Page 22 of The Irresistible Distraction

Clark deadpans, “After the school called and the neighbors complained, my father rewarded my entrepreneurial spirit by granting me a ridiculous monthly allowance.”

“As a parent, I’ve got to go on record and tell you that feels extraordinarily counterproductive.”

“It was. Once I realized this was the way forward, I found ways to cause additional trouble until he agreed to quarterly raises.” He pauses just the appropriate amount for the next part to land. “In truth, he never turned it off.”

“No.”

“Yup. I’m a thirty-year-old who still gets a monthly direct deposit from Daddy.”

I refrain from asking how much the allowance is—if it started when Clark was a kid, it can’t be that much, right? Clark had explicitly said the men who came to the diner were coworkers, but… he’s also clearly attending what’s a… multi-day work party?

“And you don’t feel even a little guilty?”

“Nah. If he can’t remember to turn it off, I don’t feel morally obligated to remind him. Besides, the way he spends money? It’s safer with me.”

And because I rarely get to talk about my parents to people who’ve never met them, I take the opportunity to share that they never gave me an allowance, just a credit card they trusted me to use wisely.

“It was an interesting trust exercise.” I’m looking out at the still-bright skies. It’s night now, I know, but the sun doesn’t really set until almost eight during the summer months. This was always my parents’ favorite time of night, the after-work, before-dark hours where we’d walk with Vera and Vernon, or where we’d all sit on one of the porches, talking about the day, eating lazy dinners in the mild summer nights. “Given various . . . situations, there wasn’t really any money tied to the credit card. I’m sure if I had asked, the limit was probably quite low. But the message felt clear: anything they had, or didn’t have, we would share as a family.”

“Sounds like a dream.”

He fishes out a small container of hard candies and offers one to me as he tells me about the time he tried to give himself a David Beckham faux-hawk. In return, I share a story about the time I tried to cut glue out of my own hair.

In reality, I was trying to help Jesse finish a school project. We’d stolen his father’s wood glue, not realizing that it could be stronger than the wood itself. He panicked when he saw just how much had gotten in my hair.

“I tried to pass it off as bangs, and then it became a thing.” I motion to my hair, which remains a short ponytail with bangs, something I have not significantly altered since my middle school days.

He reaches forward and fans them out. “They’re nice.”

“Nicer now that I’m not always cutting them myself.” Which isn’t a lie, exactly. I usually cut them myself, just like I usually cut Sebastian’s hair. Even Jesse’s, once upon a time, when we said we were committed to making it without his parents’ financial support.

Each time my thoughts drift, Clark brings me back to the present. He teases me gently, entertains me with another anecdote.

And on it goes.

Clark is attentive and charming, at turns hilarious and even tender. We talk about our favorite books and movies, that neither of us understands everyone’s new obsession with F1, and that we both think social media is destroying the universe.

“My ex—” There’s a small pause, which I don’t think is intentional and which gives me the opportunity to note that he doesn’t say one of my exes, but that it’s singular, the way I might talk when referring to Jesse, as opposed to the blip in my life that was Tyler 2.0. “She used to have to take pictures of everything before we were allowed to eat. She’d turn the plates, angling the food and positioning me to capture the best lighting. It was exhausting.”

Because Jesse is rarely on social media, and because Instagram isn’t something I’ve thought of beyond the vague notion that it might be nice for the diner, I can’t really relate. “Were all your meals Instagram-worthy?”

“Apparently. Though Instagram-worthy meals were inversely correlated with conversation. To optimize engagement, you have to not only manage tags but reshare and engage on a rather immediate timeline.”

“You didn’t want the picture-perfect social media life?”

“Not when I realized its cost, no.”

It’s a heavier moment than either of us likely intended, and I put my hands up, as if framing the late-afternoon sky. “This is a nice photo.”

“Nicer that we’re enjoying it in the present tense, as opposed to perfecting it for online consumption.”

I smile, comfortable on the blanket next to him, half sitting and wishing the afternoon could go on forever, wishing I had Vera’s camera with me, not because I’d ever want to post or share this online, but so I could have tangible proof that today happened.

The time passes shockingly quickly, and it’s not until the sun is setting that he brings up my parents again. “You don’t have to tell me about it, if you don’t want to. But⁠—”

“But?”

“Offering the opportunity, if you’d like to share.”