Page 43 of The Irresistible Distraction

“Your brother disowned me decades ago,” Vera shares.

They exchange a look across the table, and Brody speaks first. “I’m happy to help with The House, just let me know when you decide. Mom would likely be on your side.”

I manage to not kick Sebastian and instead give my son a look that says, Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask. Thankfully, Sebastian complies, and we manage to get through the rest of dinner without touching on any personal conversational topics.

It’s only one night and I know Vera is here to smooth over any rough edges, but it’s hard not to admit how . . . nice our night together is. Brody does the dishes while Sebastian dries, joking effortlessly with my son; I put away the leftover food and pack a lunch for tomorrow; Vera suggests milk and cookies, and I watch as Brody breaks apart different cookies, sharing with Seba in a way that doesn’t seem as though he’s nagging, and which gets my son to eat . . . just a little more.

Counting the dogs, there are six of us crowding around Vera’s small family room, and it feels like . . . warmth.

We linger over the sweets and talk about trivialities. We squabble over which summer blockbuster to watch before realizing it’s gotten too late to start a film. Instead, we spend far too much time debating the merits of various childhood books. (Brody waffles between Ender’s Game and The Phantom Tollbooth before declaring Seba will have to read both; Vera maintains every young boy needs to read Jack London; and I, of course, recommend Percy Jackson, already knowing the main character struggles with ADHD.)

It is the perfect family night in.

Later, I’m in bed when I finally give in to temptation and return Brody’s texts—since I left, he’s sent me pictures, presumably from his phone, of Corona Borealis from Vera’s porch as well as another one of the dogs, who apparently followed him onto the porch.

ME: Did Vera actually share anything about me?

BRODY: Yes.

ME: You’re going to make me actually ask?

BRODY: You’re more engaged when I’m . . . difficult, which doesn’t incentivize me to behave.

BRODY: And I know you’re dying to ask.

Though I’m almost itchy with curiosity, I force myself to set the phone down. I close my eyes, determined not to ask; I count primes; I untuck the sheets and wrap myself in the blankets, ordering myself not to think about either Brody or that my body still aches in unfamiliar places. The seconds pass. But not knowing is killing me.

I think back to our time on the couch, debating books, the way Brody nudged gently at my normally shy son, the way Seba grinned a little and . . . nudged him right back.

Brody is a boundary pusher, meaning the only way to stay in this is to push back.

ME: Just tell me.

BRODY: Your favorite latte. Your high school graduation photo (adorable). Another picture of you in a bathing suit that did not do you justice. That you get very bad reactions from flea bites, meaning I must be diligent about keeping Spock and Kirk bathed, perhaps help them make fewer messes, and keep them up to date with their treatments.

ME: That’s all?

BRODY: There was one other thing.

ME: Are you going to tell me?

BRODY: No, I refuse to volunteer testimony without a direct inquiry.

ME: That feels like an abnormal response?

BRODY: It’s sound legal advice: Don’t answer questions you haven’t been asked. And good life advice as well: Don’t get used to exchanging something for nothing.

BRODY: Maggie already volunteered to watch Seba. (You’ll remember we were forced to exchange contact information, so she didn’t worry.) She said they could watch documentaries together, as long as the date happens sooner rather than later.

ME: Please just tell me.

BRODY: Please just agree to a second date.

ME: Fine.

BRODY: You mean, “Fine, I’m simply ecstatic, delighted you asked, and impressed you arranged for childcare”?

ME: Fine, I agree to be blackmailed to gain access to information I should have been given freely. And yes, I’m moderately surprised you’re a quick learner. I’m guessing Vera let you know not to push for permission?