Now I dont know what to do with myself or my hands until Scarlett comes out of the bathroom. I could peel these pants off, but would it be weird if I was just sitting here on the bed in my skivvies?
Im not going to text you my address—I dont need you knowing my phone number—but I will write it down for you.Sure, why not. I write down my address, giving him an evil grin beneath my lashes. See you at seven. If you can get past my doorman, you have yourself a buddy for the night.
What, do you have a guard dog or something?Another grin. Something like that.Dad, can you get the door?
Its Friday night on one of the only weekends Dads been home at a reasonable hour, and I watch from the top of the stairs as he hauls himself up out of his old recliner, hobbling with a slight limp, knees crooked, toward the foyer.Hes still in his typical uniform, the one he wears to wrestling practice every day: black Adidas track pants, black Iowa wrestling T-shirt, and track jacket to match, zipped to the neck.
Cantankerous set of his mouth.
Along with my dad hobbling to the door, the normal sounds of the house can be heard. Linda puttering in the kitchen cleaning up their dinner, the television set to ESPN, the worst watchdog in the world snoring at the foot of my dads chair.Im pumped. So fucking stoked.
Its all good, kiddo. Mom is hip.Just—oh my god. This is going to be my worst nightmare.
My mom sets down the knife shes using to cut up a pineapple, resting it on a butcher-block cutting board.Why are you so dramatic? She sighs, popping a chunk of fruit in her mouth. Chews. So high strung, just like your father.