Chapter Text
The clock reads 7:26. It's a full month into Amanda's summer vacation and I still haven't adjusted to sleeping late. I'm so used to getting up to make her breakfast before school; apparently habits over a decade in the making are hard to break. Amanda probably won't even be conscious until noon (I can hardly blame her) but I can't seem to fall back asleep. And I can only enjoy my comfy bed for so long before I start itching for a familiar routine.
I roll into the kitchen and crack a few eggs in the frying pan. I rummage through the cabinets for a few different spices and toss them in -- a pinch here, a dash there -- and throw some bacon on another skillet. The whole kitchen is sizzling and warm. Glancing out the window, I see Craig pass on a morning run. He'd have something to say about all this greasy bacon, for sure. I'll have to burn the evidence before the next time he comes over. Uh, wait -- I mean eat the evidence. Yeah. That's better. Mmmm, bacon.
Miraculously I lure out Amanda with the smell of food but she's in a near-zombie state. She flops down at the kitchen table with a grunt of "grrragghmemm" which I think was supposed to mean "good morning."
"Morning, honey," I chirp.
I throw a couple of Eggos in the toaster for us, pour two glasses of milk, and settle down with our plates of piping hot food. Amanda perks up a little with the smell right under her nose and lifts her head from the table. She takes a long sip of milk directly from the carton and picks up a waffle with her bare hand to cram into her mouth.
"Mario Batali would be so proud," she says.
"That's the highest praise you've ever given me." I wipe a fake tear from my eye and take a bite of my breakfast.
The food seems to have worked its magic and Amanda looks slightly more like a functioning human being. She shoots me a look over the table, a sly smirk with a few crumbs around her mouth. "Maybe if you made promised to make breakfast for your boyfriend, he'd stay over for a change."
Sometimes I have to remind myself that Amanda's not a child. And whether or not I tell her things about my personal life, she's smart enough to know when something's up.
"Robert isn't my boyfriend," I admit.
"But you knew who I was talking about even though I didn't name names, so obviously you've got something going on and you were totally smooching him at my grad party."
Is there some kind of a fatherly rule that prevents me from talking to my daughter about my romantic relationships? I'm not sure. I'm not up to scruff on Official Dad Code. But it's easy to talk to Amanda and honestly I haven't had many people to talk to about... whatever this is with Robert.
"Well, you're not wrong but we're still not dating. It's complicated."
"C'mon, Pops. Gimme the deets."
I hesitate. Sighing, I poke the eggs around my plate. "I like him. He likes me. It's a mutual liking type of thing. But he's got some stuff to work through before getting into a relationship, so..."
"So for now you're just friends who hunt ghosts and make out sometimes?"
"Amanda, are you spying on me?"
She rolls her eyes. "Number one -- Maple Bay is a super small town. Number two, Robert is our neighbor, so the back of his pick up is not the best secret make out spot."
I feel a little embarrassed to have been so easily found out by my own kid, but I remind myself that I don't have anything to hide. One of the things that Robert and I agreed on was to be more honest with each other. And that should mean being honest about each other, too. I know Val knows that there's something between us; I think Amanda deserves the truth as well.
"Point taken. Now finish your waffles before they get soggy."
Amanda gulps them down and heads off to take a shower. Before she locks herself in the bathroom for the next two hours, she pops her head around the corner while I wash the dishes.
"Hey, Dad?" she says. I turn, and she smiles that sweet, precious Amanda smile that just makes my heart melt into a puddle of goop. "I'm glad you're letting yourself be happy."
I can't even muster up a response, witty or otherwise. I stand there at the sink with soapy hands and the tap running and I just stare slack-jawed even after Amanda scampers off. Part of me is touched by her sincerity. But another part of me aches. Badly.
Losing Alex was... hard. Harder than anything I've ever faced in my life. We were a good team -- made each other laugh a lot, shared parenting stress, ate Denny's at three in the morning on a Tuesday without judging each other. Without Amanda to keep me grounded, losing Alex would have made me fall apart. But I never dated anyone after Alex. I barely even made friends after -- my whole life had to be about Amanda, because the only fulfillment I found in my life was raising my daughter.
This... thing with Robert is the first thing I've done in years for myself, where I haven't gone in thinking first about Amanda.
As soon as the dishes are done, I send a message to Robert. He's probably still asleep and won't respond for a few hours, but I keep my phone in my pocket anyway to wait for that familiar chime that makes my heart skip.
Hey, wanna grab a drink tonight?
Night falls and the cul de sac is peaceful. Amanda is gone for the night. Out with the Emmas again, she said. I tried to ask her what was up with that, anyway, because wasn't she fighting with one of the Emmas? Or maybe both Emmas, who knows. She gave me a lengthy breakdown of how they'd all made up -- I only remember that someone got hit in the face with a golf ball and cheese whiz had been involved but they were all friends again. I'm still a little angry at her friends for being twerps and alienating her, but I guess the important thing is that Amanda is happy.
Aside from Craig sending me a picture of River with a tiny plastic dumbbell in each hand, my phone has been silent all day. And the picture was super cute but honestly I just really wanted to hear back from Robert. He's been a lot better about responding to me more quickly but today he didn't even answer to turn me down.
I'm a little upset but mostly worried. I send him another message. Everything okay?
Time ticks by and he doesn't answer. I go about cleaning the house but my mind keeps wandering. I peek through the curtains towards his house but all the lights are off. His truck is gone. Anxiety stings in my stomach and I try to keep calm.
My phone starts to ring and I nearly jump out of my own skin.
Robert. It's Robert calling me. I swipe to answer and my voice cracks as I mumble a greeting.
"Hey," he says. "You busy?"
"Not really. I was just, uh. Waiting to hear back from you."
"I'm sorry," he says. And he means it. "I just got your messages. Service is spotty."
"Where are you?" I wonder.
"Usual spot," he says nonchalantly. I can hear him driving and realize he must have been at the overlook in the woods for most of the day. "Betsy and I are on our way back now. It's open mic night at Mat's, do you wanna meet me there?"
For a moment I'm dumbfounded. And I wonder if Robert's been possessed. He's picking the Coffee Spoon over Jim and Kim's?
"Yeah," I tell him. "Sure. See you there in fifteen?"
"You got it."
We hang up and I try to get my bearings. Okay, Robert is fine. He's not dead or ignoring me. Everything is cool.
Everything except for my dad pants, I guess.
I change quickly and check my hair in the mirror to make sure I look presentable. The Coffee Spoon is a quick trot from home and I spot Robert's truck parked outside. I check it before going in. Betsy is curled up asleep in the back and Robert is nowhere to be seen. I reach in to give the dog a quick pet behind the ears and decide to head inside the shop. But the moment I turn, I find that I'm not alone.
I yelp and fall back against the truck, my heart going a mile a minute with my arms half-raised to defend myself before my brain registers who snuck up on me.
"Holy shit, sorry." Robert takes my arm and helps me straighten up. I try not to think about how close I was to pissing myself. "I thought you would have heard me."
"I did. I totally did," I insist, wiping off my arms idly. "I was just... pretending to be scared. Just like how you were pretending to scare me."
"Sure, that's why you're sweating bullets."
"Of course. I'm a great actor. They considered me for the Titanic but Leo just looked way better with Kate Winslet."
Robert laughs and it makes me feel worlds better. "I'd rather see you playing Rose."
And here comes the blush.
We agreed that for now, we're just friends. But it's really hard to forget the chemistry we have. And by "really hard" I mean "fucking impossible" because I'm pretty sure platonic friends don't make out with each other. And they don't flirt with each other, either. Here we are, though: at a cozy coffee shop on a Friday night with both of us (probably) picturing me sprawled naked on a fancy couch for Leonardo DiCaprio to sketch me.
The Coffee Spoon is packed. A girl I don't recognize plays the mandolin on the small stage, and she has a yellow budgie on her shoulder chirping along to the song. Mat waves when he sees us, but he's so busy that we don't have much time to chat. We take our drinks and I shoot him an appreciative smile before Robert and I find a table. There's one near the back, and it'll be hard to see the acts but at least it's a place to put our butts. We settle down just as the mandolin girl bows out with some applause.
Mat jumps up to the mic to announce the next performer, who ends up just being Ernest Vega poorly disguised as his rapper persona. One of his friends dons shutter shades and beatboxes while Ernest raps. He's... not terrible, weirdly enough. Growing up with Hugo would help explain why he's good at wordplay.
But there's no denying that this is a far cry from the nights Robert and I used to share. The last month has been weird as we've tried to figure things out between us -- not to mention Robert figuring himself out -- but this is definitely... different.
Maybe Robert reads my mind, or maybe he just wants to focus on something other than a trash talking eighth grader. He looks deep into his cup before he takes a gulp of it and he doesn't make eye contact when he finally speaks up.
"I, uh. I'm sorry for bringing you here."
"What?" I wonder. "Why?"
"You wanted to get drinks, right? Don't think this is what you pictured."
I'm tempted to reach across the table for his hand but I remind myself at the last second that we're trying to stick to the whole "friends" thing. I fiddle with a napkin instead. "I wanted to spend some time with you. It doesn't matter so much what we're doing."
Robert hesitates. He looks up for a moment, eyes flicking to my hand, the stage, and then back to his cup. "I... haven't had a cigarette in two weeks. And I'm trying to cut back on drinking." I raise my eyebrows. "I've been doing a lot of thinking. Spending this time with Val... it's made me realize what an incredible person she is. I want to be a part of her life, but I don't want to be the drunk father she's ashamed of. She deserves so much better than that." Finally he looks me in the eyes. "And so do you."
I smile at him, and this time I don't think twice about holding his hand. "I'm really proud of you."
His calloused hand squeezes mine. "Don't speak too soon. I've fallen off the wagon before."
"That's just part of recovery, though. Besides, it's probably easier to commit to it now that you're not beating yourself up so much. And we can nix the old pub crawls. That just leaves more time for ghost hunts."
He cracks a smile and it lights up our dim little corner of the coffee shop. It's a perfect moment of mutual understanding, of silence speaking volumes more than our mouths ever could. It hits me how much I care about Robert, how much this small breakthrough means to me. And something else hits me. Softly. Cold...ly. I blink and wonder why it feels like something wet is dripping down my shoulder. I glance at my shirt and realize the mandolin girl's budgie pooped on me on its way to perch on the rim Robert's coffee cup.
"This was my favorite shirt," I beseech the little yellow puff. "And you just shat on it."
It peeps innocently and Robert is too overcome with a burst of laughter to shoo it away. Its owner pops over to the table to collect it without so much as an apology about her feathery chicken nugget voiding its bowels all over a perfectly good band T.
"I've got a spare shirt in the truck if you wanna change," Robert offers. "As long as you don't mind the dog fur."
I'll take Betsy's fur over bird shit any day. We get up to leave. The music is still audible outside, just muffled. For a summer night, the air is chilly and the bird poop all over my shoulder isn't helping matters. Robert and I walk to the side of his truck facing opposite the street so I'm not stripping in public. With a sigh, I pull it off, careful to avoid smearing anything gross on my face, and Robert rummages around in the back of his pick up. I try to casually hold the shirt over my arm and pretend like I'm not shivering.
"So why do you have spare clothes on you anyway?" I wonder.
"In case I get bloodstains on the ones I'm wearing."
I'm familiar enough with Robert's humor that it doesn't phase me. I give him a look.
"This is New England," Robert reminds me. "We could get a flash flood, an earthquake, and a heat wave all in the same week and no one would bat an eyelash. I always have some extra clothes in my bag when I go out." He looks at me very seriously while he pulls out a plain white shirt. "And I fucking hate wet socks."
"Amen," I sigh. I take the fresh shirt from Robert while he tosses mine in the back seat. Before I put it on, Robert stops me.
"Do you seriously have a pierced belly button?"
A prickle of heat rushes to my face. "Oh, uh. Hah. Yeah. I did it on a dare from Craig in college. Cost me like a hundred bucks so I never got rid of the damn thing. Pretty stupid, I know."
Robert shakes his head. "It's cute."
Trying to hide how over the moon I am, I pull the new shirt over my head, and the smell envelopes me. A hint of tobacco still lingers on the fabric, as well as campfires and fresh cut grass. It's a familiar, reassuring smell. I run a hand through my hair to fix it and the back of Robert's hand brushes against my arm, which is covered in goosebumps. "You cold?"
"Not really," I lie.
Robert takes off his jacket anyway. I hardly ever see him without the damn thing, I was starting to think it was surgically attached to his body. But it smells like him, too, and it's warm. And I don't have much of a choice when he sweeps it over my shoulders. I clutch it closer, the worn leather is soft to the touch and it's much heavier than I expected. Pleased, I peer up to thank Robert in the least awkward way possible but I miss the chance. He grabs my arms and the words die in my throat. He steps in and pushes me back against the truck. I look at him through half lidded eyes. The neon glow of The Coffee Spoon's sign shines around him like a halo, and without his jacket I can see the hard muscle standing out on his arms. My lower lip trembles when Robert kisses me.
He pulls back, thick brows pinching together with concern. "Are you all right?" he starts to ask, but I dive in for another taste of him. His stubble scrapes against my chin and lips, and he shoves me back against the truck. He has one hand in my hair and the other creeping up my chest while I cradle his face and neck and hope to god I never have to break away from him.
His mouth presses against my neck, teeth and tongue darting out against my skin. I'm sure he can feel my pulse so he knows exactly how riled up I am, like I'm some teenager making it to second base. I can't stop the sound that escapes me, and I swear I can feel Robert smirking while he sucks a hickey into my throat. My fingers slip through his hair, I breathe against the shell of his ear. I can't remember the last time I felt like this. The thrill, the tease, the maddening desire making me blind to everything else.
A pair of dark eyes meet mine. My neck is sore and damp where Robert left a mark but I've never wanted anything so much as I want him to mark every inch of my skin. He cups my ass and pulls me in tight against his body, a chaste kiss falling to my lips. He breathes out and rests his forehead against mine. And I can't help but wonder if I'm the only one with heart palpitations.
"It's a lot easier to stop hating myself when you look at me like that," he muses.
"Like what?"
He just smiles and holds me close. His embrace is so gentle, but secure. My legs could give out and I know he'd catch me. Which is a good thing, because I'm so lightheaded that my knees might actually buckle.
And, the moment is broken. Not by either of us -- but by a scrabbling against the inside of the truck and a muffled whimper. I turn around to see Betsy's face smooshed against the window, steamy exhales fogging up the glass. She gazes at us with big, sad eyes, as if she's asking why we aren't giving her belly rubs. Neither of us can resist The Face. Robert opens the car door and Betsy yarps, leaping into his waiting arms. She covers him in affectionate slurps and inside I'm dying at how cute this is. Nothing beats the bond between a man and his tiny dog.
"You wanna go back inside?" Robert asks. "Or are you up for a drive?"
"Let's go for a drive instead. Just in case Ernest goes back up for an encore."
We climb into the truck and I keep Betsy on my lap in the passenger seat so she doesn't feel left out. The moon shines bright above us. Robert has a full tank of gas. We look at each other in the semi darkness with a mutual understanding. A calmness, a passion, all at once. He puts his hand on my thigh and I turn on the radio. We put the windows down and the wind blows through my hair, and the night is ours.
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