3. Happy Meal Choices #2
The sound brings a smile to my face. “Nice to meet you, Owen McKay.”
It’s hard to tell in the low light, but I swear the tops of his cheeks tint pink. He raps his knuckles on the roof above the door.
“Same.” The word is barely audible, just a whisper as he gently presses the door closed between us.
I spend the whole drive back watching his air freshener sway from the rearview mirror, trying not to notice how ridiculously good our names sound together.
There’s a small apartment above the cafe. Owen carries my bag up the stairs for me and unlocks the door before doubling back to fetch Annabelle from the car, where she’s still sound asleep.
It’s not fancy—a simple two-bedroom with an open-plan layout.
Pictures of Owen with various family and friends hang on the walls, and Annabelle’s art clutters the fridge.
An abandoned game of checkers covers the dining room table, a pile of coloring books rests on one of its chairs.
A few dishes are stacked up next to the sink.
A basket of unfolded laundry holds vigil on the coffee table.
It’s not untidy, just lived in. The whole place radiates a warmth I never felt back home.
My mother hates clutter. Every piece of furniture has to be perfectly staged; the few knick-knacks allowed need to serve a purpose.
She doesn’t stand for messes or, really, any evidence a family lives there.
Stay ready so you don’t have to get ready, is her motto—like we constantly have last-minute, unexpected guests dropping by.
I used to wonder what sins she’d committed in a past life to end up with a child like me.
The antithesis of the careful order she holds dear.
I hover awkwardly near the couch while Owen carries Annabelle inside, disappearing down the hall for so long I start wondering if he fell asleep with her.
I’m debating whether to dig through closets for stuff to make up the couch or if I should pile my extra clothes on top of myself, when a door clicks closed down the hall, and he reappears.
“Sorry about that.”
Owen opens a closet in the hallway, pulls out bedding and a pillow, and sets them in a neat pile beside the laundry on the coffee table before heading into the kitchen.
“She woke up while I was putting her down. Was asking about you.”
“Oh, I could’ve come and tucked her in.” Wow. Way to sound creepy as shit.
He waves me off. “I told her you’d still be here in the morning.”
The look he levels me with says, You better not make a liar out of me. I don’t tell him my bones are so heavy I could probably sink right into this couch and become a permanent piece of furniture. There’d be no moving me.
Opening the fridge, he grabs a beer. “You want one?”
I shake my head, trying not to look horrified. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
I’ve never understood the appeal. The one time I tried it—some cheap brand stolen from my dad’s mini-fridge—I nearly spat it across the room.
It tasted like carbonated regret. After that, I decided I was more of a sugar-and-citrus-cocktail guy.
Someone once told me taste buds reset every seven years, but I’m not feeling brave enough to test the theory now.
He pops the cap off, and takes a long drink before motioning toward the couch. “Go on, sit.”
The sofa’s one of those massive microfiber ones that look firm until you sit down and it swallows you whole. The second I sink into it, my body exhales in relief. Every muscle turns to mush. Owen perches on the far end, elbow on his knee, watching me curiously over the rim of his bottle.
“I’m not going to get an Amber Alert about you, am I?”
I scoff. First of all, I look young but not that young. And second… “You offered me a beer when you’re not even sure I’m over eighteen?”
A flicker of apprehension flashes across his face, and I rush to reassure him.
“Relax. I’m twenty-four. The baby face is both a blessing and a curse.”
“It’s not your face, it’s—” He stops short, lips snapping shut, clearly realizing the end of that sentence might be offensive.
“Don’t worry,” I say, smirking. “I’m aware I’m vertically challenged. Might want to brush up on those parenting skills, however, before little miss hits her teenage years. You don’t want to get in trouble for offering her friends alcohol.”
He grimaces and hides behind another sip.
For some reason, the expression knots something in my chest. I’m suddenly overcome with the need to tell him I was joking.
That I might have only just met him, but I already know, with absolute certainty, he’s the best father in the world.
The gold standard, in fact. The love he has for that little girl shines through everything he does, and she’s so damn lucky to have him in her life.
I wish I could be so lucky.
Instead, all that spills out is, “You seem like a great dad.”
A flicker of confusion crosses his face, eyes darting back to Annabelle’s door. “Oh. I’m not her father.”
“You sure about that?” I nod toward a framed photo on the shelf. His and Annabelle’s faces are pressed cheek to cheek: matching smiles, same dimple, same striking green eyes. “Pretty sure she’s your DNA copy-paste.”
This seems to make him happy.
“She’s my niece. My sister’s been struggling the last few years. Depression mostly. Annabelle’s sperm donor walked out on them while she was pregnant, and the birth was hard. She never really recovered.”
His gaze flicks towards another picture, further to the right.
A miniature version of Annabelle sits in a diaper on the knee of a woman I presume is her mother.
She’s beautiful, clearly the younger sibling, though not by much.
Dark hair falls over one shoulder as she looks down at her infant daughter—the smile on her face not enough to mask the profound sadness in her eyes.
“She’s been working hard to get better, but progress with this sort of thing is never linear. She checked into a more intensive treatment facility a few months ago, so Annabelle is with me full-time for a bit.”
It’s the most words he’s said in one go since we met, and the realization hits him. Color creeps up his neck, tinging his cheeks. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for. After all you’ve done for me today, the least I can do is listen.”
He gives me a small, grateful smile. “You’re probably tired.”
I’d been tired before, but that was the physical kind—my body sore and begging for sleep.
My mind, however, rarely gets the memo. Even bone-dead, it keeps running, flipping through every thought, every worry, every random memory like it’s on shuffle and won’t turn off.
Most nights, I scrape together a few hours of sleep at most before it’s dragging me back awake.
Now, sitting here, the low rumble of his voice wraps around me.
It doesn’t quiet my thoughts entirely, but it smooths the edges, slows the endless hum enough that I can feel the last of my muscles start to relax.
I want to curl against that voice. Snuggle into it.
Lose myself in its rise and fall. Drift off, memorizing every inflection.
Instead, I force myself upright, grab the sheets from the coffee table, and go to make up the couch.
“I’ve got it,” he says, stopping me. “You take the bed. I’ll sleep out here.”
“Oh, this is fine. I’ve already disturbed your evening enough. I’ve been sleeping in my car the last few nights. Trust me, this sofa will feel like a luxury compared to that. A real bed will spoil me completely.”
He sighs, walking to me and planting his hands on my shoulders to turn me toward his bedroom door.
My mind short-circuits a little at the expanse and firmness of them.
Tattoos run over every finger except his ring finger, thick like sausages.
It’s a testament to how exhausted I am—and possibly how little rational thought I have left—that I get fixated on the idea of sucking one of those fingers into my mouth.
Begging him to push in a second, to fuck those two digits in and out like—
I shutter the thought before it overwhelms me, and I do something downright embarrassing, letting him guide me into his room.
There’s a massive bed in the center, neatly made, with more fluffy throw pillows than a bachelor should own.
He digs through his closet, pulls out a large T-shirt and some sweats, and offers them to me like a present.
I must not react fast enough, because he goes to pull them back. “I thought you might like something clean to wear…not that you’re dirty…just…”
“I am, and thank you.” I cut him off, taking the stack to spare him any more misery tonight. “Actually, would you mind if I use your shower before bed? Warm water is hard to come by on the road.”
I’m a little horrified by the thought of slipping between his sheets in my current state.
“Please.” He ushers me into the ensuite, quickly showing me where he keeps extra toothbrushes and towels, then treats me to a comprehensive demonstration of how to use the world’s most generic shower.
“You’re sure you don’t mind me stealing your bed?” I ask again, praying now I’ve seen it, he won’t take it away from me.
“I have to get up pretty early to open the cafe. This way I won’t disturb you, and you can lock the door so Annabelle doesn’t crawl in with you in the middle of the night.”
I nod, and he starts to leave. As he crosses the threshold, he looks back. “I’m glad you’re here, Finley. I get the feeling you haven’t heard that in a while.”
He’s gone before I can respond that, honestly, I don’t think I’ve heard that ever.
Which is probably for the best.