38. Sometimes Men Kiss Each Other
SOMETIMES MEN KISS EACH OTHER
Mark
Asher and I are at the same table during lunch, but he seems a world away.
He’ll be a transatlantic flight away in a few more days.
And I’ve got to be okay with that.
So I don’t try to talk to him at lunch. Just like I didn’t look at him during the ceremony. It’s too hard. Stirs up too much.
I’ve scarcely seen him since this morning. Don’t want him to know I was about to go full romance flick will you be mine on him.
But I’m not pissed. No point in that. I’m just damn glad I reeled in my hey, let’s do this , since it’ll make it possible for me to handle running into him again in New York whenever that next happens.
Lunch is stunning, though, courtesy of Chef Garnier. True to his word, every morsel is terrific. Even the vegetarian option.
Good thing Hannah and Flip elected to have their wedding happen earlier in the day. In deference to Hannah’s pregnancy, they deliberately planned an event that’s not a booze-soaked late-night fête.
After lunch, we play beach games in the sand—shuffleboard, cornhole and volleyball—and dance under the tent.
I take a spin with Hannah and my mom and Rosie, and wish I could dance with the other best man.
DJ Drake shows up on time and performs exactly as I asked.
Fruit and cheese are served next, with a coffee service just as the cake is cut.
The wedding goes off without a hitch, from the flowers to the cake to the tent. Never have six hours flown by so swiftly. It’s still daylight, but my time in Miami has run out, along with this brief romance.
Guests are leaving. The parking attendants’ pockets are full of tips. The music has ended.
And at the edge of the lawn, my daughter tugs on my hand. “Daddy! Is it time?” She has that crazed look in her eye that children get when they’re on the brink of a Disney World vacation. “Mommy packed my suitcase! She put it in the car.”
“Right.” I glance around the grounds, looking for Asher. And, yeah, saying goodbye is going to be hard. But it’ll be even harder if I can’t find him to do it.
“Daddy, where is your suitcase?”
“In the guest house,” I tell her. “Why don’t you hang out with Mommy for a few more minutes, and I’ll go get it?”
“Hurry, Daddy!”
“I will,” I promise.
With a brisk pace, I head for the tiny house where I’ve had so much fun this week. Fun ?that’s how I’ll have to file this away. When I duck inside the front door, I hear the sound of a zipper in Asher’s room, followed by the sound of a suitcase handle retracting.
Thank fuck. I’ve caught him.
“Hey, Asher? I, uh, came to say goodbye.” I haven’t stumbled on words in days.
A moment later, his face appears in the doorway. He drags his suitcase into the living room with him. “Hell, Banks. I don’t even know what to say. It’s been . . .” He shakes his head, then smiles at me. “It’s been—” He stops. He peers behind me.
“Daddy?”
I whirl around to find Rosie standing in the doorway.
“Are you ready? Is it time for Disney World?”
“In a second,” I say, waiting for her to turn around and leave again.
But no. Rosie enters the house and crosses her arms over her chest. And waits.
Asher lets out an awkward chuckle. “Hey, cutie. Are you going to meet Mickey Mouse?”
“No, Ariel.” She shakes her head. “Mickey is for old people.”
“Ouch,” he says with a genuine laugh.
Ouch is right. My adorable six-year-old is cock-blocking my goodbye kiss. I shouldn’t even be surprised.
This is my real life—Rosie and Disney and heading home afterwards. This was always the plan. Good thing I didn’t get the words out earlier. What was I even thinking?
“So . . .” I clear my throat. “I guess this is it.”
Asher lifts his regal chin and watches me for a beat. “I guess it is.” He takes a step toward me, like he isn’t sure how to proceed either.
We’re obviously not going to make out in front of my kid. But even if Rosie weren’t standing here, I still don’t know what I’d do or say. There’s no instruction book for this. No spreadsheet macro to tell me what comes next.
“Have . . . a great time in Paris,” I manage.
“I’ll try.” He takes a step closer, frowning, like he’s not sure if he should hug me or what.
And I’m no help. I’m just standing here, half stunned at everything that went on between us.
Then Asher thrusts out a hand.
So that’s how this ends—with a goddamn handshake. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. But I grasp his strong hand in mine and squeeze it.
The warmth of his hold only makes me want more. But even that brief touch is over almost immediately. He steps back and sighs. “I’m off, Banks. I’m taking an earlier flight. I have to pack up my life in the next four days.”
“Wow, okay.” I can’t even imagine. “We’ll walk you to the car then.”
“All right.” He gives me a jerky nod.
Barely two minutes later he’s seated in the Porsche. The top is up, though. Our convertible days are truly over. He starts the engine and turns to me one last time through the open window. “You take care of yourself, Banks. I’ll probably see you around. Maybe when the baby is born.”
“Sure,” I say stiffly. I can picture it all too clearly—Asher swooping in from Paris to meet his godson or goddaughter. The two of us nodding awkwardly at each other from either end of Flip and Hannah’s living room.
Before he returns to his Paris lover. Or lovers.
Hell . That’s my new definition of hell.
“Goodbye, Banks.” He locks his gaze to mine. “I won’t ever forget this week. Just saying.”
My stomach does its new fluttering thing again. “Fuck it,” I say under my breath. I lean down to peck his golden-hued cheekbone.
He turns his head again, though, finding my mouth with his. And my peck becomes a kiss. A quick one, but a kiss, nonetheless. Soft lips on mine, one more time.
Then it’s over, and I’m standing upright again, feeling like someone just stepped on my chest with a steel-toed boot.
I back away, holding Rosie’s hand so she isn’t anywhere near the red car as he carefully reverses out of the spot before changing direction again and driving slowly off the property.
And then completely out of sight.
I’m probably not a super-fun dad as I hurriedly pack up my own stuff while Rosie paces. She’s on a roll about Ariel and Snow White, and I try to nod at all the right moments.
Thirty minutes later, I’m strapping Rosie into the booster seat in the back of the Subaru that Bridget rented. She’s handing off the car as well as the kid, and she’ll take a Lyft to the airport tomorrow.
“Daddy?”
“Hmm?” I check the straps to see if they have the right tension. That’s what dads do.
“You kissed that man goodbye.”
Surprised, I lean back and check my daughter’s expression. She stares at me with Bridget’s wide brown eyes.
“Yes, I did,” I say carefully. “Asher and I are close, Rosie. And sometimes men kiss each other. Sometimes men even have boyfriends. A man can have a girlfriend or a boyfriend, just like a woman can have a girlfriend or a boyfriend.”
We have a picture book about this at home, of course. Bridget bought it when Rosie asked why Alba had two mommies.
“Mommy kisses Morgan sometimes,” Rosie says.
“Yes, I’m sure she does. She loves him. And when you love someone—and you have their permission—you can kiss them.”
“Okay,” she says.
This is going pretty well, but I brace myself for another question. And then it comes.
“Can I get frozen cheesecake on a stick?”
“Wait, what?” My mind scrambles to make sense of that question. But nope. I got nothing.
“When Darcy went to Disney World, she ate cheesecake on a stick. Are we going to do that?”
“Uh, maybe? If we see it, and if we ate a good lunch.”
“Okay,” Rosie says simply. “Neat.”
I close the door. Then I climb into the car and start up the engine.
See you later, Miami. It was nice knowing you .