My dad is like the polar opposite of me.
I’m five foot eleven. My dad is five foot seven. I was taller than him in seventh grade. I have blond hair, my dad has brown . . . well, gray now, but you get the picture. I’m loud and in your face and speak before thinking. He’s quiet and kind and contemplates his every word before it leaves his mouth. Even though, when it comes to me, he’s still a dad and is quick to call me on my bullshit. Which is probably why even though I’m grown as fuck, I still get scolded for how often I say “fuck.”
My dad is a saint, and to keep the metaphor going, my mom is definitely a sinner.
Mom also took off when I was fifteen, not a critical time in a girl’s life or anything, because she needed some “excitement” and decided to find that by chasing after every dickhead in the Denver metro area before taking her act cross-country.
So you might see why I find it so shitty that every time I look into the mirror, I see my mom’s face. Now, my mom has not held a job in seventeen years because of her looks, so I’d sound like an asshole not to be grateful to inherit them, but when you hate the person whom you are almost a carbon copy of, it causes some serious issues and a lot of time spent in a therapist’s office.
I grab the Tiffany keychain I got for my sixteenth birthday and find the same purple, sparkly key I never took off.
“Daddy-o!” I yell, pushing the door open. “Where you at?”
“In the kitchen,” he answers unnecessarily. The house smells so good there’s really only one possibility.
I toe off my tennis shoes and drop my purse onto the floor—a habit I’m not sure I’ll ever kick—and damn near skate across the hardwood floors he must’ve had polished in the last twenty-four hours. If I fall again, I’m gonna be so pissed.
Luckily for my dad and my backside, I manage to stay on my feet. It seems my coordination only takes flight when I have the attention of attractive men.
Well, one attractive asshole.
All thoughts of scolding my dad for what feels like a slippery setup flee when I get to the kitchen and he’s plating his world-famous Maryland crab cakes.
“That smells amazing.” I close my eyes and inhale as deep as I can without passing out. “Why so fancy?”
“No reason,” he says into the oven, pulling out a cookie sheet with two giant baked potatoes with his oven-mitt-covered hand.
“Umm . . .” I look at the set table and the amount of food he has prepared, and my stomach knots up. “Am I interrupting something?”
Don’t get me wrong, I want my dad to date. I have for years now, but he’s always blown off my requests. Either he’s happy doing his own thing and not having to share his time or space, which is relatable, or my selfish mother ruined him for life—also relatable.
“No.” He rolls his eyes like I’m crazy for assuming the single man cooking for two might have a date. “I just had a feeling you might need some comfort food tonight.”
“You ‘had a feeling’?” I don’t doubt my dad’s super-dad powers often, but this seems a little far-fetched . . . even for him.
“Dad instinct is a thing, Brynn. If you ever have kids, you’ll understand.” He cuts open the potatoes and plops a very generous slab of butter on one—mine—and a modest, my-daughter-will-rant-about-my-cholesterol amount on the other.
“Dad,” I deadpan with my hands on my hips that make me look more fourteen-year-old boy than thirty-two-year-old slayer of cocktails.
“Fine.” He narrows his eyes at me behind his glasses. “Paisley texted me that you were having a night at work and I should expect you.”
Snake.
I don’t know how I befriended so many well-meaning snakes.
“So he showed up again?”
“Who?” I pull the tongs out of the drawer they’ve been in since I started sneaking them to serve my Play-Doh spaghetti, and put the bare minimum amount of salad on my plate.
“Brynn.”
Ughhh. I hate when he says my name like that, like he found out I was failing a class or got caught in the library kissing Blane Jensen . . . not like that ever happened or anything . . .
“What? I don’t know who you’re talking about.” I avoid looking at him and spoon his homemade rémoulade onto my crab cake.
“You don’t?” he says in a way I know means he’s going to make me regret walking over here. “So your memory has miraculously erased the man you gave heart eyes to for months until he crushed your dreams by shattering the shelves at your bar? The name Maxwell Lewis no longer rings any bells in that head of yours? You complaining about him sitting in HERS for the last week is no longer on your mind . . . at all?”
Yup.
Totally regretting coming over.
“Okay, fine.” I pull the paper towel from the roll with a little more force than necessary, fighting the urge to throw a tantrum when only the top corner rips off. “Yes, Maxwell came in again today. But this time he talked to me and it didn’t go well.”
A smug smile that doesn’t look right on my dad’s kind face pulls at the corner of his thin lips. “So, tell me what happened.”
I sit down at the table like a sullen teenager . . . or a brooding Maxwell . . . and take a bite of the crab cake that, despite my current mood, still tastes like heaven on earth. “Not much, honestly. He said he wanted to apologize, I told him we were square, then I fell on my face.”
His mouth opens at the same time the spoon he’s holding falls from his fingers and rémoulade splatters all over the marble countertops. “You . . . fell?”
“I mean, ‘tripped’ is probably more accurate, but I ended up on my butt.” I take another bite of my crab cake, trying to push my embarrassment down with crabby goodness. “And then Maxwell gave Paisley a note to give to me, and now I don’t even get to pretend he’s not coming back.”
“Why don’t you just call the guy and get it over with?”
“We never exchanged numbers, for one. And even if I did have it, I don’t care enough to call the guy. He paid for the damage he did to my bar and that’s that. It should be the end of the story, I’m really just fucking annoyed—”
“Mouth.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m just flipping annoyed that he won’t let it die. At this point, he’s just being a selfish ass . . . sorry, jerk, a selfish jerk. Anyways”—I use my perfected diversionary tactic to deflect the conversation away from me—“Poppy wants to know if you’ll look over the plans they had drawn up for the apartment they’re building above the garage.”