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More buttons. So many buttons.

“—and with a decent amount of lube—”

“Dad! Fuck! Boundaries! It’s fucked telling me that kind of stuff about my stepmom. You know, ’cause we’re all family now.”

We stare at each other, my eyes widening while his narrow.

“Besides, it’s not what rich people do,” I tack on.

Finally, he concedes, saying, “You’re right. I’ll tone it down a bit.”

“Not a bit. All the way down. Like to fucking zero.”

The man who raised me makes no promises whatsoever before changing the subject. “How’s everything been around here? How are things coming along with Kota?”

“Fine.”

He strokes a macrame art piece hanging on the wall, tugging on one of the tassels. “This is girly.”

“This is a girl’s house.”

After giving it an unimpressed once-over, he grunts and steps away. “Did you see that Knicks game?”

“No. Did you?”

“Just read about it.”

“And?”

“And nothing. Sounds like it was a good game.”

“Good.”

A moment of silence passes as I study him.

“Uh, you said fine?” he asks.

About Kota?

“Yeah…”

“One of the most important things you need to understand about women is that fine never means fine.”

“Not that their pussy crust is underrated?” I mock.

“That’s further down the list,” he says seriously. “Below always put the seat and lid down but above order extra fries for yourself even if she says she doesn’t want any.”

How does he know these things?

“What else is on the list?”

“She doesn’t always want you to solve problems, sometimes you just gotta sit there and listen, always bring a sweater because she will get cold, and don’t chew too loud.”

“I might as well be a fucking houseplant.”

“Houseplant, yes.” He snaps, then points at me. “You have to treat a woman like a houseplant, making sure they get enough water, food, and sunlight. And if she makes you banana bread, ooh, boy, she’s a keeper.”

Okay, now I know his ass is playing me. When the fuck has anyone ever made Graham Pierson banana bread?