We get our beers, and Danny's face is oddly calm. It's not a real calm, though; it's like the eye of the storm. We know more torrential downfall is coming, more broken houses and tidal waves. But for the moment, we're just waiting.

"So, why do you think your dad's cheating on your mom," I ask Danny, handing over a wad of cash to the bartender. She nods her head, and pushes two more beers in front of us. The bar now only includes us, a punk couple sitting in the corner, and a pile of gray hair and flannel, sleeping in his beer, his head down on the bar. For some reason, Katy Perry is playing.

Danny gets out his phone from his pocket, showing me a text bubble from "Dad":

"Thanks for last night. I haven't had that much fun in a long time. You're great, LOL. Talk 2 U soon. Pete."

I look at him with eyes practically outside my head. "Jesus. That can't have been meant for you."

"I don't know what's more disturbing; the fact that my dad texts like a 15-year-old cheerleader, or the text itself."

"Yeah, god. 'LOL'?"

Danny runs his hands through his hair, looking directly at the wall. I notice his knee is slightly shaking.

He says, "I really, really, REALLY don't want to know what kind of fun they were having. My dad never does anything, I've never seen him go on any wild dates with my mom. If their date was anything like how he usually has fun, then they probably went hunting, drank some Bud Lights and watched Charlie Rose."

I shake my head and quiver. Bud Lights. "Is there any chance that that was meant for your mom? Or that it was some kind of joke?"

He takes a big sip from his pint. "Not really. The thing is, this isn't the only clue. My mom has noticed my dad's been around a lot less lately, and he's been acting shady with both of us. And my mom found some panties in the wash that weren't hers. Also, some woman called their house last week, asking for my dad. It's like from a really, really shitty movie."

I scan his face, searching for any hint of tears. He's still stone.

"So....are you going to tell your mom about the text?" I ask.

He looks down at his pint, making lines in the condensation with his finger. "I don't know."

"Well, don't you think you should? Especially if she's already suspicious..."

In all the years I've known Danny, I've gotten to know all of his looks. He has his uncomfortable "I don't want to be here" with his eyes bugging out, his low slouch while looking at his Converse, and he has a smile that always makes me feel like everything's going to be alright. But his look right now is one I haven't ever seen before. I can see the burden in his eyes, and weirdly, it almost makes him look more masculine.

"I don't know, June. Why do you always have to over-analyze everything? I don't know what I'm going to do, and I'm probably not going to figure it out by the time I finish this beer."

I want to say a lot of things. I want to point out that he came to me with this problem, that he got me out of bed with my hot dumbass lover and now he suddenly doesn't want to talk about it, and that he's just avoiding his problems, like he always does. But some part of me knows this won't accomplish anything, and instead I just say, "Okay." Danny says to the bartender, "Excuse me, miss? Can we get two whiskeys over here?" I already know this is going to be a weird night.