Chapter 25
Nuclear Winter Toast
Vince
Sunday morning hazes my senses as I cook breakfast for the girls, and I know they'll notice. Two rounds of toast already burn because I set the toaster to "bagel," and the dishcloth nearly catches fire when I flip the bacon.
I feel like an idiot.
I grab four more slices and load them into the oversized toaster while stirring the eggs, absentmindedly grabbing a fresh fork instead of the one already used. It's right there on the counter next to the sink, but apparently, my brain isn't functioning.
Oh well. I'll probably be the one doing the dishes anyway.
Kaitlynn always says I do too much for the girls, but how can I not spoil them?
They're both moving out soon. This is it—the end of raising kids for me.
The last few years fill with sporadic weekends and text messages, and now even that will slip away.
I remember when they were little, how Malia would demand I make her pancakes in the shape of dinosaurs every Sunday morning, how Tina would refuse to eat anything unless I told her a silly story about her scrambled eggs being little yellow clouds.
Those days felt endless then, stretching out like an open road before me.
Now I'm standing at the edge of that road, watching it disappear into the horizon.
The thought of empty rooms, of silent Sunday mornings, of holidays spent alone in this house that's always been too big for just one person—it's a quiet ache that settles deep in my bones, a hollow space where laughter used to echo.
I feel like a bad father. I always feel like a bad father.
I would do anything for those girls. They could walk all over me, and I wouldn't care.
What was I doing again? Oh, right. Eggs.
And, shit! Not the bagel setting again! My third attempt at edible toast this morning.
I launch myself across the kitchen, slapping the "cancel" button with enough force to make the appliance shudder.
Four pieces of bread rocket out, doing a surprisingly graceful mid-air ballet before showering the counter like confetti.
They've got that lovely shade of "nuclear winter" around the edges. Honestly, I know what's wrong with me.
Andy is what's wrong with me.
Somewhere along the way, I fall in love with Andrew Parker, and I can't stop thinking about him.
Initially, I'm drawn to his striking presence, a fact I admit with some self-awareness.
I've always appreciated aesthetics, but Andrew disrupts my usual focus.
His appearance—the way his hair falls, the form-fitting clothes that outline his lean frame, the intensity of his blue eyes—catches my attention.
More compelling, though, is his complete indifference he's always had to my reputation or status.
That challenging attitude he projected when we first met... there's an undeniable appeal to it. In those early encounters, I found myself operating less on pure intellect and more on instinct. A deeper, more primal part of me responds to him, bypassing my usual filters.
Somewhere along the line, our friendship deepened, though I can't pinpoint the moment when the shift happened. All I know is that it's bad now: daydreams that won't quit, thoughts spiraling into fantasies that extend far beyond the bedroom, morphing into something far more dangerous.
Romance.
The way he laughs when I say something stupid—a condescending sound that somehow carries kindness. The way his eyes find mine afterward, wide and soft, as if surprised I could elicit such a response in the first place.
The way he genuinely listens when I go off about books, even when he clearly doesn't understand half of what I'm saying. How he crafts clever responses just to make me laugh, his mind working in ways that make my day.
The way he smiles. Smirks. Rolls his eyes like he's annoyed, though he can't suppress the grin that follows immediately after. Every smile, every smirk, every eye-roll melts me, playing in my head on an endless loop.
Did I put salt in the eggs? No clue.
I throw some in, then pepper for good measure, my hands moving on autopilot while my mind remains occupied elsewhere—with him.
I like the way he calls me a dork, the word landing with unexpected affection.
I like the way he tells me things, real things, trusting me to hold them. The way he listens to mine without flinching, no matter how awful they sound, no matter how deeply they reveal my flaws.
I like how his eyes light up when I ask dumb questions about his yoga studio plans, even though I barely grasp the business side of things. His ambition, his passion, his drive to be more. All of these qualities shine through, making him incredible in ways I can't fully articulate.
God, he is incredible. And somehow, I don't feel worthy of him.
"You better not be making eggs and bacon after I texted you three days ago that I'm vegan now, Dad," Malia's groggy voice calls from the stairs, the words thick with sleep and accusation.
"You can eat the toast," I call back, the spatula scraping against the pan. "Tina and I will handle the eggs and bacon."
She appears in the doorway, glaring, her frame silhouetted against the morning light. "You probably toasted non-vegan bread with butter on top, didn't you? How is that fair? Why are you being such an asshole, Dad?"
The spatula clatters into the pan, grease spattering as I spin around. "What the hell did you just say to me?"
"You heard me." She grabs her purse from the entryway, her stare a direct challenge.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"I'm gonna go hang out with Devon and get some actual food for breakfast," Malia says, slinging her purse over her shoulder with dramatic flair, the movement sharp.
"Why don't you invite Devon over? Have him bring something," I suggest, trying to keep my tone even, the words tasting like ash.
"Why? So you can embarrass the hell out of me by ruining it somehow? Devon's vegan too, you know."
Before I can respond, Tina wanders out of her room, looking like she's had the best sleep of her life. "Oh my God, it smells so fucking good in here! Wait... is something burning?"
"Nothing's burning," I say quickly, even though the faint smell of over-toasted bread still hangs in the air, a ghost of my incompetence.
"You girls need to stop swearing so much, or you're gonna get me in trouble," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. The gray strands seem to multiply every weekend, a visible record of my stress. I can almost feel them sprouting as I stand there, watching my oldest daughter challenge my sanity.
"Boys don't like it when girls swear all the time, you know."
Malia rolls her eyes so hard I think they might get stuck, then grabs a magazine from the counter near the door and lobs it at me. I dodge it, staring at her in disbelief, the glossy pages fluttering to the floor.
"Oh my God... Malia!" Tina's jaw drops as she grins. "I can't believe you just threw something at him."
Malia smirks, clearly enjoying her younger sister's admiration, the tilt of her chin a clear victory.
"You're setting a terrible example for your sister right now," I scowl, pointing an accusing finger at her.
"You're treating me like a child, so I'm acting like a child for you." Her voice is calm, but her eyes are locked on mine, daring me to respond.
Then she grabs my car keys from the entryway, the metal jingling softly in her hand.
"Malia, don't you dare take my car again!" I yell, all attempts at keeping calm abandoned, the words sharp in the quiet kitchen.
She holds the keys up, taunting me, the metal catching the light. "Guess I'll act like an adult and go get breakfast. Bye."
"Malia!" I shout as she opens the front door, the sound echoing in the sudden silence.
She steps outside without hesitation, letting the door swing shut behind her, the click of the latch a final, definitive sound.
I stand there, stunned, staring at the empty space where she'd been. The air still hums with her defiance, the echo of the door clicking shut reverberating through the kitchen.
Tina, still grinning, casually grabs a piece of toast from the table, her movements languid in the aftermath of Malia's storm. She takes a bite, the crunch loud in the sudden quiet.
"Bold move, Dad," she says, shaking her head, her eyes dancing with amusement. "Really solid parenting right there."
I groan, the sound tearing from my throat as I sink into one of the kitchen chairs, the wood groaning beneath me. "Remind me why I wanted kids."
Tina shrugs, a delicate lift of her shoulders that feels both dismissive and knowing. "Because Mom convinced you it'd be fun?"
I look at her, already regretting the question, the weight of my failure settling heavy in my gut. "You're not helping."
She grabs another slice of toast, raising it in a mock toast, the crust held between her fingers like a tiny flag of surrender. "Here's to surviving breakfast."
My head sinks into my hands, palms pressing hard against my temples as if I can physically push away the image of new scratches appearing on my car's pristine surface—each one a permanent reminder of my inadequacy.
The morning light filtering through the kitchen windows suddenly feels too bright, exposing every crack in my carefully constructed facade of fatherhood.
I'm outplayed again, not by a business rival or a studio executive, but by my own daughter. The thought settles in my stomach like lead: this isn't just about a stolen car or burnt toast; it's about the widening chasm between us, one I seem incapable of bridging no matter how hard I try.