by Tawna Fenske
“Soph,” I say, trying it out as the knot in my chest tightens. “That’s nice.”
Mari’s gaze shifts to mine, and for a moment, I wonder if she’s read my thoughts. If she knows how fucking hard I try to be a good dad, the kind of dad Sophie—Soph—deserves.
Mari smiles, and the tightness in my chest uncoils like a knot of twine unspooling. “How are the two of you settling in?”
“Pretty good.” Soph shrugs, and I try to read into it. Is she fitting in okay? Making friends? Did I make a terrible mistake thinking she’d be better off in a tiny, tight-knit community like this?
“The kids at school are really chill,” Soph continues like I’m not standing here second-guessing every decision I’ve ever made. “Not like back home. I’m still figuring out where I fit in, I guess.”
I rest a hand on her shoulder, letting her know I’ve got her back. “As long as it’s not with a street gang or a roving band of drug dealers, we’re good.”
Mari smiles, but she’s studying Soph with her intense brain-scanning look. “It’s challenging sometimes to fit in at a new school. If you’d ever like to talk to anyone, I know several local therapists who specialize in teens.”
I flinch without meaning to, and Mari shoots me an odd look. “Everything okay?”
“Sorry.” I clear my throat. “Just remembered I need to order more lactobacillus for the sour beers.”
She scans my face like she knows I’m lying. Like she can tell I’m leery as hell about sending my kid to therapy after what I went through with Soph’s mom.
Maybe Mari senses my unease, because she turns her gaze back to Soph. “Have you connected with other Juniper Ridge kids at the youth mixers?”
“I liked the one at the bumper cars,” Soph says. “There’s lots of really cool girls here.”
The smile Mari gives Soph is warm and genuine. “I’m sure they think you’re pretty cool, too.” She shifts her gaze to mine. “For the record, we don’t film any of the youth events. Those are strictly for social development.”
“Good.” The risk of Soph being brainwashed by fame was my biggest sticking point with this show, so I’m glad they’re doing their best to keep kids out of the limelight. “There’s another one coming up at the water park next week, right?”
Soph nods and grabs my sleeve. “Yeah. Hey, Dad—can I go to Olivia’s house?”
“Which one is Olivia?”
My aspiring teen gives her best adolescent eye-roll. “You met her parents the other night. Her dad is a lawyer, and her mom teaches yoga. They have all the pets, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember.” Nice couple, and seemingly sane. Two daughters, one younger than Soph, and one the same age. “Her parents are home?”
“Duh.” Soph scuffs her sneaker on the floor. “Her mom’s showing us how to French braid. Can I go? Please?”
“Fine. But I want you home for dinner.”
“Yes!” My daughter starts for the door.
“Six thirty,” I call after her. “And set the table before you go.”
Soph turns around. “What are we having?”
“Why, so you can make up an excuse to eat at Olivia’s if you don’t like what I’m making?”
“Daaaaaad—”
“Spaghetti and meatballs,” I tell her. “And a big Caesar salad because I’m a monster who makes you eat your vegetables.”
Soph grins and bounces back to hug me. “The salad’s the best part. See you at seven.”
“Six thirty!” I shout after her as she bounds toward the exit again.
My daughter just laughs and slips through the door. The second she’s gone, Mari looks at me. “I don’t know what you’re worried about. The two of you seem to have terrific communication.”
“That was the most I’ve heard her talk in weeks. Having you standing here must have put her on her best behavior.”
Mari smiles and adjusts her messenger bag. “It’s not uncommon for kids raised by an opposite-sex parent to seek connection with same-sex adults outside the family. Perfectly normal.”
“I’m holding you to that ‘normal’ diagnosis,” I tell her, only half kidding. “If she turns up next month with a forehead tattoo, it’s on both of us for missing the signs.”
“Deal.” She flicks a glance at the door where Soph disappeared. “I’m glad she’s settling in well at school. That’s something I felt pretty strongly about when we planned out Fresh Start at Juniper Ridge.”
“My kid’s school?”
“Education options for all the children of community members.” She pushes her glasses up her nose, a gesture I’m starting to recognize as the precursor to Mari shifting into shrink-mode. “We knew there wouldn’t be enough kids here to give them a sufficiently enriching school experience. Private tutors don’t allow for adequate socialization.”
“Is that what you had?” It’s a blunt question, but I’m curious. “Growing up in Hollywood like you did—is that what school was like for the Judson kids?”
Mari tilts her head. “You find my socialization lacking?”
There’s a teasing note in her voice, but her eyes tell a different story. Like she really wants an answer.
So, I give her one. “Seems like you’re doing okay to me. I imagine you had lots of learning opportunities most kids don’t get.”
She laughs, but there’s an edge to it. “Like how to shake paparazzi or snort coke with a hundred-dollar bill?”
“What?” It takes me a second to realize she’s kidding. “Jesus. I mean, I know celebrities have a different upbringing.” It’s just now dawning on me how different. “Still, you must’ve learned the same reading, writing, and ‘rithmatic as everyone else.”
“Of course,” she says. “I wasn’t joking about tutors teaching us unusual skills. Cooper had one guy who was a Rubik’s Cube master.”
From what I’ve seen of tabloid headlines featuring the youngest Judson brother, Mari’s cocaine quip wasn’t too far off the mark. Not that I’m judging. The guy got his act together, as far as I can tell.
“What’s your special skill?” I ask.
Mari looks startled. “You mean besides having a doctorate in clinical psychology?”
“Yeah, besides that.” I lean back against the closest brite tank, not sure why I’m so eager for a glimpse behind Mari’s cool shrink front. “Can you play the harmonica or juggle knives or something?”
She hesitates. I can almost see the wheels turning in her head, the decision-making process as she decides whether I’m worthy of an answer.
At last, she clears her throat. “I crochet.”
“You what?”
“Crochet,” she repeats. “It’s like knitting, but with one crochet hook instead of two knitting needles. The stitches are more like small knots instead of little loops.”
“You’re kidding.”
A faint blush stains her cheeks as she folds her arms over her chest. “You find that funny?”
“I find it fucking awesome.” I glance at the door, making sure Soph’s long gone. Not like my kid doesn’t know I curse, but I try to keep it to a minimum. “Seriously, that’s a great skill to have. A little unexpected, but—”
“You thought I spent all my time reading self-help books?”
Folding my arms over my chest, I let my gaze drift to the books resting on the side table. “Nothing wrong with that,” I clarify. “I think it’s cool you’ve got a creative outlet.”
“Thanks.” She looks at me like she’s still not sure if I’m teasing. “I haven’t done it for a while. One of my tutors thought I needed a more artistic avenue. Something to teach me patience.”
I don’t know why, but I suspect she’s just revealed something way more personal than a hobby. “Do you make hats or dish towels or blankets or—”
“Animals.” She lowers her voice like she’s just shared something scandalous. “My first project was a rainbow-striped slug that I gave Lana. Well, I stuck it in her playpen. She was too little to know whe
re it came from.” She looks thoughtful, almost like her mind isn’t here in the brewery anymore. “I made a bumblebee for Lauren and an alligator for Cooper. My older brothers were too cool for stuffed animals, but I made lots of other creatures like penguins and turtles. Even a hedgehog.”
Her amber eyes have taken on a misty quality I’ve never seen before. I wonder how many people know about this talent of hers. “I’d love to see some of your stuff sometime,” I say.
She hesitates, then lifts an eyebrow. “Is this like the old pickup line—come on over and check out my etchings?”
I laugh, but the thought of being in Mari’s house is anything but funny. I wonder what her furniture’s like. Is it stiff and modern, all sleek lines and polished leather? That’s what I might have expected. Now, I’m not so sure.
My brain stumbles over an imaginary area rug, tripping its way down the hallway to a bedroom. Mari’s bedroom, filled with sunshine and bright pillows on the backdrop of a big, white bed.
Stop picturing her bed.
I clear my throat. “I wonder if Soph would like learning something like that. Crocheting, I mean. She asked to take a knitting class before we left Sacramento, but I haven’t had time to look into it here.”
“Creative hobbies can be a great outlet for kids.” She shifts a little, resting her shoulder against the brite tank just a few feet from mine. There’s still plenty of space between us, but I swear I feel her warmth. “Especially for kids dealing with adjustments like new schools or household moves or divorce.”
“In other words, all the shit her mom and I put her through.” My voice sounds angry, and I force myself to lighten up a little. “It hit her pretty hard, her mom leaving.”
Mari hesitates. “Does she have much contact with your—with her mother?”
“Is this for the TV show?”
“Of course not.” She pauses. “You’re aware of the psychological research we’re conducting, of course. But we’ll be sensitive about what’s actually televised.”
“Yeah, got it.” I have vague memories of the forms I signed at the start of this. Cameras will be rolling all the time, but some of it’s for documenting psychology research and not for the televised reality show. “I just—my kid is off limits. I signed up so Soph and I could have a fresh start, and yeah, I know she’ll be on the show sometimes. But I don’t want her personal pain being used for ratings.”
“Understood.”
I search her eyes, recognizing sincerity. Also, that I’ve never seen this exact shade of hazel. It’s halfway between gold and silver, and I find I’m not able to look away.
Question. She asked you a question, idiot.
“No,” I say abruptly enough to make her jump. “Soph’s mother—isn’t in the picture. It’s been months since she called. Even longer since Soph saw her.”
Her expression softens, a reminder of how good Mari must be at her job. “That must be difficult,” she says. “I meant what I said about recommending a good teen psychologist. It could really help with the transition.”
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.” I should probably think about checking the fermentation tank, but I can’t tear myself away from Mari. Blame the scent of citra hops or the way she looks at me like she genuinely gives a shit what I have to say.
Memory flickers in my brain, reminding me of a different time, a different conversation.
“How about we try again?” I reached for Gabby’s hand as the kind-eyed couples’ counselor with the gray beard peered at us over the top of his glasses. “You can spend another year here doing community theater,” I urged. “Then when I expand the brewery—”
“It’s too late for that.” Gabby drew her hand back and glanced at the tired-eyed therapist. “Is there really any point in rehashing all this?”
The shrink glanced at me. “Perhaps your husband would like a chance to feel heard.”
Gabby sighed, a strong clue she was way beyond listening to anything I had to say.
Shaking myself back to the present, I focus on Mari instead. On the very real, very beautiful woman watching me like she has all the time in the world to wait for me to pull my head out of my ass.
“Dinner,” I blurt.
Mari cocks her head. “I’m sorry?”
I drag my fingers through my hair, grateful the cameras are long gone. “What if you came over for dinner sometime? I wasn’t kidding about wanting to see your crochet stuff. Besides, maybe you could observe some more with Soph. Give me pointers for being a better dad.”
She looks startled for a moment but recovers quickly. “That could possibly be arranged.” A small smile tugs the edges of her mouth. “Would you make me eat my vegetables, too?”
“Absolutely.” The playful note in her voice has set something simmering inside me. “I won’t feed you dessert until you do.”
“Harsh.” Mari takes a step back, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. “But I can cope. I can also bring brownies.”
“You bake and crochet? You’re a regular Martha Stewart.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “Brownies would be purchased from the café. I have zero culinary talent to speak of.”
“I’m sure you have plenty of other talents.” The instant I say this I want to cram the words back down my throat. “Uh, I didn’t mean that to sound sexual.”
Mari stares at me a few beats, then bursts out laughing. “I never in a million years would have thought that.”
Probably because I’m alone in having sex on the brain. I should definitely dunk my head in the brite tank or go home and take a cold shower.
“Right,” I say, ready to move on. “So, dinner sometime.”
I hate when people do that. Say “sometime” or “one of these days” to avoid making concrete plans. “Friday,” I say as she takes a step back. “How about Friday for dinner?”
She hesitates. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” I pat the side of the tank. “I’ll have beer. Juice and milk and probably soda for Soph. If there’s anything else you want to drink, just tell me.”
Again with the hesitation. Something’s crackling between us, or maybe that’s just me. Does she think I’m hitting on her?
Hell, maybe I am. I’ve just opened my mouth to blurt some inane reassurance when Mari responds.
“No, this is great,” she says, her face oddly flushed. “A good chance to interact with a community member.”
“Okay.” I flash a self-deprecating grin. “You sound like you’re trying to talk yourself into it.”
“Not at all, I just—” She bites her lip. “What time do you want me?”
My brain zings on those last words.
You want me?
You want me?
You want me?
Every atom in my body aches to scream “yes!” and it’s all I can do to croak out “How’s six thirty?”
“Great!” She takes another step back, eyes still locked with mine. “I’ll be there.”
She spins away, and I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I step forward, remembering I need to check the temperature on my hazy IPA. I swear I’m not chasing her. Not desperately moving to step into her orbit.
But when she whirls back around, she crashes against my chest with a solid “oof.”
My hands slide up her arms, and I tell myself it’s just to steady her. But as her golden eyes lock with mine, she makes a sound as soft as the breasts pressed against my chest.
“Griffin, I—” The words die in her throat as she licks her lips. “Jesus.”
Yeah. My thoughts exactly. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know why I can’t seem to let go of her. I don’t know why my mouth is descending on hers or why hers seems drawn to mine like we’re pulled together by gravity.
Our lips touch, and I swear to God an arc of lightning cracks inside the brewery. She’s warm and soft and smells like—
“Smoke.” Mari jumps back, blinking. “Is something burning?”
Oh, shit.<
br />
My hands drop from her arms like I’ve been burned. That’s exactly what’s happening in the back corner of my brewery.
“Extreme brewing.” I sprint toward the tank, kicking myself for ignoring the timer that buzzed two minutes ago. “It’s a process where malt and hops are subjected to high temperatures to concentrate the flavors.”
And like a dumbass, I took my eye off the tank. Flicking switches to shut things down, I breathe a sigh of relief. Everything looks okay.
But now Mari has seen me at my careless worst, which I swear never happens. “All good,” I say as I turn back to where she’s standing a safe distance away. “Everything’s okay.”
But it’s not okay because holy shit, I almost kissed her. Kissed a goddamn psychologist, which is the last fucking thing I should be doing.
She’s standing there looking as dazed as I feel, which is saying something. “Good,” she says at last. “That’s great. Um, I’d better go.”
She starts for the exit. Like an idiot, I call after her. “We still on for dinner?”
She freezes with her hand on the door. “Dinner.” She licks her lips again, and it’s all I can do not to reach for her. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
Then she turns and sprints outside as my heart fumbles to find some way to restart itself.
Chapter 3
CONFESSIONAL 641.5
Judson, Marilyn, PsyD (Psychologist: Juniper Ridge)
Socialization is key to health and human development. It’s the reason Juniper Ridge offers so many opportunities for community members to interact at cookouts or painting nights or festivals or—what? No, I don’t typically attend. I mean, if there’s some aspect that requires a psychological analysis or contributes to the research aspect of—[sigh] Yes, Lana. I’m aware we’re talking about a community water balloon fight.
How about I sit this one out?
I dress carefully for dinner at Griffin’s, reminding myself it’s not a date. Yes, there was that misunderstanding where I thought he might try to kiss me, but that’s all it was. A misunderstanding.
