"Calm down. I won't." The response feels inadequate even as I say it, a hollow promise I'm not sure I can keep. My focus shifts back to the road.
She glares at me, the heat of her stare practically burning a hole in the side of my face. "I don't believe you." The accusation hangs in the air between us. She knows me too well.
"Okay, fine. I'll try. How about that?" I offer, the words tasting like defeat. It's the most honest I can be right now, the most I can promise without knowing exactly what she's afraid I'll do next.
"Hey, can I meet Andy sometime? He seems cool. I want to make sure you're not torturing him."
The question comes out of nowhere, casual yet calculated, a carefully aimed dart that finds its mark with terrifying precision.
My heart shoots into my throat, a frantic bird beating against my ribs as I struggle to maintain composure. The thought of Malia and Andy in the same room, of her razor-sharp gaze dissecting every interaction, analyzing every micro-expression, sends a chill down my spine.
"Uh." I cough, choking on my own saliva as I fumble for a response that won't betray too much.
"'Uh'?" she mocks, laughing, the sound sharp and triumphant. "Seriously, are you okay, Dad?" Her eyes gleam with knowing amusement.
I clear my throat as I pull into Kaitlynn's driveway, the tires crunching softly on the gravel as I shift into park. The house is dark save for a single light burning in what I assume is the kitchen window.
"Malia, stop obsessing over my life."
It's a desperate attempt to regain control of a conversation that's slipping away from me, to redirect her attention back to the safety of her own world where I'm just the embarrassing dad. Where I'm not the man whose thoughts are consumed by a blonde yoga instructor with eyes the color of the summer sky.
She laughs, a dry, knowing sound. "You wish. I couldn't care less. Just so you know, I'm onto you, old man." She grabs her backpack, a canvas of trinkets and pins, and swings the car door open.
Her nails catch the streetlight as she hoists her backpack—long, acrylic things with tiny plastic bows and rhinestonesglittering at the tips. I catch myself staring at the ridiculous knee-high pink boots with their chunky heels, the sweater drowning her frame. Is this what passes for fashion these days, or has my daughter simply perfected her own brand of weird?
I make a mental note to have a word with Kaitlynn about her wardrobe supervision.
She turns back before closing the door, pointing two fingers at her eyes, then swinging them toward me in that mock warning she's perfected since she was twelve. My response is instinctual, a middle finger raised without a second thought. She returns it with equal fervor before I blow her a kiss, a gesture she catches with theatrical flair, pressing it dramatically against her heart.
That's our thing. The kiss, not the finger. My chest tightens with an emotion too vast for words as she disappears into the house, leaving me alone in the quiet darkness of the driveway.
My girls.
They're everything.
Chapter 10
Running Buds
Andrew
Vincepicksmeupright on time for our run. Honestly, I almost don't expect him to show.
I still can't wrap my head around why he offers to do this. I don't even know how far away he lives or what the drive to my place is like for him. He hasn't mentioned it. I hope it isn't ridiculously far.
The whole thing feels surreal. Vince seems like someone with a packed schedule and no shortage of people vying for his time. Why act like I'm someone important? Sure, we get along, and we have a lot in common, but it doesn't add up.
And then I hear it, the low growl of a car engine echoing through the early morning quiet. It comes before the sight of him, rounding the corner in a shiny black 911 Porsche that practically glows under the dim streetlights. The sound is a purr that vibrates through the pavement, a mechanical heartbeat that makes my own pulse quicken in response. As the car approaches, its sleek silhouette cuts through the pre-dawn mist like a knife, the metallic paint catching what little light there is and throwing it back in scattered fragments across my building's facade. I can feel the engine's deep resonance in my chest.
My stomach flips.
The Porsche rolls to a stop at my curb with a whisper of expensive tires against asphalt, its engine settling into a contented rumble that sounds impossibly loud in the otherwise silent morning. The car is a sleek vision of wealth and power that has no business on my pothole-filled street. Vince rolls down the passenger window, and the doors unlock with a soft click.
A laugh escapes me, sharp and disbelieving, as I reach for the door handle. The cool metal beneath my fingers feels alien, wrong. This is the most expensive thing I've ever touched.
Sliding into the passenger seat feels like stepping into a different reality. This isn't my world. This is a car from movies, the kind parked outside restaurants where a single appetizer costs more than my weekly grocery budget. My ride is a 2005 Land Rover I pulled from my parents' backyard, resurrected with a prayer and what feels like miles of duct tape. It runs on rust and stubbornness.
Now I'm sinking into leather that smells like money, my worn-out running shorts and faded t-shirt an insult to the pristine interior. The Porsche feels too small, too perfect, as if my very presence might somehow break it, or worse, break the illusion that I belong here at all.
