It’sbeenovertenyears since my parents got divorced, but it’s still hard to see Dad getting cozy with another woman. I don’t know why, seeing as Francine is truly the sweetest sweet potato that ever existed. She’s everything I could have ever asked for in a stepmom—kind, sweet, forgiving. Emphasis on the forgiving. By the way she treats me, you wouldn’t even know I intentionally tried to make her life difficult once upon a time.
I struggled to watch them cut their anniversary cake together this evening, giggling with their heads bowed together like newlyweds. Dad is affectionate with Francine in a way that he never was with Mom, and it’s hard to watch, even as an adult. Back when I lived with them, I had to turn the volume up on my iPod headphones to drown out the sounds of them laughing and playing. And probably doing other things. Ugh.
It isn’t that I don’t want to see Dad happy. We butt heads on just about everything, but I do love him. But it doesn’t negate that he abandoned Mom. She was vulnerable, “mentally unstable” as he once said, and yet he tossed her aside like she meant nothing to him. Replaced her as easily if she were just another worn out club in his golf bag.
I wandered off while Dad and Francine shoved cake in each other’s faces. I needed a moment to myself after almost losing my dinner.
“I’m glad you decided to come tonight, Spitfire.”
Brandon’s warm, approving voice came from behind me. I was in the foyer, sitting on the steps that led to the reception hall’s basement, trying to block out the distant noises of the party. He sat down beside me and extended a red solo cup in my direction.
I took it, swishing the beer down eagerly before letting out a loud, unladylike belch. He laughed and took a swig of his own drink, bumping his knee against mine—an act of solidarity on his part. Muted laughter filled the silence.
“A penny for your thoughts?” he eventually asked.
He’s always asking me that. A penny for my thoughts. If I really gave him a penny every time I shared one of my thoughts or feelings with him, he’d likely be a very rich man. Maybe that’s why psychiatrists make such good money.
I threw his words back at him, attempting to keep the spotlight off myself for once. I swear, sometimes he makes me feel like a pet project.
He shrugged one shoulder, swirling his drink around in his cup. He confided that Cora has been giving him trouble again. She doesn’t want to split Teddy’s time between them evenly, like they agreed in court. They have joint custody, but she thinks he’d be better off with her most of the time. At least until he’s weaned.
I asked if he could put his foot down about it, considering they agreed on things in a court of law. He said he could . . . but he’s not sure that’s what’s best for Teddy. He feels terrible when he’s crying out for her. He closed his eyes then, his face twisting with anguish. He said he feels like he’s already failing Teddy, and he’s barely six months old.
I laid my head on his shoulder and looped my arm through his, reminding him what an amazing dad he is. After all, he’s trying his best to be there for them both, and that’s what truly matters.
Brandon didn’t seem convinced.
All that talk about being a good father opened up a window for him to shift the focus back onto me. “He’s trying his best, too, you know,” he said, referring to Dad. He then insisted that I can’t hold this grudge against him forever. At some point, I’m going to have to forgive him. Because according to Brandon, holding on to unforgiveness and bitterness only hurts me in the long run.
At which point I found it necessary to remind Brandon that Dad won’t even talk to me. How can I forgive him if he won’t even look at me, let alone talk to me?
Brandon countered by asking if I’d tried talking to him recently, either. Which, like, no, but that’s not the point. The parent should be the one to take the initiative, right?
Then he took things too far. He said Mom is the one who skipped town, not Dad, and he drove his point home by asking me when the last time she called or visited me was.
At that point, I’d had enough. I stood to leave.
Without warning, Brandon grabbed my hand and pulled me flush against his body. I gasped against him, going rigid as his fingers slid down my arms before gently lacing through mine. My heart almost flew out of my chest. “Stay. Let’s go dance.”
I laughed, leaning away from him shyly. “Dance?”
He reminded me that I used to love to dance as he rocked us back and forth. He was almost right. Really, I just loved putting on a show—and I loved the praise from the audience even more, including the gifts people would bring me. He and Dana used to bring me a bouquet of daisies after all my dance recitals. Yellow daisies, specifically. Always yellow.
When I asked him about that, he explained that yellow is the color of happiness. Said it suited me.
I timidly confided that yellow daisies are still my favorite flowers, and Brandon smiled and said he’d “keep that in mind.” I’m not sure what he meant by that, but it felt promising.
It took me several more songs before I fully relaxed into his embrace. The whole experience was so surreal. Brandon—a man I had been crushing on pretty much my whole life—was leading me in the most romantic slow dance, as if he was deliberately trying to woo me. I get goosebumps just thinking about it.
Later that evening, we sat on his front porch together, nursing a bottle of whiskey while chatting late into the night. At times, when his leg would brush up against mine, a spark of adrenaline—and maybe even a little fear, if I’m honest—would shoot up my leg. It seemed like every time he passed the bottle to me, our bodies would wind up even closer. And he smelled divine, like soap and detergent and something deeply sensual and masculine.
At one point, we circled back to the topic of Cora. Brandon feels guilty about what happened between them, and he wondered if that’s why she was giving him such a hard time. He thinks she’s punishing him, and the worst part? He says he doesn’t blame her. He talked to his pastor about it, and I was shocked when he also confessed he’d “given his life to Christ” and was thinking about getting baptized.
“What’s with the look?” he asked, noticing the wrinkle in my nose. “You’ve been baptized before.”
“Yeah,” I said, recalling that moment I came out of the water, hoping for a change that never came. I sent up a wish to God while getting dunked, pleading with Him toget my parents back together. If He could just do that, I’d aspire to be just like His Son, Jesus. But He never held up His end of the bargain. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
Brandon being Brandon, he pressed for more details. When I finally opened up, he shook his head and said that’s not how it works—that God doesn’t just “grant our every wish.”
