Kissing My Dad's Friend

Russ’s words echo in my mind, not for the first time since he said them. What’s the real reason you haven’t pursued your dreams? He’s right. Dad’s disapproval is an excuse. Indebted to him or not, I am a grown ass adult. I can do what I want, with or without his say-so.

When am I going to just bite the bullet and do what I’ve been longing to for years? There will be consequences. Blowback. But still…

I swallow around a lump in my throat and mumble something in response to Dad’s complaints. All the while, I fix my gaze out the window, focused on the road ahead. On home.

I’m not going to change my whole life today. If I’m going to do this, I need a plan in place. I need to have my ducks in order and know exactly how I’m going to tackle the issue.

In the meantime, there’s a whole other terrible idea waiting for me on the other end of that text message. I’ve seen Russ a couple times since the soup kitchen day, but just for quickies here and there—a hot and dirty make out session in the supply closet before someone walked way too close and startled us into leaving before we could finish. Then our meetup in the on call room late last night, where Russ pinned me against the wall and knelt to go down on me, practically almost before I’d even shut the door behind us.

But we haven’t had any quality time since the soup kitchen. We haven’t had a chance to actually talk, and my whole body is craving that. The opportunity to be near him. To touch him without worrying someone will interrupt in another instant. To savor our time together instead of hurrying through it.

By the time Dad finally pulls into the driveway at home, it feels like my entire body is itching with anticipation. I practically fly out of the door the second Dad parks, so quickly that he actually calls after me. “Where’s the fire?”

“Forgot I’m supposed to meet a friend later,” I call back, already halfway up the front steps into the house. Once in my bedroom, safely hidden from prying eyes, I open my texts again. Yes, I’m free tonight. What did you have in mind?

Meet me here? Russ replies almost instantly—of course, since he doesn’t need to sneak around and hide from parental figures in order to text me. Along with his text, he sends a link to a google map page.

Another soup kitchen? I reply, with a winking emoji to show him I’m up for it. Because we did have fun last time, and Russ was right. Helping other people helped me, too.

Not quite, he says, however, an instant later. Wear that little black dress you wore at the friendsgiving party last year, he adds, which makes me full-body blush all the way from head to toe. I know exactly which dress he means, but this is a reminder that Russ was noticing me, remembering things like the dresses I wore, for just as long as I’d been thinking about him.

If I shut my eyes, I can still picture what he wore that night. My parents threw their annual friendsgiving party, the same way they did every year, a week before Thanksgiving itself. Russ showed up in a three piece suit, all black, the kind of formalwear that took my breath away on anyone even remotely cute, let alone an older man as hot as Russ. My mom had even teased him for taking the party so seriously—though he was quick to point out (correctly) that the invitation did mention formal clothing.

I wonder if he’ll be going that level of dressed up for wherever this direction link leads us. I reply to let him know I’ll see him soon, and then I get to work. I do still have that little black dress, but I’ve acquired an even cuter one, recently, from a cute vintage shop by my old apartment downtown. It’s simple yet elegant, an A-line dress with a slightly flared hem, and a scoop-neck top. I pair it with sparkling high heels—not actually high, but just a few inches to give my calves the definition heels always add. They’re still low enough I can walk in them, which is the main thing in this city.

To top it off, I do my hair half up, half down, fluffing it out to make the waves curl with a little more definition. I keep my makeup simple, except for some ruby red lipstick. Red lips are great, because they mask anything else that might be going on with your face. Everyone is too busy staring at the cute lips to notice if you have a blemish on the side of your nose or anything.

When I check the mirror a half an hour later, I grin at myself. I look good. Really good. It feels nice to dress up, because I normally don’t. I’m a casual scrubs and jeans kinda girl. But the change can be fun every now and then. It’s nice to feel girly.