“And?” he asked.
Hanna shrugged. He had a point. She fished through his pantry—surprisingly well stocked for a man she’d only observed eating takeout or Sara’s cooking—and tossed a bag of popcorn into the microwave. Two glasses clinked together in the living room as he mixed the ouzo with something bright yellow.
“Again, it’s ten AM,” Hanna called.
“Grab me some ice, will ya?”
She finished off her glass of water, largely in preparation for the cocktail she was about to imbibe, and filled the glass with ice as the microwave pop, pop, popped behind her. When it sounded its alarm, she dumped the contents into a bowl she found in his cabinet and set it on the coffee table.
“I didn’t realize you did cocktails, too,” she said.
“I own a whole-ass bar, Hanna.”
“Fair.” She giggled and crossed back toward him, but the laugh broke into something else. “Milo,” she said, a lump bubbling in her throat as he set their drinks down and slipped the DVD into the tray.
“Yeah, Arizona,” he returned, not taking his eyes off the DVD menu.
“I don’t want to cry in front of you on Father’s Day.”
Milo stopped flipping through buttons and settings and turned to her. He dropped the remote to his side and tilted his head.
“Even as a gift to me? I’m very sad today.”
“You’re depraved!”
She flopped onto the couch and pulled at one of the fleece blankets he kept along the back. Milo leaned forward, forcing her to hold his gaze.
“You said whatever I need.”
“And you need me to be a fucking baby?”
He grinned. “I need you to start processing all of your bullshit, so that I can eventually fuck you senseless without worrying about breaking your heart, Hanna. Is that what you want to hear?”
She reared her head back, swallowing the outrage in her throat.
“I warned you,” he said. “Direct.”
Something about his demeanor brought a more direct question to her lips.
“Is that the only thing that’s stopping you?”
“Yep,” he said, turning back toward the TV to start the movie. “Would have made a move on you in Phoenix if I hadn’t caught you hyperventilating three times in a six-hour period?—”
“Fuck you!”
“Hanna, I am trying,” he groaned, turning to her and looking her dead in the eyes as a very early two-thousands bassline blared from the speakers. “One good big-girl cry, and I’m all yours.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m regulated,” he scoffed. “You’re one tough talk away from shaving your head.”
“Jesus, Milo!”
“Shh, you’re going to miss the inciting incident. Very important context.”
Hanna’s lips parted. She had about a thousand other things she wanted to say, but the way he plopped onto the couch beside her and yanked half the blanket over his lap silenced her.
“What am I drinking?” she asked, the bright summery drink washing away the horror of her twisted nerves.
