Sweater Weather & Soccer Daddy
Chapter twenty-six
Eslin
I’m doing this. I am actually doing this. Enacting my friendship mode with Grant. Being a grown-up about our boundaries. Proving it can be done by accepting his invitation to join him and his daughter for a friendly, no-big-deal dinner.
But first, I need a pep-talk.
“Happy Holidays! Welcome to HollyDates!”
“Happy Holidays, Holly, girl!”
Yes, I say it now without giving her a hard time. At least it’s October.
She’s even transformed the place for the time of year. HollyDates in the fall is what I imagine heaven looks like for women who hoard throw pillows and pumpkin-scented candles. The whole café looks like it was personally blessed by the Autumn Fairy.
There are copper lanterns lining the entryway and mums in every shade of burnt orange and burgundy crowding the window boxes. The usual pastel color scheme has been temporarily replaced with deep maroons, mustard golds, and forest greens. And there are pumpkins everywhere. So many pumpkins.
A fake leaf garland frames the coffee bar, with twinkle lights tucked between the branches, and the chalkboard menu has been redone with curly handwriting that says things like Cinnamon Sugar Bliss and Sweater Weather Latte.
It’s obnoxiously cozy. Sickeningly charming. And entirely on-brand for Holly.
“Hey Eslin! Funny seeing you here on a Sunday morning!”
“I know, but lots happening and I needed to chat. Do you have a minute?”
I’m not usually the type to spill my deepest secrets with girlfriends. I never passed notes in class about the boy I was secretly obsessed with. Never saw the point in dissecting every glance or overanalyzing a crush when you didn’t even know if he’d remember your name a week later.
But lately, my brain’s been uncooperative, to say the least. Unpredictable. Loud.
And when that happens, apparently, I do what normal women do.
I gab.
I gush.
I dish.
“Sure, honey! What’s going on?”
“First,” I say, sliding onto my usual stool, “can I try a sweet potato scone and a nutmeg latte, please?”
“Coming right up!” Holly grins, darting behind the counter like she’s been waiting all week for this drama drop.
“So, I decided to try being friends with—”
She gasps mid-steam, eyes wide. “Soccer Daddy?”
I laugh. “Is that what we’re calling him now?”
“That’s what I call him,” she says with a shrug. And honestly, I think I might start calling him that, too.
“Yes,” I sigh. “I’ve decided to try being friends with Soccer Daddy. And I’m joining him and Marlow for dinner tonight.”
She hands me my warm scone with the kind of care reserved for holy offerings. “I mean, I get it. Being his friend makes sense. But what made you decide to actually go over there for dinner? You think you can handle that?”
“I can handle it,” I say, lifting my chin. “I just don’t know how to act around him without Marlow picking up on the tension.”
“Masturbate,” she says with a straight face, without missing a beat.
“…What?”
“Masturbate,” she repeats, like she’s giving me medical advice. “It’s the only way to make sure there’s no tension when you’re around him. You gotta get it out of your system.”
“Okay, first of all—I’ve tried that. And if you’re calling him Soccer Daddy, then you know why that doesn’t work. The man is sex on a platter with a billion-dollar pension.”
“Right. My bad,” she says. “So then maybe cancel dinner. Because if the tension’s as bad as you’re claiming, you’re gonna end up being the dessert.”
I shake my head. “Wow. So helpful. I’m so glad I came to talk to you.”
She plants a hand on her hip. “Look, I’m not the friend who gives a gentle pep talk your delusional ass isn’t ready for. I see the way your eyes dart and your breathing shifts when you talk about him. You do not belong in close quarters with a man that tempting.”
“You underestimate my ability to resist temptation,” I say, trying—and failing—to sound convincing.
She arches a brow. “Then why are you here? Asking me how to handle it?”
I lower my head in mock shame. “Because I’m afraid I’ll crawl under the dining room table and take his dick into my mouth when Marlow isn’t looking!”
“Exactly, pumpkin.” She says.
She doesn’t have to be all smug about it.
I sigh, defeated. “Okay. So what do I do?”
She leans in with the seriousness of someone giving state secrets. “You’re gonna go to dinner. You’re gonna smile, say polite things, and focus on Marlow, your friend.”
I nod. “I can do that.”
“And when dinner’s over,” she levels me with a stare that could stop traffic, “you do not stay for coffee. Or wine. Or a casual chat about your dreams. You hear me?”
“Why not? Wouldn’t that be rude?”
“Under normal circumstances? Yes. But you, sweetheart, have a full-blown inferno in your vagina, and you do not need the social lubricant.”
I snort-laugh. “Got it. No social lubricant.”
“And then you go home. You light a candle, take a breath, and masturbate again. Because you will definitely need it.”
“You’re right,” I sigh. “And damn, these scones are amazing.”
“You’re welcome,” she says smugly.
I take my drink to go, and head home. Off to scrub my walls and distract myself from the inevitable storm that is dinner with Grant Mills.
***
Grant’s place is just a few floors above mine, but it may as well be another world.
Where mine has a lived-in chic and warm feel, Grant’s penthouse is sleek and modern—like everything in it was chosen by someone who understands restraint as an art form.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city like a painting.
The furniture is all clean lines and rich textures, each piece probably worth more than my monthly rent in New York.
There’s a grand piano in the corner, untouched but impressive, and a glass bar cart stocked with liquor that looks too expensive to drink. It’s quiet up here in a way that feels intentional, like the world can’t touch him this high up.
I’ve imagined this place before. Pictured him here—walking out of the shower, towel slung low, wet hair curling against his neck, those impossible blue eyes catching the light just right.
I’ve imagined him cooking dinner for his daughter, setting plates on that long, polished table with casual, capable hands.
And I’d be lying if I said I haven’t imagined nights exactly like this one. The three of us. Eating dinner. Talking about our days. A little crazy, a little tender. Almost like a family.
The kitchen smells like garlic and simmering tomato sauce—rich, heady, nostalgic.
One of my foster mothers used to cook like this.
She could’ve easily been a chef. I remember being little during the holidays, breathing in these same scents, letting them wrap around me like something close to safety.
The herbs and seasonings cling to your clothes, announce themselves to the whole block like a proud secret.
I stir the pot carefully, making sure nothing sticks, while Marlow slices eggplant beside me.
“My dad always says I should’ve been an Italian chef,” she grins.
“You’re definitely halfway there,” I say, flicking a basil leaf at her.
She laughs, swats at me playfully, and goes back to slicing eggplant like she actually was trained for it.
It’s easy between me and Marlow now. Comfortable in a way that feels earned.
She’s let her guard down more in the past few weeks than I imagine she has with anyone in years.
And somehow, I’ve done the same. Not on purpose.
Definitely not by design. But that’s the thing about real friendship—it sneaks up on you when you’re not looking.
If her father didn’t live rent-free in every corner of my mind, I might even be able to enjoy it more.
But also, I hate how many secrets sit between us.
Professionally, I know confidentiality is part of the job.
I’m bound to it. I remind myself that every day.
But it doesn’t make it feel any less heavy.
Because I’m not just holding space for clients anymore—I’m holding actual secrets.
About me. About her father. Even about her husband and the buried grief he’s only just started to unpack in therapy.
And some days, I wonder: if Marlow knew all of it—everything I’ve kept from her—would she still call me friend?
She’s in storytelling mode, and I’m letting her go off.
“My dad and I have always been close. Like, really close. He was my whole world for a long time,” she says, her voice softening, just enough to show the shift. “Especially after my mom died. He never let me feel it too hard.”
She doesn’t get misty. Doesn’t crumble or pause for dramatic effect. She just says it plainly, like it’s a fact she’s lived with so long it’s settled in her bones.
“He hasn’t been with anyone since. Not really. He’s had dates, sure. Girls here and there. But nothing that meant something. It’s like he’s waiting. Or protecting something. Or maybe himself.”
“Maybe he’s just not the settling-down type,” I offer, too lightly and my chest immediately closes, tightening around the words.
“No, that’s the thing,” she says, pouring us both wine. “Lately, he’s been different. Talking about slowing down. Wanting something real. Something more. I’ve even started trying to fix him up on dates.”
She takes a sip of wine. I take a gulp, the conversation suddenly too close for comfort.
“There was one girl, though,” she says, her voice dropping. “Vegas,” she says, looking around.
And I choke.
Wine shoots down the wrong pipe and I’m coughing into my elbow like a complete moron. Real smooth, Eslin.
“Jesus, are you okay?” Marlow asks, eyes wide as she grabs a napkin and reaches toward me.
I wave her off between coughs. “Fine. Totally fine. Just—wrong hole. I mean pipe!”
Because pipe doesn’t make me think about penises at all, either.
Trying to steer the conversation away from the trapdoor opening beneath me, I manage, “Must’ve been some girl.”
My voice sounds almost normal. My heart, however, is doing sprints.
“Yeah, sounds like it.” Marlow shrugs. “He doesn’t say much about her. But whatever it was, something about her stuck with him.”
No kidding.