by Ryan, Lexi
I nod. Judging by the volume of Dad’s voice, I’m already a few drinks behind. “Sure. Thanks.”
She fills my glass to the top—God bless her—and winks at me as she hands it over.
“Have you had your interview for the job in Florida?” Dad asks.
I grimace. I completely forgot that he’d been putting out feelers on my behalf. “I haven’t heard anything about it, Dad. Sorry.”
He wags his finger at me. “They’re calling. You just make sure you’re ready.”
I still have a job. But there’s no need to remind him of that little fact. It’ll only make me look ungrateful. “Will do, Dad.”
“Hello?” comes a soft voice from the hall. “Mom?”
Jill brightens at the sound of her daughter’s voice. “Molly, we’re in the dining room!”
I take a long drink from my glass as the click of heels gets closer, bracing myself, but there’s not enough room in this glass to drown out the feelings of inadequacy that overwhelm me in my stepsister’s presence, and when Molly enters the dining room, I immediately feel like a forgotten part of the scenery.
“How was your flight?” Jill asks, wrapping her daughter in a hug.
“Don’t smother the girl, Jill,” Dad says. “She’s been cooped up on a plane. She needs some space.”
“I’m fine,” Molly tells Dad. She wraps her arms around Jill and squeezes. “It was good.” When she turns her attention on me, her smile is tentative, and I feel a pang of guilt. Molly hasn’t come home much in the last five years, but I haven’t done my part in keeping in touch either. “Hi, Ava. How are you?”
“Great.” I hoist my glass of wine.
Molly chuckles softly. “I could use one of those too.”
“Jill, pour the girl some wine,” Dad says.
Jill obeys, and Molly takes the glass with the reverence of someone taking sacrament.
Molly is everything I’m not. She’s brave and adventurous. She’s blond to my dark and bold to my cautious. I know saying that my father always loved her more makes me sound like the whiny little girl who wanted her father’s attention all for herself. But sometimes even the ugly things we feel are true, and Dad’s affection for Molly always outranked and overpowered his affection for me.
“Have a seat,” Jill says. “I’ll get dinner from the kitchen.”
“Grab another bottle of the ’79 from the fridge while you’re at it,” Dad calls after her, taking his seat at the end of the table.
“May I help, Jill?” I ask.
Molly and I nearly collide, simultaneously filing behind Jill toward the kitchen.
“Girls, sit,” Jill says sternly. “You’re my guests.” She flashes a glance toward my father, who’s seated at the end of the table scrolling through something on his phone. For the first time since I’ve known her, I detect a hint of resentment from her toward my father. Good for you, Jill.
“Sit,” she says again, and Molly and I obey, taking seats across from each other and sipping at our wine in the awkward silence.
“Still teaching?” Molly asks.
I nod. “Yeah. Still in New York?”
She nods. “Yep.”
It takes Jill a couple of trips to get everything on the table. She tucks a couple more bottles of wine into the bucket of ice, then brings out a big bowl of salad and a platter beautifully arranged with breaded chicken breasts and roasted potatoes.
“This looks delicious,” I say.
“I’m starving,” Molly says. “Thank you, Mom.”
Jill beams, and we fill our plates and pass food around the table.
“Molly, what’s your announcement?” Dad asks when our plates are full. “We can’t wait to hear your good news.” He waves toward me. “Maybe it’ll inspire Ava to do something with her life.”
“I have a great life, Dad,” I say.
“Of course you do,” Jill says with a smile, then a scowl toward my oblivious father.
Molly cuts her eyes to her mom before looking at Dad. “I . . . I don’t have an announcement.”
Jill frowns. “But you said . . .”
“I said I needed to talk to you about something. There’s no announcement.”
Jill grimaces. “I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I misunderstood. We can talk later. Of course.”
“Nonsense. Don’t keep us in suspense,” Dad says. “What do you need to talk about?”
Molly puts her fork down and draws in a deep breath. “I need a loan. I lost my job, and I’m struggling to keep my apartment.”
I can practically hear the tires screeching in my father’s head as his fork drops to his plate and he stares at his favorite child. “What do you mean, you lost your job?”
I hold my breath. Dad always wished I could be more athletic, then he got a daughter who was. He always wished I, his above-average daughter, could excel in school, and then he got a daughter who did. He pushed me to pursue something more practical than theater and literature, and when he married Jill, he got a daughter who did.
All that considered, I sometimes forget that Dad is just as tough on Molly as he is on me—maybe even tougher. She’s his shining star.
There’s a vulnerability all over her face as she avoids his steely gaze. I can’t blame her. It’s pretty intense. “We lost funding. There’s no work. I’ll find something else, but it’ll take some time.”
“But you already have applications out,” he says. She stares blankly back at him. “Résumés, cover letters—that’s child’s play. You have so much great experience, and the world is your oyster. This shouldn’t be an issue.”
“I’m working on it.” She bows her head and pushes her food around her plate.
My father takes a breath and exhales slowly.
I hate this for her. While I’ve always hoped for evidence that Molly isn’t perfect, I know how it feels to be on the receiving end of Dad’s disapproval, and it sucks.
“You have savings, though,” my father says. “Money to live on until you find the next job? You always put thirty percent of your pay into savings. I taught you that.”
“Dad,” she says, exasperation clear in her voice now. “It’s not easy for a single woman to live in the city on a non-profit management income. I don’t have savings at all, and if I don’t want to lose my apartment, I’m going to need some help until I find a new job.” She looks to her mother. “I was hoping—”
My father’s already shaking his head. “No. We made it very clear to you girls from the beginning that we would help you get where you’re going, and then you’d be on your own. We’re not going to be those parents who let their children fail over and over again throughout their lives with no consequences. At some point, you have to let the baby bird fly free, and if she falls, she falls.”
Jill gasps, and her cheeks flush pink to red as she stares at my father across the table.
“Dad,” I say. “That’s harsh.”
He shifts his gaze to me. “You’ve been through hard times. Did you ask for money after Harrison left you? With all the debt you racked up, I’m sure it would have been easier to ask us to bail you out.”
My cheeks heat at that reminder. When I was married to Harrison, he encouraged me to take lavish spa days and go shopping with my friends. He handled the finances, and I had no idea that all those credit card bills were piling up, only getting the minimum payment each month. It was so important to Harrison that it looked like we had money to the outside world that he even let me believe it. He “let me” keep that crazy debt after we divorced, too. I wouldn’t have felt right about him taking it on, but I couldn’t help but resent Harrison’s lack of transparency about our financial situation. My whole marriage was a lesson in lies by omission.
“If you did it, so can Molly,” Dad says.
My stepsister looks utterly defeated, and I shoot her an apologetic smile. “I’m sure Molly will be fine, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t deserve a helping hand. We all need help from time to time.”
Dad scowls at
me. “What’s gotten into you tonight, Ava? My word is final.”
I open my mouth, but Jill reaches across the table and brushes my arm with her fingertips. I see the warning in her eyes telling me to let it go for now. I have to grit my teeth to keep from saying more.
“Ava?” Jill says as we’re cleaning up the kitchen. Dad retired to his office to take a business call, and Molly excused herself to her old room to shower. “Could I ask you a favor?”
I nod. My stomach’s been in knots since dinner, and I would worry that I offended Jill by not eating her cooking, but it seems no one but Dad had much of an appetite. “What’s that?”
“You know your father,” she says. “I don’t expect him to budge on this Molly thing, but I’m going to talk to him after he unwinds tonight.”
After he unwinds is Jill’s code for after he has his whiskey. Not sure whiskey’s gonna help. He was already half lit when he went off at the dinner table. “It’s nice of you to try,” I say. I don’t expect him to budge, either. My father doesn’t budge. It’s not in his personality. He makes a decision and he sticks to it. This might be an admirable quality in a businessman, but it’s shit in a father.
“Well, if I’m not successful . . .” She looks away. “I have no right to ask this, but would you have money to loan Molly for a while? I have a little, but since your father handles our finances, it’ll be tricky to get to it. I’ll pay you back just as soon as I can manage.”
I bite my tongue. My father doesn’t “handle” the finances. He controls them. The difference is significant—I’m well aware from experience—and anger on my stepmother’s behalf flares in the pit of my belly. But I’m angry for more than her. I’m angry for Molly. I’m angry for me.
I don’t need to wonder how Dad will react if I’m successful in my plans and he discovers I intentionally became a single mom. I already know how he will feel. Tonight wasn’t a revelation; it was a reminder.
“How much do you think she needs?” I ask.
“I’ll find out, but I’m sure it’s just temporary. You know Molly—something always comes around for her. She’s never depended on anyone else.” She snaps her mouth shut, as if she suddenly realized she just insulted me. I depended on someone else once, and it didn’t end well. Then again, maybe she’s thinking of how she depends on my dad.
“I could float her a small loan if you think that would help,” I say softly. It’ll come from my emergency fund, but I know between Jill and Molly, I’ll get it back.
She exhales in relief. “I’m sure anything you can spare would make a difference. I’d like her to have a chance to get on her feet without it crushing her spirit. Your father doesn’t realize how hard she’s had to work to stay afloat these last five years. He doesn’t know that she’s had to make sacrifices for . . .” She shakes her head and squeezes my hand. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m sure she’ll appreciate your help as much as I do.” The stress in Jill’s eyes makes me feel like I just stepped off the tilt-a-whirl. She always brought calm to this household, but something’s changed. “I’ll let you know what your dad says when I ask him to reconsider, but . . .”
“I know. That’s Dad.”
She swallows and gives a tight smile. “He’s not always easy to love, you know.”
None of us are, I think. “He’s lucky to have you.”
“You don’t have to say that,” she says softly. She shakes her head and sighs as she squeezes my hand, and I wonder if she truly doesn’t see the truth.
Ava
I let myself into the back of Jackson Brews and go straight to the walk-in cooler in search of Jake’s famous “goat balls.” I had no appetite at Dad’s, but now I’m hungry and stressed, and I want comfort food. I find the breaded bites of fresh goat cheese on a sheet tray at the back of the cooler, slide it out, then head to the deep fryer.
Jake pushes into the kitchen just as I’m dunking the bites in the bubbling oil. He looks at the sheet tray then at me. “Rough night?”
I wrap my arms around my middle. “Nothing a little fried cheese and honey can’t fix.”
“I’ve got barbecue bacon donut burgers on the menu tonight.” Jake leans against the counter. “Want me to put one together for you?”
I open my mouth to say no, but then shrug. “That actually sounds amazing.”
He throws a patty on the grill next to me and studies me as it fries. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“About how my dad is a dick and probably an alcoholic, or about how I’m thirty years old and still can’t reconcile my desperate need for approval from a selfish prick?” I pull the basket out of the frying oil and shake it.
Jake’s expression softens. “Both? Either?”
“No thanks. Maybe another time. Tonight, I just want to eat my feelings, if that’s okay.”
He hesitates a beat then nods. “Plate of feelings, coming right up.”
Jake has many specialties, but this Saturday night menu item is a local favorite—a bacon cheeseburger with frizzled onions and barbecue sauce, served on fresh glazed donuts from Ooh La La! Tourists always say it sounds gross, but then they order it anyway, too curious to pass, and always clean their plate.
I put my goat balls in a wax-paper-lined basket and drizzle them with locally sourced honey—the closest thing this whole kitchen has to “health food.” Next to me, Jake puts together my burger, and my panic dissipates in the shadow of his calm. He grounds me. Always has. Even when he was a ten-year-old boy who made fun of my pigtails, he always knew what to say—or not say—when I was upset.
The day my Dad moved out, I held my chin high all evening. I had to put on a strong face for my mom, who was devastated. She went to bed early that night, emotionally exhausted. After she fell asleep, I snuck outside and climbed into the tree fort in Jake’s backyard. I was crying when Jake found me there, but he didn’t say anything about my tears. He sat cross-legged on the plywood floor beside me and handed me a box of those things that snap when you throw them at the ground. We didn’t say a word to each other, just sat in the fort and tossed them at the floor.
He knew exactly what I needed then, and has so many times after.
“Cindy’s got the front covered,” he says when he plates my burger. “Want to eat this in my office?”
I nod, grateful that he understands I’m not up for chatting it up with the barflies tonight. “I’m going to grab a water from the cooler. Want one?”
“Sure.”
I get the bottles, and Jake carries my burger to his office. The space is utilitarian—a couple of desks, a computer for bookkeeping, and two tall filing cabinets. Jake keeps it meticulously organized, and the surfaces are clean and clear of the miscellany that clutters my home office.
I pull a chair up to his desk, and he sits on the opposite side, propping his chin on his fists and watching me.
“Do you want to share this with me?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I already ate.”
I look down at my food, then up at him. “Why are you staring? Did you poison the food or something?”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s just that you rarely eat my cooking anymore. I thought maybe you’d grown an aversion.”
I snort. “I wasn’t blessed with your wicked-fast metabolism, so I can’t eat your food very often.” I lift the donut burger to my lips and take a bite. My eyes close as I chew and swallow. It’s the perfect combination of sweet and salty. “Dear God, Ellie’s right.”
Jake frowns as he brings his water bottle to his lips. “About what?”
I grin. “She says you put the come in comfort food.”
He chokes on his water. “Really now?”
“It’s orgasmic,” I say around another bite. Because so good. Swallowing, I nod. “I think she’s right. In fact, we don’t need to be awkward about having sex together, because you’ve already cooked for me. There’s no sex act in existence that’s better than your calorie-laden pub food.”
“That sounds like a cha
llenge.”
“It’s not a challenge. It’s a fact.” I shrug. “I’m sorry if that hurts your ego, but the food is just that good.” Leaning across the desk, I hold the burger up to his mouth. “Tell me you don’t think so.”
He holds my gaze as he takes a bite, catching my fingers lightly between his teeth before he pulls back.
A flash of heat whips through my belly, and I can’t take my eyes off him as he chews—the way his jaw works and the movement in his throat as he swallows.
I’m totally lusting after my best friend.
He flipped some switch in me last night, and now I’m seeing him with different eyes. That makes me nervous as hell. I never want Jake to fully understand how bad I am at sex, but if we keep heading down this road, he’s going to. It’s not that I don’t know what to do. I have the mechanics down, thank you very much. I just struggle to stay out of my own head. I can’t give myself fully to the moment—as I demonstrated so awkwardly last night.
I’m still holding the burger between us when he dips his head again, but instead of having another bite, he takes the burger from my hand and puts it on the plate. He holds my hand in his and draws my index finger into his mouth.
I gasp as he swirls his tongue around it and sucks hard. “Jake.”
“Yeah?” He moves on to the next finger, and I hear my ragged inhale, because hell, that’s hot. My insides are melting, and all my blood is in the fast lane to a single destination between my legs. I shift in my seat and squeeze my thighs together. “You have donut glaze all over your fingers,” he says, as if this explains what he’s doing to me. As if it’s completely normal. As if he sucks sugar off my fingers all the time.
“Levi and Colton are racing in Detroit next weekend,” he says. “Do you want to go with me? Watch the race? Go to dinner? Stay in the city overnight?”
“Yeah.” I nod. But I’m not thinking about the race. I’m thinking about the scrape of his teeth on my fingertips. I’m thinking about a hotel room with Jake. I’m thinking of the words he whispered like an oath before leaving my house last night.
When I’m finally inside you, it’ll be because you want me there, because you’re begging to have me there.
