Kissing My Dad's Friend

We’ll lock the door, and for twenty minutes, we can lose ourselves and forget about our problems in one another’s arms.

It’s not enough to make me feel satisfied with my whole life—I still wish I were doing so much more, helping more people than I am right now. But it’s enough to distract me, for the time being. Enough to make my current life survivable, at least, and maybe even lined with a little silver.

I have no idea how long it can last. I can’t see it ever working out. But for some reason the desperation that induces, the knowledge that this can only ever be a temporary wild fling, just makes it feel all the hotter whenever we are able to sneak away together. I lose myself in the heat of his arms, the intensity of his kisses, and it soothes me into forgetting, for a little while, that one day I’ll have to let him go.

At the start of our second week of… whatever it is we’re doing—whether you can just call it hooking up or it’s starting to transition into more, I’m not sure—I finally have a day off work at the same time that Russ does. Our schedules normally don’t align, and for once, I think, we can take advantage of this. Be together without having to sneak, or without risk of my parents stumbling across us.

But when I text to ask him what he’s doing that day, his reply says he has an appointment that he can’t miss. My stomach sinks. So much for my grand plans of going on a semi-normal date, somewhere downtown and far from my family’s prying eyes.

Then my phone dings a second time. If you’re free, why don’t you come with me?

What are you doing? I ask a moment later.

You’ll see.

Confused, but ready for any excuse to see Russ outside of work or my parents’ pool parties, I agree to meet him up in the Bronx in a couple of hours. I spend most of those two hours dressing, because what the hell do you wear to a date—is this a date? —where you don’t know what you’ll be doing? Finally, I settle on jeans and a cute sweater, since it’s still freezing outside, all layered under my heavy overcoat. Then I catch the train, just in time to make it to meet him on time.

When I get to the address he sent me, though, all I see is a rundown looking building with a line of people outside. Everyone there has shabby-looking coats. A few are carrying sacks of what look like odds and ends.

Slowly, it dawns on me. This is a soup kitchen.

Sure enough, a moment later, a side door pops open and Russ waves me inside. I jog into the warm building, my breath still fogging from the cold air, and I freeze as I step over the threshold. Because damn, I’d forgotten how good he looked out of his work scrubs. Not that he looks bad in those, but his flannel and jeans today have me wishing we didn’t always have to wear the same clothes over and over at work.

He wraps me in a tight hug the moment I get to his side, and I fold into him, breathing in his familiar scent, grateful for his warm, strong presence. When we break apart, I grin up at him, my head tilted with curiosity. “So this is the big secret, huh? Volunteer work?”

“Come on, I’ll introduce you. I got the manager to agree to put you on serving duty with me.” He checks a clock over my head, near the doorway. “Which starts in five minutes, so we don’t have much time.”

I trail after him as he introduces me to a few of the other volunteers, and the coordinator who puts everything here together. Everyone seems nice, and they all know Russ well. They joke with him, smile and laugh at his jokes in return. I keep side-eying him, wondering how he has this entire other side to his life that I never knew about. I’m pretty sure Mom and Dad have never mentioned that Russ does volunteer work. How did this never come up, in all their years of friendship? It seems like he’s a regular, too.

Finally, once the introductions are complete, Russ shows me the ropes. It’s pretty simple, really. Take a tray, serve the food in front of you, and pass it down the line to the next server.

“Make sure to smile at everyone, make conversation as they come through,” he adds. “Sometimes this is the only place that these people get to see a friendly face or be treated like a human being.”

Something about the way his voice dips at the end of that sentence makes me eye him funnily. His expression has gone a little shaded, as if he’s remembering something. But before I can ask about it, a bell rings somewhere, the main doors open, and our “customers” flood inside.