Page 64 of Tito

“I’m not sure what’s going on there,” I said.

“Let’s hope everything’s on the up and up.”

“Just give him a chance,” I said. “That’s all I ask.”

He kissed the top of my head. “I will.”

When Tito returned to the kitchen, my father immediately began prying into his person, his background, and his beliefs. It came as no surprise. He did the same thing to everyone I brought into his home. Finding answers to those questions were important to him. It allowed him to make an accurate decision regarding the person’s character.

“Silva’s what, Portuguese?” he asked. “Are you Brazilian?”

“Yes, Sir.”

My father placed the steaks in a hot cast-iron skillet. “Most people claim if you don’t grille a steak, you’re ruining it. I’ll sear these in this skillet, then cook them in a five-hundred-degree oven. Tell me what you think.”

“I’m a steak snob,” Tito replied. “I’ll be honest.”

“Steak snob, huh?” He glanced at Tito and smirked. “I like that. I might be one, too.”

“Life’s too short to eat bad cuts of meat.”

“That it is,” my father agreed. “Where do you buy your meat?

“Iowa Meat Farms on Mission Gorge, or Siesel’s. I’m on a first-name-basis with the butcher at both.”

My father laughed. “These came from Iowa Meat Farms. I’ll be damned. Small world.”

“It sure is.”

“Are you close to your family?” He flipped the steaks. “Are they in Brazil?”

“I do have family in Brazil,” Tito replied. “But my parents are in Montana. I’m very close to them both. My father is a neurosurgeon, specializing on spine injuries. He works at the hospital in Great Falls, and travels to Billings from time to time. My mother works from home, developing and upgrading computer virus software.”

My father transferred the steaks to the oven, placing them in a second cast-iron skillet. His cooking skills increased tenfold after my mother left us. He had no alternative but to learn to cook. At first, he saw it as an inconvenience. Now, he seemed to enjoy it immensely.

“Three minutes on each side, and they’ll be just south of medium. Anything more than that, and the meat’s ruined.” He wiped his hands on a towel and faced Tito. “How do you prefer your steak?”

Tito grinned. “Off the fire at 155 degrees. It’s about 160 in five minutes.”

“What’s that? Medium?”

“I think so.”

“I don’t use a thermometer.” He folded his arms over his chest. “It’s cheating, in my opinion.”

“I won’t cook a steak without one,” Tito replied. “It’s a steak snob thing, I guess.”

“Reggie tells me you manage car washes,” my father said, changing the subject completely. “Far cry from computer science and neurosurgery. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I guess I’ll be blunt.” He gave Tito a quick once-over. “What happened?”

I shot him a glare. “Dad! Really?”

“With a perfect SAT score and a rather attractive GPA,” Tito said. “I was accepted into MIT. Instead of going, I opted to move here and manage carwashes. Some might see it as taking the easy way out. Personally, it works well for me. Living with two people whose moods were dependent on their job performance allowed me to place value on living a simple, stress-free life. If I need extra money for any reason, I do freelance work.”

“Interesting,” my father said. “What kind of freelance work?”

“Computer science. Coding, Writing programs. Solving problems.”

My father gave a curt nod. “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.” He checked his watch, flipped the steaks, and then faced Tito. He pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Let’s say I die of a heart attack one day. At some point following my heart attack, Reggie trips over a banana peel, hits her head on the concrete, and ends up in a coma. The doctor tells you she’s brain dead and asks your permission to unplug her. What do you do?”