Kissing My Dad's Friend

Heat rushes up my arm from where he’s touching me. “Yeah, well. I had help from a smart guy along the way, pointing the obvious out to me,” I reply with a grin. “Couldn’t have stood up to my father without you. Seriously.”

“We make a good team,” Russ says, as he lets our hands fall clasped between us on the gear shift.

We fall silent as the radio clicks on. We listen to the morning traffic report, until Russ switches it to a music station. Rock. I flash him a grin. Good to know we have similar taste in music, too.

By the time we reach my parents’ house, I’ve almost calmed down again. Almost.

One glance at the windows tells me the house is empty. Mom always leaves half the lights on whenever she’s inside. Sure enough, we pull up the driveway around the side, and find the back empty, Dad’s car gone. Mom must have gone out too. Some mornings she goes to meet friends for brunch or runs errands and picks up things we need for dinner.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to wait out here?” Russ asks, his forehead puckered with concern, though not about my father.

“I told you, I’m done tiptoeing around his stupid rules. If you want to stay out here, I understand—”

“I’d rather come with,” he says, with a shrug. “But it’s up to you.”

“Come on.” I step out of the car, and he follows a moment later. Both our car doors slam, loud enough they should get an answer from inside the house, if anyone is in there. Nothing.

I fetch the spare key from a hidden fake rock in the backyard and open the backdoor. “Hello?” I call as I step into the kitchen. “Anyone home?”

The house sits silent in response. I shrug and walk all the way in, Russ close on my heels.

“I’ll just be a couple minutes,” I tell him. “If you want coffee or anything, the machine makes it each morning automatically. There should still be plenty left.” I leave him to help himself and jog upstairs, two at a time. In my room, I toss off my scrubs and throw on fresh ones. I wash my face and do a quick dash of makeup—nothing fancy, just foundation and mascara, the way I usually do every morning.

Then I trudge back downstairs, feeling refreshed and ready to face whatever today is about to throw my way.

In the kitchen, Russ has prepared us both cups of coffee, and he’s in the middle of frying some eggs he scrounged from the fridge. I smile at the sight of him at the stovetop. He turns to wink in my direction, smiling broadly. “Have a seat,” he calls. “Breakfast will be served in one minute.”

I slide onto a barstool with a wry grin. “You do realize that we have to be at work in less than half an hour.”

“Guess we’ll both just have to enjoy our gourmet meal quickly, then,” he counters. He pops some eggs onto each plate, and presents mine to me with a flourish. I take a sip of my coffee as I watch him dig into his own.

It feels strange to be here with him, in my parents’ kitchen, in the house where I grew up. In the house where I spent my early twenties eying him with desire every time he visited, too.

Yet somehow, despite the strangeness, it also feels… right. I’ve never felt this at ease here, even when I’m home alone. Some part of me is already dreading my father’s return and his scolding. But with Russ here, I feel relaxed, calm, even happy.

I take another long drag from my coffee cup and poke at my eggs. “So… are you really sure about this?” I ask. And somehow, I don’t think I’m talking about work or disagreeing with my father professionally, anymore.

Russ reaches over. His hand comes to rest over mine, and I let the fork fall to the plate. “Maggie, look at me.” I raise my eyes to his. “Of course I’m sure. But I want you to be, too.”

“I am.” I search his eyes for any hint of hesitation or disagreement. I don’t find it, though. All I see there are his feelings for me, clear and obvious, shining through.

He really does care, I think with a faint smile, some part of me still unable to believe my luck. But a bigger part feels like this was always inevitable. Like we were inevitable.

I swallow around a sudden lump in my throat, and slide off my kitchen stool to step over to where he’s leaning against the counter. “To be honest…” I start slowly. “Losing my job is terrifying. Losing my security, having my parents not willing to speak to me anymore maybe.” I gesture at the empty house around us. “It’s all terrifying. But I’ll manage. In the past, I was too scared to think about what life would be like without all the security they provide, the wealth and the safety. But how secure was it ever, really? How safe was I before, if Dad was always willing to fire me with a snap of his fingers the second I stepped out of line?”