I blink hard, trying to anchor myself to the here and now and not the fantasyland where Maxwell looks at me every chance he gets.
“You know it, Daddy-o.” I put my plate on top of Maxwell’s, starting to clear the table. “Driving on a stomach this full is a ticketable offense.”
“All righty then,” he says, and I struggle not to laugh at what a nerd he is. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“See ya.” I snap my finger into a finger gun while simultaneously clicking my tongue and winking. Then I grab the plates and try not to run to the kitchen, mortification that I’m a bigger nerd than my dad ever was weighing down my legs.
I don’t even have the water turned on when Maxwell is at my back.
He pulls the plate out of my hand, his fingers brushing lightly again mine. “I’ll do the dishes, you go get Parks and Rec ready?”
He’s close, so close that I can feel his warm breath against my ear. Goose bumps cause the hair on my arms to stand on end, and the chills down my spine make me shake. And thank goodness I forgot to put on my Apple Watch; I’m pretty sure the heart monitor on it would alert me to seek medical treatment.
“Uh, I could, um . . . I mean . . .” Holy shit, Brynn! Pull your shit together! Remember the phone call! I bite my lip to prevent any more bumbling words to escape. “I can do the dishes. The remote is on the coffee table, you can go turn something on until I’m finished.”
“Does your dad have some dish-washing routine that I’m not aware of?” he asks, still not handing me the dish back.
My eyebrows knit together. My dad is a single man. Half the time he doesn’t even rinse plates before he shoves them into the dishwasher with such disarray that I cringe just thinking about it. “Uh . . . no.”
“Then I’m doing the dishes.”
He steps back, allowing just enough room for me to pass him, but not enough that I can do it without our arms brushing against one another.
I’m almost out of reach, my heart rate starting to make its return to normal, when his hand reaches out, snaking into mine.
“Thank you for inviting me over.” He squeezes my hand once before releasing it and turning his full attention to the sink. “I love spending time with you.”
I don’t say anything. I couldn’t even if I knew how to respond to that.
I walk in a Maxwell-clouded haze to the living room, grabbing the remote from the spot on the table my dad would probably label if it wasn’t just him living here, and fall onto the couch.
I turn on the TV, switching modes so whatever streaming device my dad is trying out this month is on, and click my way to the Parks and Rec home screen.
I put the remote back in its spot, barely registering the sound of running water still coming from the kitchen. Instead, all of my attention goes to the picture hanging on the wall. The picture I’ve told my dad to take down at least a million times over the years.
The ornate frame with intricate carving and notching accentuated with gold leaf doesn’t match the new comfy, modern decor. But it’s not just about the frame. It’s the picture inside. A picture of my dad, my mom, and an awkward fourteen-year-old me. Whenever I come over, I avoid that picture, my eyes trained to look anywhere but at the eyesore anchored to the wall.
Resentment and anger that I try to hide, resentment and anger that feels so natural that even the therapist I went to for years thought I had divested of it, rises from where it’s always lingering just below the surface. The naivete of the bright-eyed girl who wore the same outfit as her mom. We are standing in front of my dad, our matching smiles both overtaking our faces, our heads thrown back in laughter, our fingers intertwined while my dad looks down at us, his warm eyes shining with pride and love.
A few months after that picture was taken, I came home to my dad, his face tearstained, sitting on our old couch, the framed picture over his head like some fucked-up joke taunting us as my dad told me Mom had left. That she had met somebody else and had to choose what made her happy.
And that it wasn’t us.
That it wasn’t me.
How blind was I that I didn’t realize she was already cheating on my dad . . . cheating on us? The hours-long trips to the grocery store that would yield only a gallon of milk—I ignored all the signs. All the phone conversations she’d abruptly end when I’d walk in the room. Phone calls like Maxwell had?
I wonder if what I’m feeling with Maxwell is how she felt. If she ignored all the hints that something wasn’t meant to be, or if she let the excitement cloud her judgment until she had none left.
I feel a warmth flow through me as if my veins are pumping with hot chocolate and my heart squeezes in my chest at just the thought of him. Electricity shoots up my spine at the barest bit of contact. And I feel like for the first time in my life that I’m finally living and if he were to suddenly disappear, nothing in the world would ever sparkle the way it does when he’s around.
Are these the same feelings that made my mom throw her family and life in the trash with such careless abandon that she couldn’t even tell me she was leaving? The reason she didn’t even reach out to me for an entire year, and when she did, it was because the luster of Heath had finally faded and she was left with nothing?
Of course my dad gave her money. Every month, still to this day, my dad sends my mom a check she doesn’t deserve. Whether it’s from kindness or pity, or to keep us clear of her toxic energy, I’ll never know.
But that picture?
It’s a reminder of why I limit my life to friends and flings.
People let the temporary adrenaline distract from the permanent consequences that follow. And I might be a carbon copy of my mom, but I will not repeat her mistakes. I won’t repeat my mistakes and ignore signs that are staring me right in the face.
No matter how tempting it might be . . . how tempting he might be.
As if on cue, the water turns off and Maxwell walks into the living room.
“All right.” He claps, his solid muscles straining under his smooth skin. “Let’s go.”
I reach for the remote, but before I get there, Maxwell grabs it.
“Real fast,” he says, tossing the remote from one hand to another. “I was wondering if you wanted to come to the game this weekend? I know game day is a busy one for HERS, but it’s a big game and it might be fun.”
If I hadn’t made a bad habit of watching Maxwell and studying his every expression over the last few months, I might not have noticed the way his jaw clenches twice after he asks or the way he looks everywhere but at me until after he’s finished talking. But I did, so I’m well aware of the nerves he’s trying not to show.
“Sure, I’d love to,” I blurt, like I wasn’t just sitting here lecturing myself about rash, sexy-man-based decisions.