Looking up from my empty plate, I notice Lucy’s is nearly empty too. She sets her fork down and places her napkin over what’s left of her meatloaf, and I seize my chance.
“Would you like to go for a walk?” I ask.
With a tight smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, she nods.
“Sure.”
“Go on, you two,” my mother chirps excitedly as she jumps from her seat to clean up our plates. Then I lead Lucy toward the front door. Once we step out into the warm spring night air, she shoves her hands in the pockets of her long, cotton dress.
“It was nice of your mother to invite me to dinner,” she says as we make our way down the long brick-paved drive.
“It probably should have been me. I’m sorry,” I reply. My hand itches to touch her back or arm.
“Did you want me to come to dinner?” she asks, glancing up at me.
I clear my throat. “Of course I did.”
When she doesn’t respond, I notice the way she nods to herself, and I wish I knew what she was thinking. Why am I so bad at this? Breakfast with Pink Hair was so easy—
No. Stop it.
“The truth is,” I reply, trying for sincerity, “I’m so busy I forget to have a personal life.”
She chuckles quietly. “Same.”
“But I really like you,” I say, forcing the words out in hopes they feel truer when I speak them.
They don’t.
Lucy stops and turns toward me. “I like you too, Adam…”
Her voice trails off and I sense a but.
My brow arches as I wait her out.
“But…” she says, finally, shuffling her feet and looking off into the distance instead of at me. “I don’t really know you.”
“Then have dinner with me again. We can get to know each other.”
“Will we?” This conversation is taking a strange turn as if she knows something I don’t. Something about me.
“Why wouldn’t we?” I ask, feeling confused.
She places a hand on my arm and leans toward me.
“You’re a nice guy, Adam. Dating me would make your mother very happy, which is exactly why I think you would do it.”
When I laugh, she doesn’t…which means that it isn’t a joke.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“When was the last time you did something just because you wanted to?” she asks, shooting me a challenging expression.
“I’m walking with you right now,” I reply.
Leaning in, she adds, “Is that really what you want to be doing right now?”
Taking this as my opportunity, I let my hand drift over her lower back, tugging her closer before I press my lips to hers.
They’re soft and pliable, making me want to slide my tongue between them or bite the bottom one just to hear the sounds she’d make. But I hold back.
When I pull away, staring down with a soft smile, she lets out a heavy sigh. “That’s what I mean. You’re a really good guy, Adam. Maybe a little…too good.”
Then she lifts to her tiptoes and presses her lips to my cheek.
“Please tell your mother thanks again from me.”
Without another word, she continues the walk down to her car, waving back before climbing into the driver’s seat and pulling away.
I watch her go, feeling blindsided and wondering how the hell someone can be too good.
“I like her,” my mother says as she dips her hands in soapy water to pull out a fork.
“She’s really nice,” I reply as I set the porcelain plate on the stack in the cupboard. I don’t have the heart to tell my mother that Lucy left without exchanging numbers or plans to see me again.
Because I’m too good.
“Stay for a drink.” My father lands a heavy slap on my back as I dry my hands on the dish towel hanging from my shoulder.
Another nostalgic ritual of my mother’s is to clean up the kitchen after Sunday dinner—regardless of the fact that my father pays people to do it for them. I make it a point to dry the dishes every time.
My brothers never stick around this long.
“Go,” my mother insists as she takes my towel. There’s only a casserole dish left, so I concede.
As I follow my father into his office on the second floor of the house, he shuts the door behind us. He’s pouring two glasses of whiskey before I even sit down.
Every time he invites me to his office after dinner like this, I’m anticipating the moment he finally breaks the news I’ve been waiting for—that he’s stepping down.
And putting me in his place.
My father is great at what he does. He’s a natural orator, charismatic and engaging. He’s changing people’s lives for the better.
But at the same time, he’s sixty-nine years old. He’s growing more and more out of touch with the next generation every day. Our demographic is comfortably fifty-plus, and if we don’t make a move to capture those under fifty soon, our legacy will die with them.
I take the seat opposite his desk and let my gaze drift to the mess of papers scattered across the surface. But I’m not focusing on anything as he starts talking.
We riff back and forth for a while, laughing about something said this morning at church or whatever ridiculous joke one of my brothers made at dinner. My dad and I share a somewhat shallow relationship that never delves too deep into feelings or secrets. Not that I think he’s hiding any. I’m sure as hell not. But I do pride myself on being the closest son he has, making him proud and doing what’s right.
“Damn good sermon this morning, Adam. You work hard on them, and it shows.”
“Thanks…” I reply, sensing the ominous but from my father’s tone.
“You put your heart and soul in each one, and I’m so proud of the writer you’ve become.”
A smug smile stretches across my face as I let his praise wash over me. If making my father proud was an art form, I’d have mastered it by now. Honestly, it feels more like a science than an art, something my brothers never cared much to attempt. I simply do exactly as I think he would, and it pays off.
And yet…I still get the feeling that there’s a catch to his comments tonight.
“I like writing them. You know that. But I can’t help but feel like there’s something you have to criticize.” I send him a crooked brow and half smile as I take a sip from my glass. “In short, cut the bullshit.”
He laughs, leaning back in his chair. “You’re writing them for you, not me.”
My jaw tightens and my heart starts to race. Is he implying what I think he’s implying?
“I’m writing them for the congregation,” I reply proudly.
There’s another low chuckle before he shakes his head.
“Smart-ass.”
“Well, what are you trying to say?”
“I’m trying to say that…” He swirls his whiskey in the glass before throwing it back and emptying the contents. Here it comes. If I’m reading the situation correctly, my father is about to offer me the position I’ve been waiting for.
“I think your talents would be better suited for your own ventures. We’re giving the sermon-writing job back to Mark.”
There’s a beat of silence as I stare at him, waiting for the punch line of this joke.