I knew he was still pissed at me—we were at war, for crying out loud—but at least his posture softened.

“You have no room to talk, Camden. I’m still paying the school for what you did to the bathrooms.” Dad swung a finger at me.

I barely stopped a laugh, but when Dad’s weight shifted, I moved quickly and caught him.

“Who even does that? Cherry bombs the girls’ bathroom. Like you’re in some kind of movie or something.”

“A thirteen-year-old boy looking for the wrong kind of attention.” I helped him back into his seat.

“I swear that stuffy principal charged me double because I laughed,” Dad muttered.

My chest constricted. He’d laughed? Really? Because he hadn’t been laughing on the way home or when he’d threatened his belt.

Dad picked up his fork again, and we took our seats. I exchanged a tense smile with Xander. See, we could do this. We’d be—

“And where are my car keys?” Dad asked, glaring at Xander.

All that red from Dad’s CSU comment drained from his face, leaving my brother instantly pale. “Right. About the keys.” He looked to me.

“I took your keys, Dad,” I said matter-of-factly and took a bite, forcing myself to chew and swallow. It wasn’t the food. The army taught me not to be picky. But I knew how to spot an avalanche, and Dad was ripe for one.

“You what? Whatever for? You can’t even drive, Camden.”

So about that picking fights thing… This was the one I had to pick.

“I’m twenty-eight, Dad.” I swallowed a mouthful of ice water.

“You’re… That’s not right,” he muttered. “You still shouldn’t have my keys. Give them back.” His blue eyes narrowed on me.

“I can’t do that.” I wound another piece of fettuccine around my fork, hoping he’d let it go. That he’d forget this as easily as he’d forgotten my age.

“You sure as hell can and will! Those are my keys.” He jabbed his fork in my direction, punctuating his words.

“They are,” I agreed.

“That’s my car!”

“It is.”

“Do I have to call Tim Hall? Teach you a lesson about stealing other people’s property?” he threatened, leaning forward.

“Dad, you’re not safe driving it. I can’t give them back to you in order to keep you safe.” I spoke slowly, calmly, using every trick I’d learned over the years to talk him down. I’d dealt with warlords less stubborn than my father.

“I’m a better driver than you’ll ever be!”

“That might be so,” I agreed. “But, Dad, you started the car, ran it into the garage door, then got out to fix it and almost died.” My throat closed on the last part, and I had to clear it, then take another swig of my water to ease that lump.