So he did what any person would when wanting to avoid emotions and pivoted the conversation. “I’ll carry you to the couch,” he said.
“You will not carry me,” she said. “Dash, that’s absurd.”
“I don’t have all day.” He checked the time on his phone, as if he had somewhere to be when, really, he had an entire day of nothing ahead of him. “If you fall here, it’s much more serious than falling in the grass. And besides, I can bench-press at least five of you.”
Her gaze flitted to his bare chest, and he decided to flex his pecs, just for fun. She awkwardly coughed at that, but eventually looked back up.
“Come on.” He came next to her. “Wrap your arms around my neck and I’ll scoop you up.” He planned to put his hands underneath her knees and lift once she’d latched on to him.
“I want to die,” she said. But she wrapped one, then both hands around his neck.
“If you do, Poppy will kill me, too.” He wrapped an arm around Sophie’s waist and another behind her knees. Her head was tucked under his chin, and her soft hair grazed his Adam’s apple.
“Okay, one, two, three.” He picked her up so her body pressed into him and her arms tightened around his neck. The soft fabric of her dress brushed against his skin and gave him goose bumps despite the heat outside.
“I’m not sure if this or the vomit is more embarrassing.” Her breath came out hot against his chest as she spoke.
“The vomit.” Definitely the vomit. He took careful steps toward the front door and into the living room, then quickly deposited Sophie on the couch.
“Need anything before I head out?” He was desperate to get home. A headache loomed just behind his eyelids, and he pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Surprises were not his idea of fun, in general.
“No.” Sophie undid her messy bun, and wavy honey hair spilled around her face. Then she looked up at him. “Thank you. I feel like I owe you rent and a half now.”
But she didn’t owe him anything, seeing as he didn’t have plans or anywhere to be. Not unusual for him. More like the usual, really. He had hobbies—a collection of things he’d slowly built up to fill the hours. He could tend to his basil plants and pick some for a pasta later. There were always more episodes of his favorite reality show, Dating Roulette, and he could start a new crafting project while he watched. Or he could see if there were any ripe avocados on his tree to pluck off.
But he was mostly trying to keep to himself. Because his job—which his sister, and the rest of his family, didn’t know about—was to stay sober, one day at a time.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he finally said. He hadn’t meant to look at Sophie, but he did. And she gave him what seemed to be a genuinely appreciative smile. He almost smiled back but then remembered the morning he’d had.
Instead, he looked away and broke their eye contact, then grunted in response, and turned to walk out—making a point not to look back.
When he opened his heavy dark-wood front door and closed it behind him, he took a deep breath in then out. His entryway smelled like wet grass and lemon from the homemade candle he’d lit earlier. He walked across the plush charcoal entry rug, and the tension he’d been holding in his shoulders eased. He was home, in his safe place.
He padded along the terra-cotta floor toward the hallway, then headed into his living room, where he lay on his modern leather couch. He wanted to decompress, so he grabbed his phone and opened TikTok. He had about fifty new notifications from people liking his latest CraftTok video, where he’d made a speckled vase. His account, @tokcrafty2me, was anonymous. He never showed his face or used his name. Not only because his parents would eviscerate him for making social-media videos instead of what they considered real films, but as he was trying to figure out what to do with himself he really didn’t want any extra attention.
He’d been in a few indie movies with cult followings over the years, then stopped acting altogether when he decided to get sober. But sometimes he still got recognized, and that wasn’t what his TikTok was for. His account gave him something that was solely his own. He’d spent his whole life growing up in his dad’s shadow, then his older brother’s—Reece had become even more famous than their dad. When Dash went into acting, his family assumed he’d happily follow down the same yellow brick road. And he’d tried to be as successful as they were because he knew that’s what they’d wanted for him. But then he never really landed the roles his mom hoped he would. And drinking became the only way he could cope with the pressure from his family and being on set. And suddenly, the clear path that had been presented to him was so fuzzy he couldn’t see a way out.
Dash shook the memories out of his head. He was staying focused on building a new life without drinking, and crafting had given him an unexpected outlet. He went into his mentions and scrolled through the likes, giving a few comments a heart back. His account had a little over fifty thousand followers, which was strong, considering he only uploaded two videos a week. Compared to some of the other crafters he followed, who posted daily, he was lagging. Then he tapped into his DMs and saw a message from Cindy, a crafter he was friendly with.
@craftycindy your speckled vase is showing
Well, maybe more than friendly. Their DMs often bordered on flirty or were just straight-up innuendo. Which Dash didn’t mind at all, seeing as he had no other sexual outlet to speak of.
@tokcrafty2me I showed you mine, show me yours? he typed back.
Dash exited out of the app and went to his texts. Can you talk? he texted Chris, the man he’d met at an AA meeting and was now his sponsor and best （and maybe only） friend.
To his surprise, his phone buzzed, and Chris was FaceTime calling. Dash took in a big breath as he tapped Accept. “You know, most people consider phone calls to be rude these days.”
“Most people don’t have a four-month-old asleep on their chest.” Chris’s eyes were puffy, and even his hair seemed to flop into his face from exhaustion. He panned the phone so Dash could see a sleeping Luna and the back of her dark curls.
“Are we going to wake her up?” Dash asked.
“Nah,” Chris responded. “This one sleeps like she got hit by a two-by-four. I’ve been rewatching The Takeover and not even the title sequence wakes her—Mira made those drumbeats loud.”
Mira, Chris’s wife, was a composer, and her latest theme music for an HBO family drama had earned her an Emmy nomination.
“How is Mira?” Dash poked. “She doing okay?”
“She’s exhausted.” Chris wiped a hand down his face. “We’re both barely sleeping.”
“I’ll come by this week.” He reached for the remote on the coffee table. Maybe he could try watching The Takeover instead of Dating Roulette…though, probably not. “You and Mira can sleep. Luna and I will hang. I’ll take a day off,” Dash said as a joke.
Every day was his day off, really. Plus he liked kids. He’d always wanted a big family of his own, but he knew that would never happen—he couldn’t put a child through the possibility of him relapsing. But if he was lucky, he’d have the kind of marriage Chris and Mira had someday, when he was solid in his sobriety. Just not now, while he was still learning who his sober self was.