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My parents’ divorce was ugly. I didn’t deserve what happened. It happened anyway, and I’ll make sure that’s as minimal for my best friend’s son as I possibly can.
I tip my hand to his get-up. “You look like you got wrapped up in a weird hug by a predatory octopus.”
“I’d like to see you wrestle a baby into a harness without dropping him. You know how many times I attempted this?”
“Forty-eight hours, dude. You can’t be perfect in forty-eight hours.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
* * *
When Brighton opens the door,a slow grin pulls across my face. Hers is more hesitant.
I take her in, top to toe, wearing a rust-colored tee and denim shorts before falling on her mouth, wrapping her up in my arms. When I pull back, I look into her eyes. “Honey, I’m home.”
“Don’t know if that’ll ever not be weird, Elias.”
“We’ll work on it.”
She leads me into the living room and folds her feet under herself in the corner of the sofa.
“What did you do today?” She asks, gesturing to my starched shirt. “It’s Saturday.”
“Turns out the law doesn’t take weekends off.”
“So cheesy. Seriously, what had you working today?”
“Needed to catch up with Brax about some stuff with Colt.” I hold her gaze. “And I needed to chat with your dad about a few things.”
She leans forward. “Like what?”
“Remember when I said we would talk more over tiramisu?”
Her eyes hold mine as she slowly agrees.
“Well, you passed out, and—”
“Well,” she echoes, getting her back up and digging in her heels. “In my defense, I’d had a lot of orgasms. I can’t even remember how many, and it had been a long day. The night before was brutal too.”
“Darlin’, I got to hold you in my arms as you fell asleep. I’m not complaining. Now, your snoring, though… That’s another story.”
A pillow narrowly misses my head, whizzing past me and landing on the floor. “I do not snore! Take that back.”
“There’s my girl.”
Her face softens. She’s navigating this newness. Her take-no-shit, crash-through-life attitude is dialed way back. I need my Bright.
“Come here, darlin’.” I open my palm to her, and she crawls across the sofa and onto my lap. “How was your day?”
“Good. Relaxing. I took the day off and did some Michelin therapy.”
“And that is…?”
“I went for a drive. Windows down. Music up. Twisty-turnies and old country roads. I tried to get myself lost on the way to the lake. It almost worked, too—the lost part. The therapy part always works. It’s not pasta or orgasms, but it’s a damn good third place.”
“Pasta and orgasms are on the menu tonight.” I whisper in her ear as I nip her ear lobe.
“What did you see my dad about?” She whispers back.
