Chapter 9
The Matter Progresses Favorably
Vince
Andy asks me to have lunch with him tomorrow, and I can't stop thinking about it. He's adorable when he asks. It's like he almost doesn't have the nerve to say it.
I can tell I make him a little nervous, though I don't know why.
Andy seems headstrong, outspoken, able to take my jokes without flinching, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he fires back with that dry wit that's caught me off guard more than once.
His hesitation isn't about that; it's something deeper, a vulnerability that flickers behind his carefully composed expression when he thinks I'm not looking.
I've noticed how he straightens his already impeccable shirt when I approach, how he runs a hand through his blonde hair in a gesture that's both casual and calculated.
It's in these small moments that I see the cracks in his armor, the parts of him that remain hidden from the rest of the world but seem to surface when I'm near.
And then he goes and occasionally surprises me out of nowhere, like how he flirted with me at the concession table today.
I replay the moment—the way his fingers brushed against mine when we both reached for the same bottle of water, the deliberate lingering that sent electricity shooting up my arm.
His voice dropped an octave when he leaned in to whisper something about the catering, his breath warm against my ear, and for a split second, I forgot where we were, forgot about the cameras rolling just feet away, forgot about Samantha waiting for me at home.
I fantasize about throwing him onto the plates of food and devouring him like one of those Caesar wraps I'd watched him devour a few days ago.
The thought comes unbidden, vivid and visceral.
I can almost taste the salt on his skin, feel the way his muscles would tense beneath my touch, hear the breathy sounds he might make.
I imagine the shock on his face, followed by something else—maybe surprise, maybe delight, maybe both—as I press him against the table, the plastic forks and paper plates scattering around us.
The fantasy is so intense that I have to physically shake my head to clear it, my heart racing as I realize just how far gone I am.
It's not just attraction anymore; it's a hunger that gnaws at me, a craving that grows stronger with every shared glance, every accidental touch, every conversation that feels more intimate than the last.
"Hey, Dad," Malia says from the passenger seat, eyes glued to her phone as I drive her back to her mom. Kaitlynn has some reading group meeting tonight, so I get taxi duty.
"What's up?"
"You seem weird lately."
I laugh, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. You've been spacing out a lot. I feel like you're not telling me something."
I glance over at her, the city lights smearing across her profile as we speed down the freeway.
Malia takes after me in a lot of ways, and one of those ways is her ability to read people like a book.
It sucks when the tables are turned, when I'm the one being read instead of doing the reading.
Her gaze lingers on me for a moment too long, those intelligent eyes—so much like her mother's—narrowing slightly as if she's cataloging every micro-expression, every subtle shift in my posture that I've spent years mastering to hide from the world.
I can feel her probing, dissecting, and suddenly I'm hyper-aware of the tension in my shoulders, the way my fingers grip the steering wheel just a fraction too tight.
The car feels too small, too confined, with her knowing presence filling every corner.
I've taught her too well, I realize with a pang of something like regret. She's learned from the master how to spot the cracks in someone's carefully constructed facade, and now she's turning that skill on me.
"Seriously," she presses. "And how come you haven't talked much about your TV project? You usually never shut up about work."
I sigh. "It's going well. Gary's on it. Todd's on it. Just dumb improv stuff, nothing special."
"This is the Relay show, right?"
"Yep."
"Did they find a new co-host after you got punched? So embarrassing, by the way."
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel, knuckles going white. "Yeah."
"What's his name? How's it going?"
I bite my lip. Shit.
"Andy. The matter progresses favorably."
She finally looks up from her phone, eyebrows knitting together. "...The matter progresses favorably?"
"Yes."
She laughs and rolls her eyes, the sound sharp in the confined space. "Oh my God, you're being so fucking weird, Dad."
"How?" I blurt out, the word escaping before I can stop it.
"You never shut up, and now you're barely talking. It's definitely because of Andy, isn't it?"
I tighten my grip on the wheel, and her grin widens.
"Holy shit, it is because of Andy!"
"Andy is doing a fine job. Things are fine. It's all fine. I don't know what you're trying to pull out of me, sweetheart."
Her eyes are locked on the side of my face, and I hate how much she's enjoying this.
"Are you just making fun of him all day? Please tell me you're not torturing some poor guy who's just trying to work."
"No," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "He's good. He plays along, makes it funny. Honestly, I think it'll edit great. And he's not even into acting, he's just doing it for the paycheck. He's a yoga instructor."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"He's a yoga instructor."
The heat crawls up my neck, flooding my face. My ears are on fire. Malia's smirk stretches impossibly wide, a predator that's just cornered its prey.
"Wow, Dad."
"What?"
"Nothing." Her eyes gleam with unspoken questions as she turns back to her phone, leaving me to stew in my own embarrassment.
I've never explicitly told my daughters I'm bi, but it's not the first time I've suspected Malia knows.
She's always been too perceptive for her own good, picking up on the little things I try to keep buried.
As she gets older, the questions she doesn't ask become more telling than the ones she does.
Her eyes follow me sometimes when I think no one's watching, cataloging my reactions, filing away information for future use.
It's a gift, really, the way she reads people, but right now, in this car, it feels more like a curse.
I can feel her brain working, connecting dots I've carefully scattered, and I wonder what picture she's forming in that brilliant mind of hers.
The thought makes my throat go dry, and I have to force myself to keep breathing, to keep my eyes on the road, to pretend I don't feel her gaze burning a hole in the side of my head.
"Dad, just do me a favor and don't embarrass me.
My friends all watch your stuff. I'm trying to live my life here.
" The words come out sharp, edged with the kind of teenage exasperation I've grown accustomed to but still can't quite predict.
I glance over at her, at the way her fingers fly across her phone screen, at the determined set of her jaw that reminds me so much of her mother when she's digging her heels in about something.
"Calm down. I won't." The response feels inadequate even as I say it, a hollow promise I'm not sure I can keep. My focus shifts back to the road.
She glares at me, the heat of her stare practically burning a hole in the side of my face. "I don't believe you." The accusation hangs in the air between us. She knows me too well.
"Okay, fine. I'll try. How about that?" I offer, the words tasting like defeat. It's the most honest I can be right now, the most I can promise without knowing exactly what she's afraid I'll do next.
"Hey, can I meet Andy sometime? He seems cool. I want to make sure you're not torturing him."
The question comes out of nowhere, casual yet calculated, a carefully aimed dart that finds its mark with terrifying precision.
My heart shoots into my throat, a frantic bird beating against my ribs as I struggle to maintain composure. The thought of Malia and Andy in the same room, of her razor-sharp gaze dissecting every interaction, analyzing every micro-expression, sends a chill down my spine.
"Uh." I cough, choking on my own saliva as I fumble for a response that won't betray too much.
"'Uh'?" she mocks, laughing, the sound sharp and triumphant. "Seriously, are you okay, Dad?" Her eyes gleam with knowing amusement.
I clear my throat as I pull into Kaitlynn's driveway, the tires crunching softly on the gravel as I shift into park. The house is dark save for a single light burning in what I assume is the kitchen window.
"Malia, stop obsessing over my life."
It's a desperate attempt to regain control of a conversation that's slipping away from me, to redirect her attention back to the safety of her own world where I'm just the embarrassing dad.
Where I'm not the man whose thoughts are consumed by a blonde yoga instructor with eyes the color of the summer sky.
She laughs, a dry, knowing sound. "You wish. I couldn't care less. Just so you know, I'm onto you, old man." She grabs her backpack, a canvas of trinkets and pins, and swings the car door open.
Her nails catch the streetlight as she hoists her backpack—long, acrylic things with tiny plastic bows and rhinestones glittering at the tips.
I catch myself staring at the ridiculous knee-high pink boots with their chunky heels, the sweater drowning her frame.
Is this what passes for fashion these days, or has my daughter simply perfected her own brand of weird?
I make a mental note to have a word with Kaitlynn about her wardrobe supervision.
She turns back before closing the door, pointing two fingers at her eyes, then swinging them toward me in that mock warning she's perfected since she was twelve.
My response is instinctual, a middle finger raised without a second thought.
She returns it with equal fervor before I blow her a kiss, a gesture she catches with theatrical flair, pressing it dramatically against her heart.
That's our thing. The kiss, not the finger. My chest tightens with an emotion too vast for words as she disappears into the house, leaving me alone in the quiet darkness of the driveway.
My girls.
They're everything.