“Damian, why don’t you go outside and keep an eye on the movers,” Brielle says. She passes my father a cold water and ushers him onto the couch.
“Hey.” I pull her aside before she sits. My father chuckles, taking a sip of his water. “If he says anything cruel to you, tell him to leave. This is your house now.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine, Damian. Relax.” She pats my chest and lifts to her toes. I give her a quick kiss. And then another.
“Get moving. I want to get to know Brielle, and I can’t do that with your tongue down her throat,” my father shouts.
I give him one more warning look before I go. I leave them alone in the apartment, a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach.
Forty minutes later, the movers are gone, and boxes are stacked in my living room, bedroom, and bathroom. Unsurprisingly, absolutely nothing kitchen-related made it into the move.
Brielle and my father are laughing on the couch like old friends. A weird feeling flutters in my chest. He’s looking at something on her phone, wiping tears out of the corner of his eyes.
“What are you showing him?” I ask, taking a seat next to her so I can rest my hand on her leg. He hands the phone back to her with a shit-eating grin. She shows me the picture that has him in stitches.
The one of me with my long johns and women’s too-short coveralls from our trip to Maine.
I shoot her a glare, but she just smiles and leans in for a kiss. “It’s a good picture, don’t you think? Maybe we can get it printed and hang it in the bedroom.”
“Very funny,” I deadpan.
“Oh, it is. It really is,” my father adds.
“Mark, you have to stay for dinner. Damian is making shrimp scampi. It is absolutely delicious.”
“I’d love to, Brielle. Thank you.”
I roll my eyes in faux irritation and get up from the couch to get started on that dinner that Brielle apparently wants.
My father looks at me again, a subtle nod of approval. I wasn’t looking for it. Didn’t need it. But I appreciate it all the same. I nod back, a small smile pulling at my lips.
“Don’t forget, beautiful, I have my own ammunition, Ms. sleeps with her mouth open in the car.”
“That’s just charming,” she hollers to my back. I laugh. She’s right. Everything about her charms me.
I’m standing at the stove a little while later, stirring the lemon garlic sauce, when a heavy hand lands on my shoulder.
“Where Brielle?” I ask.
“She had to take a call.”
We stand together in silence for a moment, the sizzling sound of the stove the only noise.
“Brielle said this has been going on for months,” he says.
“It has, to some extent. It became serious more recently.”
“She seems great. Why didn’t you say anything?”
My chest deflates on a heavy exhale. “We both know how you would have reacted. Honestly, Dad, I didn’t want to deal with it. Brielle wanted to keep it between us, for good reason, and that worked out better for me. At the beginning anyway.”
“But you couldn’t keep your eyes off her in the office, and then shit blew up, right?” He grins.
“Is that what she told you?” I huff out a laugh.
“No. But I know my son. There’s only one type of woman he’s going to get serious enough with to move her in. And that’s the kind that he can’t stop thinking about when they’re apart, the kind who steals his focus whenever she’s around, the kind that holds his heart in her hands. I know, because you’re just like your old man sometimes.”
He’s right. I get a lot of traits from my father. I didn’t think falling head over heels in love was going to be one of them, but I was wrong. I understand now why it tore him apart when he found out about Cynthia and Walt, when he realized that the woman he loved never really existed. It’s a kind of love that consumes you, mind, body, and soul. The kind of love you don’t get twice in a lifetime, so you hold on to it, nurture it, cherish it, for all it’s worth.
