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“Why wouldn’t we?” I ask, feeling confused.
She places a hand on my arm and leans toward me. “You’re a nice guy, Adam. Dating me would make your mother very happy, which is exactly why I think you would do it.”
When I laugh, she doesn’t…which means that it isn’t a joke.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“When was the last time you did something just because you wanted to?” she asks, shooting me a challenging expression.
“I’m walking with you right now,” I reply.
Leaning in, she adds, “Is that really what you want to be doing right now?”
Taking this as my opportunity, I let my hand drift over her lower back, tugging her closer before I press my lips to hers. They’re soft and pliable, making me want to slide my tongue between them or bite the bottom one just to hear the sounds she’d make. But I hold back.
When I pull away, staring down with a soft smile, she lets out a heavy sigh. “That’s what I mean. You’re a really good guy, Adam. Maybe a little…too good.”
Then she lifts to her tiptoes and presses her lips to my cheek.
“Please tell your mother thanks again from me.”
Without another word, she continues the walk down to her car, waving back before climbing into the driver’s seat and pulling away.
I watch her go, feeling blindsided and wondering how the hell someone can betoo good.
* * *
“I like her,” my mother says as she dips her hands in soapy water to pull out a fork.
“She’s really nice,” I reply as I set the porcelain plate on the stack in the cupboard. I don’t have the heart to tell my mother that Lucy left without exchanging numbers or plans to see me again.
Because I’mtoo good.
“Stay for a drink.” My father lands a heavy slap on my back as I dry my hands on the dish towel hanging from my shoulder.
Another nostalgic ritual of my mother’s is to clean up the kitchen after Sunday dinner—regardless of the fact that my father pays people to do it for them. I make it a point to dry the dishes every time.
My brothers never stick around this long.
“Go,” my mother insists as she takes my towel. There’s only a casserole dish left, so I concede.
As I follow my father into his office on the second floor of the house, he shuts the door behind us. He’s pouring two glasses of whiskey before I even sit down.
Every time he invites me to his office after dinner like this, I’m anticipating the moment he finally breaks the news I’ve been waiting for—that he’s stepping down.
And putting me in his place.
My father is great at what he does. He’s a natural orator, charismatic and engaging. He’s changing people’s lives for the better.
But at the same time, he’s sixty-nine years old. He’s growing more and more out of touch with the next generation every day. Our demographic is comfortably fifty-plus, and if we don’t make a move to capture those under fifty soon, our legacy will die with them.
I take the seat opposite his desk and let my gaze drift to the mess of papers scattered across the surface. But I’m not focusing on anything as he starts talking.
We riff back and forth for a while, laughing about something said this morning at church or whatever ridiculous joke one of my brothers made at dinner. My dad and I share a somewhat shallow relationship that never delves too deep into feelings or secrets. Not that I think he’s hiding any. I’m sure as hell not. But I do pride myself on being the closest son he has, making him proud and doing what’s right.
“Damn good sermon this morning, Adam. You work hard on them, and it shows.”
“Thanks…” I reply, sensing the ominousbutfrom my father’s tone.
