense of humor,” he says.

  “It’s not just comedy. Check these out.” I walk my fingertips to the other side of the box and begin pulling out his favorite music. “Journey. The Eagles. Tom Petty. Boston.”

  “Wow. Let me see those.” The two of us fish through the row of records like we’re in an indie music store in the Village, pulling out gems in awe. “Do you think he has other photos hidden in any of these?” Nick asks.

  The idea hadn’t occurred to me. The Eddie Murphy album was the only one he asked me to keep. Clearly my dad could keep secrets. “It’s possible but I doubt it.”

  “Let’s scope it out.” Nick flicks his eyebrows, intrigued by the excursion. It’s cute that he’s curious about my past. A quality that’s making me want a future with him.

  We split the record collection in two and slide out every vinyl from its cardboard sleeve—through The Who, Bob Marley, Def Leppard, and even Mungo Jerry, there isn’t a single hidden item.

  “Bingo!” he says, holding a copy of Guns N’ Roses’ Appetite for Destruction.

  My heart stops when I catch a glimpse of the faded photo. A tiny me sits on the hood of my dad’s Jeep. The sunlight highlights my little ringlets a honey brown. My dad stands close, squinting in the glare. His hands hover nearby like a fail-safe in case I fall.

  “Is this you?” Nick asks.

  “Yeah. I don’t know if I’ve seen this before.” I turn it around and read Livy and Vince Sept. ’89.

  “So that’s the famous Jeep, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I say, unable to take my eyes off the photo.

  “Any idea why he hid it in here?” Nick holds up the ’80s metal album. At first glance it seems like an odd place to stick a photo of yourself and your toddler. But knowing him, it was the perfect place.

  “ ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine,’ ” I say. “This was taken around the time my mom left. He packed up all our belongings and we came here to Midland where Artie had moved and had a job waiting for him at the shop. It was just the two of us—like him and me against the world or something. He used to sing that song to me every night before bed, like it was the only lullaby he knew.”

  Nick smiles. “I thought you hated that song. You always veto it.”

  “No, I could never hate it. I just haven’t been able to let myself enjoy it since he died.” I stare at the photo, thinking back to all of those little father-daughter moments, knowing that all along he was just trying to keep me safe. Maybe Artie’s right. If I want to talk to him, I should talk to him. “Hey, you wanna take a drive?”

  Thirty-Six

  For the second time today, I’m behind the wheel of Nick’s Jeep (a miracle, I know). It’s nearly midnight when I pull up to the iron gate of the storage facility and punch in the code.

  “What are we doing here?” Nick asks.

  “You’ll see.” I park Nick’s Jeep and we hike up the aisle of garages to number 382. As I lift the door open, a wave of heat streams out of my unit. It’s as dark as a cave inside.

  “Would you mind turning on your flashlight?” I ask.

  Nick and I aim our phone torches inside, shedding a light on a 1981 black Jeep Laredo, specks of dust swirling in the glare.

  “Holy shit! You still have this?” Nick walks over and places his hand on the round headlight.

  “Of course,” I say, smiling at the old hunk like it’s my Uncle Jeep. “Can you help me push it out of the garage?”

  I climb in, release the brake, and shift it to neutral. With Nick at the back and me wedged in the driver’s side door, we throw our weight forward. The Jeep inches on and I steer it in place, the same way my dad would when we’d get stuck on the road. “Okay, that’s good,” I say when it’s nearly all the way out of the garage. I step back and take in the relic beneath the glow of security lights and the moon. It hasn’t aged a day.

  “This is so badass,” Nick says, running his hand along the hood. I snort a laugh. My dad would’ve liked him.

  “Hop in,” I say, taking the driver’s seat, and I reach for my dad’s handcrafted wooden urn tucked away in the back. The vase-shaped surface is smooth, save for some dust, and it’s heavier than I remember. “I think you put on some weight, Pop,” I say, heaving it onto the center console.

  “What’d you say?” Nick asks.

  “Not you. This. This is my old man.”

  “You keep your dad’s ashes in a storage facility?”

  “When you say it like that it sounds bad but yeah, he wanted to be buried with his Jeep.”

  “Should I have brought my big shovel?”

  I giggle. “Now there’s the start of a funny joke. Two comedians diggin’ a grave for a Jeep. One says to the other—”

  “Let’s bury you instead?” Nick adds, and I shoot him a look. “Too dark?”

  “Are you kidding? Look where we are.” No way Nick could’ve conceived of this scenario when he warned me to be prepared for anything. I know I couldn’t.

  “So, you gonna take him on a drive?” he asks.

  If only that were possible. When you’re raised by a man, you learn to communicate like a man. Not face-to-face but shoulder to shoulder. If we ever needed to talk about something important or hard, he’d take me for a drive. And it worked. Somehow it was always easier to say what I was feeling when I could stare out at the road ahead. “Nah, I doubt the Jeep would run after being benched for all this time.”

  “Okay, well, why don’t I leave you two to catch up? I’ll wait in the parking lot.”

  “Thanks. I won’t be long.”

  “Take your time.” He begins walking away but stops short and turns back. “Wait, do you mind if I talk to him for a second?”

  “Um, okay . . .”

  Nick wedges himself in the open door and leans on the frame. “Hey, Mr. Vincent—”

  “You can call him Vince,” I say, watching a guy I could see myself bringing home to meet my dad have some kind of moment with his remains. It’s a thoughtful gesture, given the circumstances.

  Nick clears his throat. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s a little nervous. How sweet. “Right, Vince. I’m Nick Leto. I’m on tour with your daughter. But you probably already know that because you’re um . . . you know.” I press my lips together, keeping a chuckle at bay while Nick navigates this conversation. “Anyway, I haven’t known Olivia long but I feel like I’ve gotten to know her pretty well over the last week and a half. And I know when you were alive, you weren’t too thrilled about her performing stand-up. If I had a daughter, I might feel the same way. It’s tough but she’s really good. She makes people laugh. From what I know about you, that’s something you’d appreciate.

  “So I wanted to say I think you’d be proud of her. I know you’re worried about her taking care of herself but you don’t have to because she’s pretty badass. I don’t know many women who can teach a man how to change a tire on the side of the Jersey turnpike.”

  With his heartfelt words, the mood shifts from awkward to sincerely tender. Quiet tears cascade down my cheeks. And I let them. Because as I grew up, I just wanted my dad to be proud of me. I never really knew for sure if he was because he wouldn’t come out and say it. Instead, he’d say, You did good, Livy. You did good.

  Nick continues, “So that’s all I wanted to say. That and you have a really sweet ride.” He pats the top of my dad’s urn and looks up at me. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say, sniffing back a sob. “Thank you for saying all that.” Nick acknowledges my gratitude with a nod then leaves me to express myself alone.

  I run my hand along the black-painted wooden console he made when I was a kid. The semigloss finish feels missed on my palm, and I loop my finger around the oversized cup holders—specially made for his beloved Big Gulps. I trace the fabric of the dusty vinyl seats, scratching against the grain with that funny zip-zip sound. Gazing over the circular gauges on the dash, the knobs, and the cassette player brings me back. I find the keys in the metal glove compartment, right where I left them. The Jeep won’t run, I know that, but if I can’t take a drive with my dad, I can at least fake it.

  I turn the ignition. There’s no life left except for the faint radio static coming through the speakers. “Whoa,” I breathe out. The engine may have kicked the bucket but somehow the battery’s still kickin’. I grip the skinny, leather-wrapped steering wheel and look out across the way at a row of closed garages, picturing a stretch of open road on a sunny afternoon. No different from the one I drove earlier. Now that I’m here, I don’t know what to say first. Why is it easy talking to a crowd of strangers and impossible talking to my invisible dad? Makes no sense.

  So I just open my mouth and say the first thing I can think of. “Hey, Dad . . . I thought I’d know what to say when I got here but this is harder than I thought. I hate that you’re gone . . . and I hate that I’ve stayed away so long.” I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye. “Why did you leave me that picture? And why didn’t you tell me about The Hoot? I have so many questions that I’ll never get the answers to. Maybe you were too proud or maybe you lacked the courage.” I hold my breath, wondering which is true. Or if neither is.

  “You and I are so much alike in so many ways, but I’m not too proud to say that I am afraid of what you said. I’m afraid that I might not be able to take care of myself with stand-up. I am afraid.” My voice cracks and I take a breath. “But I also really want to try. I didn’t have the courage to tell you that before but I do now. And since you’re in an urn, you really can’t argue with me—so that’s new.

  “When it was just the two of us, you found the strength to take care of me. You figured it out. It must’ve been hard. Maybe the hardest thing you ever had to do. This might be the hardest thing I ever do too but I’ll figure it out. Because I have to. I think you can understand that. Please understand I’m not trying to be ornery. I just want to be true to me.”

  I shut my eyes, soft tears trickling down my face and fogging my glasses. For the first time since the funeral, I let myself feel all the things I couldn’t before—the grief, the loneliness, the ache for more time, but also a deep sense of appreciation for this moment. Alone in the Jeep. With my dad.

  The static on the radio begins to clear away like clouds after rain. A faint, electrifying guitar riff sings to me and my heart stops. Is it? I turn the knob to help it along until it’s sharp. “Whooooa, sweet child o’ mine.” I look at the passenger seat, half expecting my dad to be sitting there grinning. And even though I can’t see him, he’s around—in a song, in a joke, or in the Jeep. Artie’s right. Dad loves me no matter what.

  Thirty-Seven

  Good God, Livy, whatchu got in here?” Artie asks, dragging my suitcase out to Nick’s Jeep.

  “Just a few things,” I say.

  “Women,” he says, handing it off to Nick, and the two share a very agreeable bro moment.

  Aw, they made friends.

  “Don’t forget your garbage bag pillow. Next time, don’t run off so fast, okay?” My uncle brings me in for one last hug before we drive west.

  “Okay,” I say, wishing I could stay a little longer (if you can believe that).

  “Listen, mija, if you ever need anything, anything at all, Carla and I are here. You’re family.” This is a fact I never should’ve forgotten. And I make a silent promise to remember and come back soon.

  “Thanks, Tío,” I say. “That means more than you know.”

  Nick finishes loading the luggage in the back and offers Artie a hand. “Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, you kids be good.”

  Nick salutes the sergeant. “Yes, sir.”

  Carla wraps me in one last mama hug and hands me a warm paper bag. “It’s just a little snack for the road.” I thank her and hop in the Jeep. “Good luck with your Late Night Show audition!”

  “Don’t wish me luck. Just wish me laughs,” I say, buckling my seatbelt, and we’re off to the next show.

  “Take the Money and Run” by the Steve Miller Band plays on the radio. “How you doin’ over there?” Nick asks, approaching the neighborhood stop sign.

  I smile, satisfied with . . . well, everything. “Doin’ good. What about you?”

  “I’m not sure. I made an important decision,” he says, his tone turning serious.

  “What?”

  Nick slides his sleeve up his biceps, a square flesh-colored patch adhered to his skin.

  “Nick Leto, are you telling me you’re a quitter?”

  “Yeah, I got a lot of life to live. I don’t want my time to be cut short.”

  “I have to say, that patch is kinda hot,” I tease, playfully biting my lip and winking at him, unabashed. A smoke-free Nick is really sexy though.

  He flexes his biceps. “How ’bout now?”

  “Ooh! So healthy.” The two of us share a laugh and head off down the hot, dusty road singing, “Headed down tooo old El Paso!” Somehow over the course of twelve states, Nick’s become more than a headliner, more than my road buddy, more than a crush. He’s become a real friend—the Jerry to my Elaine.

  * * *

  —

  Later that evening, we pull into the El Paso Funnies comedy club parking lot, decorated with desert palm trees and an unobstructed view of the gorgeous Franklin Mountains. It might not be New York City but it’s still a piece of my favorite club. I step out of the Jeep and take a deep breath, exhaling with, “Ah, it’s good to be back.”