dotted.kiss

A hard-working man, your father was.

Day and night, he spent it at his job, dedicated to his employees and managing the small business, pouring his heart and soul into it. He worked with a good group of men, all with wives and children at home, dedicating just as much time to the company as your father. That was until it shut down – it stopped making money, leaving everybody jobless and scrambling, desperate to relocate and find new work.

It’s the beginning of summer, and it’s just unravelling in front of your eyes now as you stand in your backyard, a small party being thrown by your father, a goodbye party now that everybody is parting ways, moving on to different jobs across the country.

You spent the fall, winter, and spring tucked away in your dorm room, studying until your mind melted and bled onto the pages scattered across your desk. Your family barely contacted you during those months, ensuring you were only focused on schoolwork, although your mother did send you various text messages sprinkled throughout; a few ‘I love you’s and ‘we miss you’, completely ignoring your father losing his job.

The backyard is oddly busy; men aged twenty to fifty huddled around, talking away with your father, kids running around like there wasn’t an open pool beside them, and wives drinking wine at the small table beneath an umbrella. It was your own personal hell, and it was happening the day after you returned home from college. 

Air conditioning hits your skin as you pull open the sliding glass door, a brief sense of relief washing over you as you are no longer in the blazing heat, and didn't have John, a long-time friend of your father, asking you about everything under the fucking sun; a summer job, college, boyfriends. You needed out of there badly, and so you left, hiding in the living room of your house.

It’s quiet now, and you sigh, placing the red solo cup filled with soda onto the kitchen counter before fleeing upstairs and into your bedroom, tucked away from the guests and people you’re sure you have never seen before in your life.

A few footsteps catch you off guard just as you’re about to enter your room, and your eyebrows furrow. You’re preparing for your father walking out of the bathroom, and having to scramble to come up with an excuse as to why you’re currently hiding. But it’s not your father who's in the bathroom, and you can see it through the crack in the door.

“Uhm, excuse me,” you say softly with a gentle knock against the wooden door, and you’re gazing into the small space to find him, your father’s best friend, his eyes focused on the mirror as he’s washing his hands. He grins when he notices it’s you, all wide-eyed and caught off guard.

“Hey,” he says quietly, a hand lightly turning off the faucet, and he’s glancing over his shoulder at you, noticing the way you’re lingering. “You need somethin’, kid?” he teases, looking away to dry off his hands.

“Oh, no, I’m fine,” you quickly say with a shake of your head, cheeks burning with embarrassment, and he’s chuckling to himself, using a strong hand to open the door wider.

You realize you’re frozen, standing outside the bathroom, a stupid look on your face that screams, "I don't know why the hell I’m just standing here." He notices it too, and takes a small step closer, eyes taking in your figure.

“When the fuck did you get so big?” he scoffs as he glances at you, a look of disbelief on his face, but he also has a shit-eating grin spread across it. He’s smirking, too. It’s definitely not a complaint, more shocking that you have grown up over the past few months.

“Shut up,” you say with a roll of your eyes, and he’s crossing his arms over his chest, his forearms thick and muscular – his sleeves are always rolled up, revealing the veins coursing through him, and the tattoo sneaking up and disappearing beneath the cotton fabric.

“Took it the wrong way,” he adds, extending a hand to ruffle your hair. “Just haven’t seen you in forever, you disappeared on me,” he shrugs, his head ticking slightly, and his eyes focus on you.

“College,” you explain in just one word, biting your lip. “It’s been.. A lot, just adjusting, dumb stuff like that,” you shake your head, not wanting to get into that mess that you’ve been trying to escape since you started your first year.

“A lot? Like what, sweetheart?” he asks, a curious look on his face, and he’s pushing through the door now, forcing you out of the way, and you don’t know why, but you’re backing up towards your bedroom, and he’s following you. He sees it as guiding.

It’s always been this way with him, easy conversations and adjusting so easily to him; both of you lacked a filter with one another, and it was refreshing, something you didn’t have with your mother or father.

“You don’t want to hear about it,” you laugh awkwardly as you’re turning slightly, opening the door to your bedroom, and he’s laughing, following right after you. You didn’t realize how childish you left this place.

“Do I have anything better to do? They’re acting like fuckin’ idiots out there, you see em’,” he nods, and you’re laughing even more – you don’t know how else to react to him stepping foot into your room; walls still pink from when you begged your mom to paint them that colour, and your sheets a mess, stuffed animals scattered across them.

“I mean.. I guess, I don’t know,” you mumble shyly with a shake of your head, the bed creaking with your weight as you sit down. “It was just.. A long year, like stupidly long,” you admit.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” he jokes, and you hear the door click. You lift your head – yeah, he’s shutting it behind him. “Fired from that job, and now there’s shit to do,” he shrugs.

You’re nodding, your eyes analyzing him; his legs moving, more specifically towards you, his shirt riding up a bit too high, his jeans hanging low, his hands big, palms rough. You shouldn’t be looking at him like this. This is your father’s best friend, and you’re pretty sure you’ve talked to his wife about boy struggles when your mom was out of town.

The bed creaks again as he sits next to you, leaving a comfortable space next to you until he doesn’t, and you watch the way he adjusts his hips, man-spreading right in front of you, his knee bumping your bare one. Your head hangs low, hiding the clear flush on your cheeks.

“Talk to me,” he says quietly, his body turning to face you a little more, his chest pressing against the thin cotton of his shirt. “You’re quiet, I’m used to you not shutting up,” he adds, his shoulder lightly bumping yours.

“It’s nothing, it’s really nothing,” you say as you turn your head, and he’s already looking at you; sharp, narrowed eyes, his beard daring to grow; he always was cleanly shaved, but it seems like he forgot to this morning. You press your thighs together.

“Nothing, huh?” he repeats, not even hesitating to lift his hand to push your hair out of your face, purposely doing it so you’ll look at him. “Terrible liar, just like your daddy,” he smiles, his eyes roving across your soft features.

“I’m not lying,” you protest and shake your head quickly, immediately denying the allegation. “It’s boring stuff, dumb tests, just dumb stuff,” you ramble on, a sigh concluding the jumble of words.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he relents, his hand dropping down to pat your thigh lightly. “But you know I listen to everything you have to say, yeah?” he tells, his tone serious.

“Yeah… Yeah, I know,” you mumble with a nervous nod, glancing at your thigh that’s currently burning with heat from just his graze. “Thank you,” you mutter out.

“Polite girl he raised,” he adds, making a slight clicking with his tongue. “Thanking me for just listening to you, what are you thinking?” he teases even more, laughing at the pure awkwardness on your face, the way you’re shifting on the bed.

“I-I don’t know, I’m just thankful, okay?” you breathe out with a hunch of your shoulders, looking away from him, but he’s one step ahead and has your chin between your fingers, forcing you to look back at him.

A boundary was blurred right then and there, and it’s on both of your faces; your wide eyes and parted lips, a surprised look despite the fact you’re leaning into the gentle touch, and his jaw is clenched, head tipping back as he looks down at you. Neither of you should be acting like this.

You swallow hard, the silence deafening. You can hear the familiar voices out there: kids laughing and screaming, a light hum of music, wives laughing, even your father speaking so fondly of you. You stare into his eyes, and you can see him holding back, every fibre in his body restraining himself from leaning in, and pushing you onto the dumb blankets you’ve had since you were twelve. 

“Listen,” he cuts the silence with his low voice, and his thumb strokes your cheek before he pulls back. “Your father, he’s going on a camping trip next week, I’ll be there,” he starts, and he pauses, sucking in a deep breath. It looks like he’s struggling to get the words out.

“If you want.. I can run it by him, and.. I can say you talked about wanting to join him, yeah?” he says with a raise of his eyebrows. “It’ll be a week-long, just us and some tents, a forest, I think it’ll be good for you, especially after this year,” he explains with a slow nod, his hand scratching at his scruff.

“I hate camping,” you instantly respond, and he’s laughing at your ignorance – it’s not about camping and roasting marshmallows, it’s about you and him. You can't seem to get that through your head, and he finds it amusing.

“Foolish baby,” he mutters, and the pet name catches you off guard. “I’ll tell him you wanna go.. I’ll make it fun, okay?” he promises, patting your thigh again, but doesn’t take it away this time. He lets it linger, a rough palm, one with a wedding ring around his finger, against your soft skin.

“Okay,” you agree softly with a hesitant nod, and he’s smiling at your compliance, clearly pleased with the idea.

“That’s my girl,” he jokes, pulling his hand away from your bare thigh, although he slid it upwards before pulling it away, letting his fingers linger in between your legs for a brief second. He’s not looking away from you.

The rest of the night was an odd one, an odd feeling blooming in your stomach: guilt, attraction, and something else that you couldn't put your finger on. You know it’s because of him, the way he touched you, and lured you in, and made you feel guilty – not because you didn’t like it, but because you did like it. You shouldn’t, not with him.

“Everything okay?” your mom asks you as you stand aimlessly in the kitchen, hovering by the fridge at eleven o’clock, forgetting to grab something. “Didn’t see you at the party much, John said he missed talking to you,” she jokes, giving you a pat on your back.

“He would not shut the hell up,” you groan, reaching for a soda and cracking it open.

“Watch your mouth,” she scolds, catching a glare from her, and you look away, sighing quietly before turning on your heel to head back into your bedroom.

“One more thing, love,” your mom says, leaning against the kitchen counter in nothing but a robe tied around her waist, hair in curlers for the next morning.

“What?” you groan, and she’s rolling her eyes at your young adult attitude that didn’t disappear when you were off at college. 

“Your father got a call, you know, that one friend from when he was ten. The two of them are going on a camping trip, and he mentioned you guys chatted about it during the party – you really wanna go?” she asks with a raise of her eyebrows, but she’s turning around to pour herself a glass of wine.

“Yeah.. I’m done hating… the outdoors,” you mumble, cringing at your own dumb explanation. “I just need to get away from this town and the people,” you add, which sounds way more like you than anything you’ve said today.

“That’s fair,” she shrugs, screwing on the cap to her white wine. “He’s a good man, that friend of your father’s. Always cared about you so much,” she nods, placing the wine bottle onto the counter.

“I know,” you reply with a nod, carefully slinking out of the kitchen and up the stairs.