Page 30 of Beautiful Small Things

If I didn’t know better, I’d say my best friend is jealous.

Rock climbing is a difficult activity for me. Given how often I surf, you would think I’d be better at it. But this takes enormous hand strength, and although I spend hours on my computer, it’s done nothing to help my grip twenty feet in the air.

My father flies from grip to grip, naturally. He has free-formed on some crazy cliffs, so this is nothing for him.

“Hey, Spiderman,” I yell to him as he nears me, “How about answering some questions for my paper?”

He smiles and says, “I will if you can keep up,” as he charges vertically at a crazy pace.

I muster all of the energy I have to chase after him. Once we are nearly even on the wall, I begin the inquisition. “So the last time we talked you said you helped Aunt Colby and Uncle Callan get together.”

“I don’t think I said that,” he argues.

“Are you seriously going to argue with me about a memory?” I warn.

“One of these days I’m going to catch you slipping, Little Loaf.”

“You haven’t called me that in years, Old Man,” I remind him.

“Maybe I’m feeling nostalgic these days.”

“There’s a lot of that going around,” I joke. “And I love you, too,” I tell him, leaning over to bump his shoulder. “So, how were things with your life when your best friend finally started sorting things out?”

“Pretty crazy, still,” he answers. “I was starting to think about medical school, but I was still screwing around, playing football, and making some extracurricular money.”

My face inadvertently betrays my distaste. “Do I want to know what that entailed?”

“Probably not,” he admits. “But I’ve been thinking about it and you seem determined to learn more about me. I figure, if you ask enough people, someone will tell you about it anyway.”

“OK. Let’s hear it,” I say, bracing myself by holding on to the wall tighter, as if that will also keep my mind safe.

“For a while,” he starts, “I had a page on a website dedicated to,” he pauses as if trying to figure out how to continue, “adult content.”

“YOU MADE PORNOGRAPHY?” I accidentally shout, before immediately regretting it and screwing my eyes tightly closed. I can hear laughter from below us and a female voice says, “I’d subscribe to that.”

How is this my life?

“I did, yes,” he says, matter of factly, hanging there on the rock wall looking completely relaxed.

“Why?” I question.

“Why not?” he shrugs.

“Because the Internet is forever, Father. You were the first person to teach me that.”

“And that’s true,” he says, before sighing. “I don’t know, Iris. I wasn’t much older than you are now. It was fun.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “And the people you filmed with?”

He bows his head to look me in the eye. “I never filmed with anyone else. I never showed my face, either.”

“Wow. I don’t know what to do with this new information. I think I’ll just file it in my brain under ‘things you asked to know and unfortunately can never forget,’” I say, unable to maintain eye contact.

“That’s a good place for it,” he laughs.

“Aren’t you scared of people finding out?”

“Not really,” he says. “I paid a lot of money to make sure that stuff never got out. And even if it did, that was a very long time ago.”