by Kara Hart
Am I drooling?
My arms reach for a piece on their own. “There’s always something with you,” I say.
He sets the plate on the counter. As soon as I take a bite, I melt onto the floor.
“That bad?” he asks, taking a bite himself.
“You’re a genius,” I say.
He smiles, clearly happy with himself. “I am a genius, aren’t I?”
Peering up at him, he seems about ten times hotter than I last saw him. It’s like the chocolate and the peanut butter has molded into my attraction towards him, making him feel almost irresistible.
“Why on Earth are you in the magazine business when you could be a chef?” I ask.
A horned smirk reminds me that I’m not supposed to know what he does yet. I haven’t asked him, but Amanda made sure to give me the tip. “Who told you I was in the magazine business?”
It’s better to be honest than to hold information back. “Amanda,” I say. “She told me after Rowdy crashed into you.”
Guess I’m not being totally honest.
He chuckles, stuffing another piece of chocolate in his mouth. The urge to stick my neck out and kiss his lips grows stronger. “Oh, yeah?” he asks.
I gulp and shut my eyes when the sound comes out louder than intended. “Yeah.”
His smirk disappears as soon as he nods toward a section of the house I’ve yet to enter. “You want to see my set up?”
“Sure,” I say, not sure what I’m agreeing to.
A long hallway divides the front room from the open living area. I peek at the second door on the right and see Sammy in bed, sleeping. Marc gives a smile and pushes his forefinger against his lips.
Rustling his fingers inside his pockets, he takes out a single key and unlocks the door. I’m a little weirded out, but after seeing rows of expensive camera equipment, it makes sense why he keeps the room locked.
“Most of these are vintage. Got them in art school in the nineties,” he says.
I was just a little girl in the nineties. The late nineties. “You went to art school?”
I’m a little shocked. Artists aren’t supposed to become billionaires. They’re supposed to rail against the system and live in poverty, drinking absinthe.
“Is that impossible to believe a suit like me was once a wide-eyed photography major with huge dreams?”
A camera resting on a tripod sits in the center of the room, pointed at a yellow backdrop. I walk up to it. The camera looks like it was made in a different generation, and I instantly think of how much it cost.
“A little bit,” I mutter.
Leaned against the back wall are stacks of photographs. As I near them, I see they’re of Sammy. In one, she is just a baby. A woman kisses her. Stepping closer and seeing it in more detail, I have no doubt the woman is her mother. She’s beautiful. I look away before Marc catches me.
He meanders past me, reaching down into a different stack. Searching through the many layers, he finds the one he wants. “Take a gander,” he says, handing me the picture.
At first, I don’t recognize the person in the shot. It’s a young man with long and wavy brown hair. He looks like he might be in his early twenties. Maybe younger. He’s wearing tattered baggy pants with an oversized tank top. A dunce hat rests on his head. The laughter from his friends in the foreground provides the warmth. But it’s really his optimistic eyes that carry the shot. Everyone is looking at him.
I look up at him. “What is this?”
“This was my first shoot,” he says. “I was eighteen.”
I hold the photo up near his face and squint, biting my tongue. “Hm. You look different.”
“I’m old and nearing my forties,” he says.
I lean against the doorframe. He’s like thirty-five. In any case, he looks young and in shape. “Fishing for compliments, I see.”
Laughing, he pushes closer. “I like it when you compliment me.”
Pulse driving to an unstoppable rhythm, I drop the photograph. I don’t break eye contact. If this is a new game we’re playing, I think I like it. “You haven’t complimented me, yet.”
His eyes start to drift close. “Every time I see you, you look stunning.”
Mine follow suit. There’s no more talking. His hands glide around my waist, locking behind my back. I tighten my hold on the frame to keep myself from losing it. His body presses against mine.
I slide my arms around his neck and feel my smile get the best of me. “Took you long enough,” I say.
He nudges his forehead against mine, lips forming over mine for a second kiss. He tastes so good, and the feeling is so natural that it makes me crave him more. I kiss him a third time before it makes sense to stop.
When it ends, I clear my throat and step away. I feel a blush coming on, so I follow up by rounding the room. “That was much nicer than earlier at the dog park,” I say.
“I think we both won the award for most awkward kiss in the world,” he says.
I’m trying not to bite the edge of my lip off. “Yeah, but it’s fitting, given the circumstances of our first encounter.”
“Right. Our stupid bet,” he says. “You were always destined to lose.”
Wait. What?
I suspend my tongue against my mouth. “Did you just say what I think you said?”
He brings himself forward, so close that his thigh brushes against mine. Throat tight with emotion, I breathe, but it just feels like fire. And as I bring my eyelids down, I feel the flames of desire burn.
This is so bad. He could take me right now, and I wouldn’t stop him.
Cocking my head, I breathe him in and open my lips. Cologne and chocolate. It changes something inside me.
His lips meet mine, rounding out our total to an even number.
“You smell like a good night,” I say.
To my surprise, I don’t hear his laughter. When I reopen my eyes, I hear the click of a camera. A bright flash of light shoots throughout the room. Before I lose sight, I see Sammy with one of Marc’s many cameras.
“Cheese!” she exclaims.
Marc
“Sammy!” I exclaim.
I’m more surprised than angry at her intrusion.
My daughter tucks the camera into its respective place, but she’s out of the room in less than a second. She’s agitated, and in an unforgiving mood. Just because she’s a kid doesn’t mean she packs a light punch.
Sensing a big blow-up coming on, I follow her to the room and sit on the edge of the bed. She’s already under her covers, pretending she’s asleep.
I glide my hand over her back, and sigh when she flinches. “You aren’t very happy with me, are you?”
Cold, uncomfortable silence.
“Talk to me,” I say.
She puffs out, sighs, and faces me, defiant. “I don’t want to.”
I know what’s wrong, but I can’t be the one to coax it out of her. If she wants to talk, she knows I’m here. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll let you sleep then.”
As I stand, I witness Ali’s shadow disappear down the hall. I pause and turn off the light, leaving her favorite Hello Kitty light on. “Oh, and be nice to Ali,” I tell her. “She really likes you, and I think she brings a good energy into this home. You and I both need that, don’t you think?”
The response I get is not the one I expected. “She’s not mom.”
Tense, my tongue digs into the roof of my mouth. “Your mom was a very special woman. Tomorrow morning, we’ll celebrate her.”
“Promise?”
I twist my pinky with hers and kiss her. “Pinky swear.”
“Goodnight, dad,” she says.
“Goodnight, sweetie.”
I take a few seconds to adjust. I don’t want Ali to see me stressed. Before Sammy came into my life, back when I was living the bachelor life, raising a kid seemed unfathomable to me. Learning to deal with my situation has made me stronger, but there are moments where I feel like breaking down. Ali doesn’t know this, but
today is one of those days.
Exiting the room, I find Ali on the couch in the living room. Rowdy is sleeping near her feet, snoring. I get the hint that this is her favorite spot in the house, so I plop down next to her, our heads still angled awkwardly towards each other but our bodies perpendicular.
“You good?” Ali asks.
“Yeah,” I say, suddenly anxious to get this conversation going. I’ve been meaning to bring it up ever since she arrived. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Sure,” she says, curiously examining my face.
My sister’s death doesn’t need to be re-litigated, but I owe it to Ali to be honest about what Sammy went through years ago. It hasn’t been a walk in the park. In fact, there are moments where it feels damn near impossible. Our family is open, but complex. I haven’t met too many people who empathize. Everyone usually just wants to move on from the subject.
My sister was an addict. She wasn’t always on substances, but she was most of the time. The addiction worked in cycles. One year, she’s clean. Totally healthy. The next, she’s on the street, looking for her next fix. Hiding out in houses that didn’t belong to her. Hanging out with people who didn’t care about her or her happiness.
In the world I come from, people judge you for your family. Something I learned at a very young age was that people make things up to push a narrative. To destroy someone’s character. My sister was a good person, but she was hung out to dry by her community. And the fact is, I just wasn’t as available as I should have been. I chose a different path.
It still doesn’t feel worth it.
Staring at the ceiling, I try to find the right words. “It’s not easy to say.”
She turns to face me. “Look, Marc,” she says, “if this is too much, I can go home.”
But something takes over, pushing the fear out of me. I take her hand, and I squeeze. Maybe it’s a release from the pressure of holding in the truth. I haven’t been with too many women I felt like I could talk to, but Ali doesn’t hold grudges. Not for that long, anyway. She’s just got some walls I need to break down. We all do. That won’t be hard.
“What if I don’t want to see you go?” I ask.
Peering down at our intertwined fingers, a soft smile caresses her face. She lowers our hands to her lap and squeezes back harder. “Then I won’t go.”
“You’ve got class tomorrow,” I say. “You sure?”
She glances at her slumbering dog. “It’s good that your house is closer,” she says, rounding off her words with a click from her tongue. “I’m sure.”
A smile betrays my stoic exterior. This came together easier than I thought. The only difficulty now is my growing appreciation for her.
When I’m near her, my stomach flutters. Her perfume is familiar now, a comfort of our home. With every breath, I try to get closer to her. This never used to happen. I was always so confident. What is happening to me? I’m melting for a girl I hardly know. I’ve heard this happens, from time to time.
“So,” she says, fingers coiled against mine, “tell me what’s on your mind.”
My excitement drops a few bars.
This is such a downer conversation. I’d rather save it for a rainy day. Suddenly, I hear my team leader Sandra’s voice. You have to tell her. I’m used to avoiding that voice. Of course, it’s right. I need to tell her everything.
I open my hand and straighten my back against the couch. “It’s about Sammy,” I say.
“I figured.”
My jaw already feels stiff. I breathe like I’m about to jump off the tallest building. “I should just come out and say it. She’s not my daughter,” I say. Realizing how misleading that sounds, I follow it up with, “Biologically.”
Ali follows my words. Her lips part as soon as I’m finished, confusion taking over. “You adopted her,” she says. It feels more like a question than a statement.
The room feels hot. My heart pounds against my sternum. Sweat is building on my forehead. Why is this so fucking hard?
I recall that night, bitterly. It was a celebratory night that ended in tragedy.
“Years ago, I was at my first company’s party. Big celebration with streamers, as much champagne as the employees could drink, and fireworks that shot off the roof. Illegal, of course. But we didn’t care. We were a small company that grew the size of the world in a matter of hours. We were celebrating our first billion.” I frown, so she can get a sense it’s not something I think back on with pride.
The corners of her eyes tilt. I’m ruining the night by telling her this, but my feelings come second to my daughter.
I keep talking. “The party lasted hours, we were all pretty drunk. Some of us went out to the plaza to take a group picture. And then I got a phone call,” I say, pausing. “It was my sister. She was in trouble again. There was always something going on with her. This time, she needed some money for something she claimed was going to make her feel better. Medicine. I knew it was drugs, so I told her off in the harshest way possible.”
I take another pause. How much do I want to reveal to her? Do I want to tell her I screamed into the receiver and told her to never fucking talk to me again?
Reflecting on those moments makes me hate myself. Friends told me they would’ve reacted similarly. It was twelve years of addiction, then a kid, and then the bailouts from jail started to really stack. But you can’t just throw away family. My parents weren’t in the picture anymore. Not for her. It was just me. In the end, I couldn’t keep my temper down. Not even for my little sister.
When I start back up, I’m pretty numb. “She asked me again. Maybe ten more times. I kept denying her. It was the first time I ever really ended on a no.”
I laugh, stunned. Not because it’s funny. It comes out of frustration and disbelief. That happened so long ago, but it feels like fucking yesterday.
The heaviness doesn’t always hit me. I’ve recanted this story so many times it’s become something of a fiction. Sometimes, it feels like it never really happened. But there are moments of real emotion that hit me randomly. That’s when I’m taken back.
With more care in her eyes than I deserve, she slides her hand across my bicep. “It’s okay,” she says.
“The next day, they found her. Someone tipped off the cops. She got her money, and then she left her daughter behind,” I say. “Two days later, I picked her up. That was Valentine’s Day.”
Without pausing, she slides her arms around me, her mouth near my neck. Her breath is hot against my skin, and she smells so unbelievably good. This is supposed to be a hard admission, but she’s making it so much easier.
She pulls back and says, “I’m so sorry, Marc. I didn’t know.”
“I don’t often tell people that story,” I say.
“I want to help you in any way I can,” she states.
Seeing the empathy shine in her eyes just makes me feel worse. “That’s the thing. I don’t need help,” I say. “I just need you to know that, sometimes, it’s not so easy. There’s real shit in this family. It’s not a Disney movie.”
“I expect you to be real, Marc. You can’t pick your family,” she says. “And you’re doing all you can for Sammy. She’s your daughter now.”
I feel like Ali understands. I can trust her. This feeling, it’s new to me. It reminds me there are people out there who aren’t focused on the bullshit. It’s still okay to be human.
She shakes her head, looking a hell of a lot more poised than I thought she’d be. This is the kind of stuff that scares people away. “It’s not the end of your story,” she says. “It’s just another chapter. For all of us.”
I raise a brow. “Us...”
Out of nowhere, she swivels her butt and twists to lay her back against half of my chest. Gazing up at me, she exhales. “My dad,” she says. “He had many hard moments. I found him drunk in every place imaginable. At the bar, the bushes in the front yard, underneath the car in our garage...”
She bursts out laughin
g. I respond with a tight chuckle before drawing it back in. It’s not funny, but it feels good to have someone this understanding by my side.
Our eyes lock.
She breaks the silence with another warm smile. “You’re not going to scare me off, Marc,” she says. “Believe it or not, I’m real. I’ve lived some things too. Maybe, we just have to take that next step into the unknown. You know, do what makes us feel good. Maybe we should step into something so unimaginable it changes us forever.”
Her chest is pumping. I can’t stop staring at her, imagining what it might feel like to have her. All of her.
I close my eyes and fold my hands around her waist, bringing my head forward. Our foreheads meet, and our noses do a dance before I close my lips around hers. The taste of her mouth is intoxicating, and my heart pounds hard against my ribcage as my tongue moves back in anticipation of another move.
I pull her closer.
My hands drag up the side of her ribs, muscles tightening in response. Her fingers graze my jaw and cup the side of my neck. I hold her body tight to mine as I inhale her kiss.
She gives a quick laugh and clears her throat. “You’re a pleasant surprise, Marc Wylan.”
“I’m going to try and keep it that way,” I say.
We kiss again, this time slower. Much sweeter. I caress the back of her head and feel the urge to push forward. But I don’t.
On any other night, I’d take this further. But tonight isn’t that night.
There’s a list of things I’d rather do than damper the mood, but this was much needed. I’ve been working on normal ever since we arrived here. And Ali is deeper than I ever imagined. She’s a reservoir of love and understanding, vulnerability and kindness. But the main thing is that she understands us. A lot more than I ever believed she could.
We spend the night wrapped around each other, sharing the couch in many positions, talking and laughing as we listen to old records and half-watch classic movies. We get a little intoxicated. A few beers lead to a few more.
Rounding two in the morning, we both start to drift in and out of sleep. Empty bottles cover the kitchen table. I carry her into one of the guest rooms and relegate myself to the door. Before I can say goodnight, she’s already past out, snoring.
