Hot Stuff

I’m going on a date with THE Garrett Alexander tomorrow—in less than twenty-four hours, and it took some serious mental gymnastics for me to get to that point.

Sweet baby kittens in a wicker basket, this is either the best idea I’ve ever had or the worst.

January 17th

Garrett

My clothes feel nearly foreign against my skin, it’s been so long since I’ve done this. Not get dressed—I do that nearly every day.

Ha.

Really, though, I’m talking about putting effort and time into presenting myself as something specific—the act of giving credence to what another human thinks about me.

Effectively, selling myself.

I met Bethanny when we were teenagers. She was a cheerleader for my rival high school, and I was a wide receiver on the football team. And to a hormone-riddled teen, she was more than a little pretty.

Dark—practically jet-black—long hair and the most violety-blue eyes I’d ever seen. All she had to do was say two words to me after a game our junior year, and I was smitten.

I was seriously naïve to all the things that make a long-term investment of time and effort worth it, though. I was young, and she was nice and pretty. That was really all I needed to know. I may not look it sometimes, but I’m built for monogamy.

Built for dedicating my life to one woman and the family we create.

Bethanny, however, longs for more. She wants showiness and extravagant vacations and fancy dinner parties and time I was never able to give her.

The last, I feel guilty about—but the rest? We were just a Phillips head screwdriver and an Allen screw. Seems like we’d work, but the fit just wasn’t right.

I jog down the stairs, around the banister, down the hallway, and into the kitchen to a waiting Sarah. Hayden is already at his mom’s house, Blake having driven him home from football practice.

She writes furiously in a notebook—likely outlining her plot to destroy the patriarchy—and doesn’t bother to glance up when I come to a stop beside her.

She has an ice-cold façade, and I pity the soul who one day ventures to crack it.

But, as her dad, I’m so proud of the young woman she is I can hardly stand it.

Her mom is the type of woman that needs and wants a man, but Sarah doesn’t need anybody but herself. Anything else will be a bonus.

“You about ready to go?” I ask, drawing her attention away from her notebook. “Or is your plan for world domination time-sensitive?”

She rolls her eyes. “Everything is time-sensitive these days, Dad. But the guide to my coup is in another notebook. This is the rough draft of my novel.”

“Your novel?”

“Yes.”

“Did I know you were, uh…” I chuckle a little. “Writing one of those?”

I mean, Jesus. This kid is twelve. I’m in so much trouble.

“Only if you’re prophetic. I just started it today.”

“Wow. Good for you, Sar. I can’t wait to read it one day.”

She giggles. “Yeah, I don’t think so. This is a romance novel, and the love scenes aren’t fade-to-black.”

“Love whats aren’t fade to what now?”

“Relax. Human sexuality is natural. It’s the constraints of society that make it out to be something nefarious.”

Human sexuality? What the fuck is happening right now?

“Seriously, Sar. I don’t know that you should be writing scenes about—”

She huffs, jumping down off her stool. “I’ve been reading scenes like that since I was eight, Dad. I hardly think now is the time to get all overprotective.”

Jesus Christ, have I been living under a rock for the last four years?

No, my subconscious mocks. You’ve been living out in the wild, fighting fires.

“Does your mother know?”

She snorts derisively. “Mom thinks I like Barbies and pink cardigans.”

“Is that a no?”

She studies me closely for the first time since I came downstairs in what I have to assume is an attempt to get the upper hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the lines at the sides of her eyes her scrutiny is causing as I take a swig of water from my water bottle, and it starts to make me nervous.

The cords of my throat flex extra hard as I force my swallow through a tight throat.

“What?” I ask, setting the bottle gently on the counter, almost as though any quick movements will startle her into a rage or something. “What is it?”

“Where are you going?”

“What do you mean? I’m taking you to your mom’s.”

She shakes her head, emphasizing, “After that.”

“Nowhere important.”

She narrows her eyes, so I elaborate.

“I just have a…thing.”

“A dressy thing?”

“What? I’m not dressy,” I deny.

“Uh, yeah, you are,” Sarah contests. “You’re wearing a button-down shirt with a collar. A collar, Dad. The only thing saving you from a frantic call from the fashion police is the fact that it’s not a turtleneck.”

“What’s wrong with turtlenecks?”

“Are you seriously asking me that?” she scoffs. “Everything, Dad. Everything is wrong with a man in turtlenecks.”