4. Braxton
4
brAXTON
I ’m just finishing breakfast with my daughter when my phone rings. Charles. It’s an easy answer.
“Hello, my friend. What can I do for you this morning?” My voice grumbles against the crumbs from my toast.
Charles laughs. “More, what I can do for you this morning, Brax. My daughter’s available as a potential babysitter. I know you’re struggling to find one for that conference in Boston you have next month.”
I lean back in my chair and smile, sipping my orange juice and sharing a pleased look with my daughter. She smiles brightly as she chews.
“If it’s your suggestion, I’d better take it. Who have you got lined up for me?”
“My daughter, Sofia, of course. She’ll need to bring Noah, but he’s so well-behaved.” He sounds as adoring as ever. An only child and only grandchild bring the sentimentality out of the man.
“You sure she’s got the time? I thought you said she was just starting her senior year.”
“She is, and she already said she’ll take the job. I’ll send you her number. She wants you to text her.”
I laugh at the incredulity in his voice, knowing how much he hates to text. “That’s fine. My daughter is eleven. I’m used to it.”
Birdie sticks her tongue out at me, but she’s smiling and clearing her plate in her next breath.
“Dish in the washer, then go brush your teeth.”
Now, my daughter rolls her eyes at me. “I know, Dad.”
I grin into the phone. “Thanks, Charles.”
“You got it. Like to be helpful when I can. Call on me this weekend for a drink.”
“Will do.” I set the phone down and finish my meal and my morning routine, which ends in dropping my baby girl off at school. She’s been struggling with her classmates, feeling alone, and I wish I could do something to help her with it.
Birdie waves and trots into class with her canvas portfolio awkwardly balanced under her arm. I watch her until the doors close her up then make my way to the faculty parking lot outside the Fine Arts building.
In my office, I send Sofia a quick text.
This is Braxton, your father’s friend. I’d like you to meet my daughter before hiring you to watch her. When are you free?
I read it over, decide I sound like the old man I am, and send it. I’m done trying to fit in with the twenty-somethings I teach. There’s no keeping up with their ever-evolving language and culture.
Yeah, I totally get that. My evenings are pretty open.
Rubbing the stubble on my chin, I take a chance and ask her if she’s available for dinner tonight. It’s short notice, but I’d rather know sooner rather than later if I have to keep looking.
Sure, my last class lets out at five. Is that a good time?
It’s perfect.
I send her my address and dive into the syllabi of my two classes today, Design 101 and Color Theory.
The first day runs smoothly. Freshman classes are pretty basic to start off with, and Color Theory brings me a nice mix of more serious artists. I always enjoy watching their styles develop throughout the semester.
I stop at the grocery store on the way to pick up Birdie. She’s quiet on the ride home, and that deep worry about her and the things I can’t protect her from flares up when I usher her inside. She goes to hide in her room.
I mean, I get it. She’s a pre-teen. I’m not her friend. I’m her dad. But that doesn’t take the heartache away when she’s upset and I can’t do anything about it.
Sighing, I get to work on dinner, something easy that I know tastes good. I wouldn’t want her running off because the food is bad. A rich, thick beef stew should do the trick. I don’t have to overthink it.
It makes me glad I didn’t pick a more complicated meal when she arrives early. Takes after her father, that one. Fifteen minutes early or you’re late.
“Hey.” I offer her my warmest smile when I answer the door.
Big blue eyes meet mine from behind her thick glasses. The striped navy-blue romper is embroidered with silver thread, creating delicate leaves and roses that make her creamy skin a bit pinker. And she has a lot of it on display.
“Hey.” Her voice is light and friendly.
I look to the floor and step back, waving her inside. “Dinner’s about done. Let me call Birdie down.”
Sofia steps in past me, and I get a whiff of a sweet perfume she must have put on this morning. It’s subtle, faded from the hours, but it brings me back to a time before I had so many responsibilities.
Before I got married, had a kid, and my wife abandoned us. A simpler time.
Shaking myself free of the nostalgia, I close the door and call Birdie down. I’m surprised to see more curiosity than disdain when she encounters Sofia standing there. And the smile Sofia lays on her is clear, open, and bright.
“Hey. You must be Birdie.” Sofia extends her hand. “I’m Sofia.”
Birdie shakes her hand, and I dip back into the kitchen.
“Oh, my gosh, are you a painter?”
That pings my radar, leaning me over the counter in wonder at how she could know that.
“How did you know?” My daughter’s voice is soft with awe.
Sofia laughs. It’s quiet and intimate. “The blue smudge by your elbow. It’s not cracking, so it must be a premium paint. That means you take it seriously.”
“I do.”
“Take after your dad, huh?” She bends down like she’s going to confide in her, blonde hair falling over her shoulder. “Me, too. Only my dad likes ethics and morality. You know what that is?”
“Like rules?”
“Oh, yeah, rules. It meant I didn’t have many, but the ones I had were serious.” Sofia takes my daughter’s hand and leads her to the kitchen table in the breakfast nook, sharing a knowing look with me.
Yes, show off. You’re off to a good start . I bite back my smile, but she sees it and winks.
“Your dad said dinner will be ready soon, but afterward, would you show me what you’re working on?” She sits beside Birdie at the square table, the sun peeking through the curtains highlighting her hair with gold.
She’s a much more mature version of my former student—a fresh-faced freshman and newly-minted mom. This Sofia is a grown woman. An obviously good mom with the way she interacts with Birdie. I’m already convinced she’ll be great for Birdie in a lot of the ways I can’t be.
I turn to the pot of stew, distracting myself from the path those thoughts want to lead.
Once we each have our meal and are settled in, I simply sit back and observe. They’ve maintained a steady flow of conversation, and Birdie keeps making her excited face.
I try not to simply stare at Sofia, and I know I’m failing when she sends me a squinty smile. I lift my brows at her, impressed.
Sofia taps Birdie’s bowl. “Finish that so you can show me your room.”
She does as she’s told, her dark hair falling in her face. I reach over and tuck it behind her ear. Normally, Birdie would bat my hand away. She doesn’t.
Sofia turns to me. “I’ve been trying to up my game with product design. I work for a subscription box service, and every element needs to have a purpose and do its job. It’s a lot, but it’s so much fun to piece it all together. I thought you might appreciate the process.”
She flips open her phone and swivels it toward me. “Sorry for phones at dinner, but it’s not something a lot of my classmates really get.”
I pull her phone closer and peer at the product photos she’s pulled up.
The composition is appealing, an open pink and cream box with a furry white fabric draped around it. Brightly-colored beauty products are placed carefully inside the box, propped upright by pink crinkle paper. Each item seems to work together, even if I have no idea what some of them are.
I flick my eyes up to catch her gaze. Her shoulders pull back as she smirks at me. “What do you think? Did I miss anything?”
Shaking my head, I can’t see anything. The only way I could think to sell them better doesn’t apply to this kind of photoshoot. “Do you have any photos of the items being used?”
“Not photos, just short videos, but I suppose still images can be pulled from those.”
“They can, but it would be better to control the background, the lighting, the general composition in a traditional shoot instead.”
Sofia taps her lips with her fingertip. “You’re probably right. Hmm. Another thing for my to-do list.”
I can’t help my laugh. “The single parent to-do list is never-ending.”
“Boy, you’ve got that right.”
“It would be interesting to see how a subscription box would perform differently with traditional marketing photography versus short-form video versus simply showcasing your use of what’s included in long-form content. I assume you create that as well?” I spear a soft piece of meat and let it melt across my tongue as I give her the time to answer.
“I do, but not like most of what you see on social media. My long form is currently focused on my thesis project.” Her head tips to the side, blonde hair falling away from the way her neck elongates. “I do actually use some of that stuff regularly, and I could pull from my backlog of raw footage. It’s a bit more like product placement in that regard.”
“Yes. Don’t call intense attention to the item, just show it in use during something people already want to see. The subconscious does wonders with it.” I bite back my smile as my daughter groans into her bowl. “You can have control of the conversation back once you’re done with your dinner.”
Another spoonful fills her mouth, and Birdie chews meaningfully at me.
I bop her on the nose. “Precisely.”
“Don’t you think we become immune to it eventually? Every part of our lives is saturated with products and advertising.” She takes another bite, an orange carrot slipping past her lips in a way that makes me pause.
Okay, the image of her sliding other things into her mouth is not appropriate, Braxton. You are old enough to be her father. She’s your best friend’s daughter, for Christ’s sake.
Pressing my mouth into a firm line, I nod. “Yes. You’re right.”
I cringe at the gravel breaking in my voice. Her brow raises.
“We do become immune. Consider it the final hit in a combo. You see the usual ads, you hear about what it does, you recognize it, and then comes someone you’re watching in either a fantasy or living the kind of life you want, and you see the product again. Then, bam , you either realize how badly you want it or your restraint is broken by an impulse. And they’ve got you.”
Her head falls back, and laughter pours from her. She’s so unadulterated in her joy that I can scarcely breathe. When she wipes her eyes and meets my gaze, her smile is soft and delicious. “Well, you’re certainly right about that.”
She winks at Birdie. “I’ve fallen prey to that more times than I want to admit.”
My daughter’s smile is huge on her face. She’s almost finished with her dinner, so I peg Sofia with one more question. “What’s your thesis project about?”
Sofia wiggles in her seat, straightening again. “It’s a point of view documentary of my life during my senior year. A mix of artistic flair in the editing to make something not quite content and not quite serious. The perfect blend of me.”
“Who's your advisor?”
“Professor Trevino.”
My brows go up. I know him, of course. Many of our students and studies cross over, but he rarely takes on students for this kind of thing. Most of them are too scared of him to ask.
“I see you know him.” Her amusement crinkles her features, and she turns to Birdie to explain. “He’s a bit of a hard ass. But I like the pressure. It’s how I thrive.”
“You must have made one hell of a proposal for him to get onboard.”
“I did.” I swear that twinkle in her eyes is meant to tease and test me. “He and I talk about advertisements at the end of most of our meetings. It’s his geek button.”
And I bet she knows just how to push it.
Birdie stands from her spot, bowl empty. “Can I show Sofia my room now?”
“You may.”
Birdie turns to Sofia with the question in her eyes. Sofia holds her finger up, takes the last bite of her stew, and gathers their bowls to rinse in the sink before she lets Birdie lead her upstairs.
I clean the rest of the mess from dinner as their giggles waft down to me.
It has me closing my eyes and letting the slight pleasure take over. Two years I’ve been struggling to be both dad and mom to Birdie after her mom ran off. And here Sofia is, sweet, smart, strong, sure of herself. The kind of mom I wish Birdie had.
The kind of woman I miss having in my life.
I sigh, pulling myself back out of my fantasies. They’re not something I can dwell in without corrupting the reality of this situation. Sofia is the perfect sitter for Birdie.
Exactly what she needs.
What we need.
It’s nearly three-quarters of an hour before Sofia descends the stairs. The pride is evident on her face when she turns to where I’m leaning against the counter by the sink, still stuck in place even though everything’s put away and clean.
Too many thoughts have rampaged through me to have gotten me far.
“She is brilliant.”
“I agree.” Now that I’m looking at Sofia, it’s hard to tear my gaze away again. She practically glows. Vibrant.
“You’ve done a good job with her.” The best compliment a parent can receive.
“I can’t take credit. She’s a good kid.”
The silence between us isn’t awkward, but tension trails down my spine as those thoughts I’ve been forcing away start to creep back. The way she bites her pouty lower lip doesn’t help.
I clear my throat. “Did you need a ride home?”
“No. That’s okay. Dad will be here in the next ten minutes.”
That’s right. Her dad. Your best friend. You fucking pig.
“I’ll just help Birdie clean up before I go.”
Knowingly, I grab a roll of paper towels and a bag and offer them to her.
Her hands are soft and warm as she takes them from me. “Thanks.”
I’m able to keep from ogling those long legs as she climbs the stairs again, thankful that merely staying in place keeps me from it. I’d be a goner otherwise.
God, it’s been too long.
Two pairs of feet thunder down the stairs, and Birdie gives Sofia a big hug before the headlights from Charles arriving flash into the front windows.
“I’ll see you both again soon, alright?”
I open the door for Sofia, offering her my hand to shake on her way out, even though I could use a hug just as badly. “Thank you, Sofia.”
Her smile is big and genuine. “Any time. And I mean that.”
When she walks out the door and bounces down the steps, a pang hits me like the one I had when my wife did the same thing two years ago.