FQWL: Welcome to the neighborood

[moonshadows]

“Dad.” There’s a pause. “DAD! Wake up!”

Is there a fire? Is she hurt? Adrenaline pulls out a pair of giant sawed-off shotguns and shoots the deep, dreamless sleep I’d been enjoying. I’m lying in the middle of the living room, spooning a moving box. I yawn and stretch. Fareeha’s giving me a Look of resigned disappointment with a pinch of long-suffering sigh. Her mother would have been proud of her.

“Morning, Manda Panda,” I say, trying to alleviate that disappointment by using the nickname of the name she’d given herself and used on and off since first grade. Don’t blame her for switching to it full-time since we got the news about Ana.

It works, because she rolls her eyes and grins. “Yikes, Dad breath,” she teases. “Go brush your teeth.”

The last time I’ll be doing this in our….old…house. I brush, rinse, and slide the toothbrush and toothpaste into their waiting ziplock bag, then toss that into my backpack.

“Did you fall asleep packing?” Amanda asks as I emerge from the bathroom, like that wasn’t painfully obvious.

Actually…I did sort of go into a fugue state at some point. I’m not sure if I finished or not.

“I got most of it done, I think…” Searching around the room, it looks like I did a pretty good job. Every box is sealed except for one. “…wait, straggler.”

“What’s in it?” Amanda asks as I reach for the tape.

That’s a good question. Looking into the box, I see a bunch of old photos in little photo albums.

“Whoah, I haven’t seen these in years…”

Well, now we’re not going anywhere until we look at them, because I haven’t seen them for years, either. I pull out one of the dusty albums from the top of the pile and we begin looking through it. The sunglasses we couldn’t get her to stop fussing without, the Dragon Princess costume, the horse phase. The school play with Emma…..P? R? I can never keep those two straight, probably because Amanda met one of them in high school and keeps calling them “the Emmas”. It was just “Emma” before that, no last name. Sigh. The first photography award Amanda won, and…

We both go quiet, looking at it. The first picture of her, the day she was born and I legally became her parent. Ana never would tell me anything about the man who got her pregnant, and the state of Illinois wouldn’t care what I looked like as long as they had a name to put in for ‘father’. Not like I hesitated for even a second, not with how raw I still was from losing Maddie. Ana and I were never anything more than friends, even being married almost eighteen years for Amanda’s sake, but I’m still raw from losing her and I know it has to be worse for Manda.

After a small eternity, she pats me on the back. “C’mon, Pops, we gotta finish packing. The moving van won’t wait forever.”

Right. We need to vacate so the movers can load the majority of our stuff and haul it to the new house. I stuff the photos back into the box and tape it shut. We grab our travel bags, pile into the car, and take one last look at the old house.

“So many memories here,” I say wistfully. “Hard to believe your mother and I bought this place almost twenty years ago.”

But then again…that’s why we’re moving. Too many memories. We reminisce for a while about various windows Amanda broke over the years before joking that there will be plenty of memories to make and things to break at the new place. The moving van guys, who have been hauling boxes from house to van the whole time, file out and give me a thumbs-up as they climb into the van. It begins to pull away, and I get the car into position to follow it. I watch our house – our old house – disappear in the rearview mirror.

“So,” Amanda says slowly, “sell me on our cool new pad?”

This will be the first time she’s seen it. Hell, it’ll be the first time I’ve seen it. I went through a very reputable agency, listed requirements and let them bring me files to read, vetoed some and had others inspected. The first time I had to leave a house because I lost my family was bad enough, and I had a new family to focus on. All I have now is my daughter, and I couldn’t bring myself to do the house-hunting myself. Felt too much like making funeral arrangements. Silver lining of Ana going missing-presumed-dead overseas: no funeral arrangements to make this time.

I clear my throat and do my best cheesy announcer voice. “Nestled in beautiful, scenic downtown Maple Bay, our new house features multiple places to sleep! Not only are there bedrooms for your sleeping pleasure, but couches and floorspace where you can, yes, catch a wink.”

“What a deal!” she gushes. “I mean, if sleep weren’t for the weak.”

“You sleep more than anyone I know,” I shoot back with a grin. Sadly, that wasn’t true the first three years of her life. I think I’m still missing sleep from back then.

“I admit my faults, Pops,” she jokes. “I keep it real.”

“Anyway, it’s also smaller than our last house.”

Because of course Ana and I had separate rooms.

“Cozier, one might argue.”

“Good spin,” I say warmly.

“I think it’s great,” Amanda says enthusiastically.

Then she goes on to praise it in such a way that it sounds like she’s trying to weasel out of learning to drive. I neatly dissuade her of that notion, and she changes tactics.

“Have you met the neighbors yet?”

“Not yet, but the neighborhood seems pretty quiet.” Or so I’m told. I haven’t been there myself.

“So you won’t have to chase any rowdy teens off your lawn?” she teases.

“You are the very teen you mock when you say that, honey,” I tease back.

She tries to plead maturity by virtue of being in the last year of high school. I turn it into a Dad Joke.

“I’m just going to ignore that,” she tells me loftily. “But I won’t forget it. So what’s item number one on the New House agenda?”

Oh boy. I have a list. Installing the washer and dryer, grocery shopping…

“Pops, cool your jets. You have to promise me that we’re gonna take a break and explore the neighborhood.”

I promise. The movers have to unload our stuff, after all.

We pull up to the new house and step outside as the movers start unloading the first boxes. It’s beautiful. The lawn is freshly mown and the FOR SALE sign is still in the yard. Amanda kicks it down.

“Nice form, sweet pea!” I call to her. Good to see she retained something from the martial arts classes Ana had us all take when she was little.

Amanda cheerfully angles for an ice cream sandwich. I counter with coffee, because I’m not sure when I fell asleep but it does not feel like I got anything resembling a good night’s sleep.

“I think we passed a coffee shop on the way here,” she offers. “Maybe we could check that out.”

We passed a coffee shop and I didn’t even notice? I really need that caffeine. “Let’s do it!”

 

We walk down the street to The Coffee Spoon, a cute little place on the corner.

“Man, this is in such convenient walking distance from our place,” Amanda enthuses. I suspect she just doesn’t want to deal with driving.

I’m not as enthused, because a part of me still feels like moving is just running away from the reality of Ana’s death, and the thought of having to find a new circle of friends as a widower is somehow worse than having to do it as an orphan. My protests are lame, and I know it.

Amanda knows it, too. “Dad…are you just afraid to meet new people?”

I sigh. “Yes, Amanda.”

We walk inside. The coffee shop is…incredibly warm and inviting. The barista is a hip-looking man with darker skin, ink on his left arm, and dreads. He greets us, Amanda asks about the name of the shop, and he rambles about how it was mentioned in a poem he likes but he’s not sure it was a good idea. It’s…endearing.

“So,” he says after a slightly-awkward silence, “what’ll it be?”

I scan the menu. I have no idea what half of these are.

“I’ll have a…” Well, I know what chai is, at least. “…Chai Antwoord.”

“Spicy,” Mat says approvingly.

“I don’t get it,” I say somewhat apologetically.

“Oh, it’s a pun,” he explains. “Die Antwoord is a South African rap group…they’re pretty well known for their…uh, evocative imagery and hyper-stylized music videos. Their music is as catchy as it is disturbing.”

I’m not sure that’s the first impression I wanted to make, but I’m stuck with it now. Amanda places her order, and Mat ducks away to make our drinks while we take a seat on one of the couches. It’s actually pretty comfy. Good lumbar support. Actually, I think it’s comfier than our couch.

Amanda nudges me. “This place is right next to our house and that guy seems not only cool, but also just as uncomfortable with talking to other people as you are. You should totally become friends with him.”

I’d actually been thinking the same thing, but as her father I’m obligated to give her a hard time, so I pretend to be more reluctant about socializing than I actually feel. Mat comes back and sets our drinks down, and my little girl immediately jumps in to play friend-maker.

“We’re new in the neighborhood! I’m Amanda, and this is my Dad, Jack!”

Mat brightens. “Oh, right on! Pleased to meet you both!”

I guess being neighbors automatically gets us another level of friendliness.

“You oughta come by when my daughter’s hanging around the shop,” he continues. “You two might get along.”

“Yeah, I’m sure we’ll maybe come in from time to time,” I say to rile Amanda up. She kicks my leg from under the table. “I’m sure we’ll be in here a lot,” I assure Mat, who grins. He didn’t miss that little exchange.

“You know what? Let me get your guys’ opinion on something,” he blurts out. He darts into the back and comes out with a fresh plate of something that smells amazing. “I’m working on a new banana bread recipe and I need help coming up with a name for it,” he says as he offers us the plate.

Amanda and I each take a still-warm slice and chow down. It tastes just as good as it smells.

“I think I might only be able to give you Dad band puns, but I’ll give it a shot.”

“Most of my menu is band puns,” he points out.

I chew it over, literally and figuratively. Bread…bread…dead? Head? Said? Said…Fred. That’s it! “Right Said Banana Bread? Like Right Said Fred, but now it’s about banana bread.”

“That…actually has a nice ring to it,” Mat says, giving me a slow smile.

We joke around a little more, and yeah, I’m totally going to be in here several times a week. There’s only so much cleaning and cooking to be done while Amanda’s in school, and I’m going to need adult conversation. As I’m glancing around, thinking of the place as ‘a place where I’ll be spending time’, a man catches my eye. He’s sitting by himself, brooding over a cup of coffee, and our eyes meet just for a moment. I’ve never put any stock into any of that ‘love at first sight’ or ‘I knew the moment I saw him’ crap, but I felt…something. I hastily look away, hoping he didn’t catch me staring, wanting to ask Mat about him but not wanting to admit that I’m interested because those dark, soulful eyes were set in a haggard and unshaven face and the only reason I’m sure he’s not homeless is he hasn’t pawned that leather jacket for food.

 

Amanda and I finish up our drinks and head out. I can see the moving van still in front of our house, so we head to the park. I need to send my real estate agent a fruit basket or something, she did an incredible job. The neighborhood is beautiful. Kids are playing in the street, the flowers are in bloom, and the faint smell of woodsmoke and delicious meat drifts through the air. I mention it to Amanda, and we joke with each other until we get to the park. It looks like a great place to play, there’s a playground with toddlers shrieking gleefully and chasing each other around, and plenty of grassy area where people are playing with their dogs.

As we’re heading to an empty bench to do some people-watching, a Frisbee clocks me in the face and the corgi that had been chasing it gets distracted by us. I can’t help but pet him.

“You definitely coulda caught that,” calls a boisterous voice I assume belongs to the corgi’s owner. He’s a chunky but friendly-looking guy in a Hawaiian shirt who jogs over to claim his Frisbee. “You know, Frisbees are traditionally caught with your hands, not your face.”

Oh, no. I know his type. The one-upper. “It’s a new technique,” I tell him loftily. “It’s like disc golf, but the goal is my face. Looks like you’re winning.” There; I’ve simultaneously reframed the event and taken control of it while delivering him the point.

He grins. “Ha! I’m just messin’ with ya. I’m Brian, by the way.”

Good, I have established that I am neither a threat or a target. “I’m Jack,” I say, shaking his hand warmly but not too firmly, “and this is my daughter, Amanda.”

Amanda is ignoring everything to lavish attention on the dog. He loves it.

“It’s great to see another father and daughter out here on such a sunny day,” he says with a hint of challenge, gesturing to a young girl on a checkered blanket reading a book bigger than her head. She puts it down and heads over to us. “This is Daisy,” he says proudly, draping his arm around her shoulders.

She’s just as chunky as he is, but wearing flannel instead of something more brightly-colored. They’ve both got the same red hair and freckles, and I’m suddenly aware that I look nothing like Amanda. That’s going to lead to awkward questions, I just know it.

“She’s reading the Brothers Karamazov,” Brian explains. “Her teacher tells me that she has the reading comprehension skills of a high schooler.”

And probably the social skills of… “How old is she?”

“Ten! She’s a precocious little youngster!”

…yeah, she’s going to have social skills problems if he keeps letting her isolate herself. It’s a struggle to not say that out loud. It’s not my business, we’ll probably only see them occasionally at the park-

“So, I take it you guys are new to the neighborhood?”

Oh, please no. “We just moved in,” I say warily. “Do you live around here?”

“Yeah, we live in that cul-de-sac down next to the coffee shop.”

Fuck.

Amanda puts her hands on her hips. She doesn’t like the insinuation that Daisy is better than her any more than I do. “What a coincidence! That’s where we live, too!”

Whatever she’s planning, I’m torn between enabling it and talking her down.

“Small world! Yeah, Daisy and I are in that little ranch-style house on the corner.”

I saw that house. It’s just like ours, but slightly bigger and better-landscaped. Who is he competing against? Thankfully, a simple compliment and he graciously excuses himself and his daughter – but not before giving us an open invitation to “stop by” at some point.

Amanda noticed the one-upping thing, but she’s not shaken by it. I’ve raised her right. We walk around for a bit until I get a text from the movers that they’re done, and we head back to the house to set up beds so we’re not sleeping on the floor tonight. Or for the second night in a row, in my case. Amanda vanishes into her new room and I discover that the movers have thankfully put my bed together for me. Now to find sheets to put on it…

 

I get to work unpacking the various boxes around the living room. A couple hours pass, and I get some good work done. The washer and dryer are both washing and drying, and we can actually walk through the living room without tripping over boxes. Then the doorbell rings, and I’m suddenly afraid it’s Brian, but I look through the peephole and it’s a handsome, clean-cut man brandishing a plate of cookies. He looks like he’s taking the Caucasian Blond Domestic Dad shtick seriously enough to kill any rivals and also any fun he might potentially be having. I paste a smile on my face and open the door.

“Hello-”

“Oh, where are my manners? My name is Joseph. I’m your next door neighbor.”

Wow, jeez. Don’t wait for a lapse in manners before you apologize for lacking them, Joe. My hackles rise in a way they didn’t with Brian. Bring it, Middle-Class Dad of the Year. I bet I’ve been doing this longer than you have, and better.

“I’m Jack,” I say with as much warm enthusiasm as I can muster.

“I saw the moving van and thought I’d bring over some cookies. My daughter Christie wanted me to let you know she baked them herself.”

Okay, maybe he’s not the Domestic Dad I thought he was, if his daughter baked them.

Joseph leans in and whispers, “But between you and me, she just sprinkled in the chocolate chips.”

Then he laughs, and I give it a few fake chuckles, but inside I’m seething. You think that’s funny? To laugh at your own daughter like that? To give her that credit and then take it away instead of just saying ‘my daughter helped make them’? I think back to when Amanda was six or seven, and she wanted to make cookies to welcome her mom back from deployment. It took her forever, and I had to help her crack the eggs, but she did at least three-fourths of the work herself and Ana and I were both so proud of her.

As if I had summoned her with my mind, she appears at my side. “Wow, cookies, huh? So nice to meet you!” Joseph smiles and hands her the plate of cookies. “Well, thanks for the cookies,” she says, and then she’s gone. With the cookies.

“That’s my daughter,” I say dryly. “Her name is Amanda.”

“Daughters are tough,” Joseph says sympathetically. Then he grimaces a little. “Sons are also tough. Children in general are just…tough.”

My smile turns brittle. If kids are so tough, maybe you shouldn’t be a dad. Not that Ana was in any way a bad mom, but she took care of Amanda while I was in college and confessed that she didn’t know how my father had managed to raise both Maddie and myself. When I told her that I’d done it all, she was furious that someone with no interest in keeping his offspring alive had been allowed to have custody of them.

I have to say something. Something not insulting. “I hear that,” I tell Joseph neutrally. “I wouldn’t want to try to raise more than two by myself. There’d have to be something wrong with anyone who tried without having a second parent actively helping.”

Joseph’s fake-friendly smile flickers out. “I have four kids.”

And that tells me more than I needed to know about the state of his – I glance at his hands and note the wedding ring – marriage. Okay, don’t panic, try to change the subject without bringing that up.

“Oh…uh, I meant…” Nope. Can’t talk about the children’s welfare or time concerns or…

“Don’t worry. You didn’t mean to be rude.”

Look, buddy, you’re the one who said children are tough. And I bet you already knew that when you had babies three and/or four, so what’s your excuse? Are you one of those martyr parents, look at me suffering while I use my kids as props and make them suffer for my suffering? God, I want to punch him in the face.

“Uhhhhh…yeah. Okay.”

Smooth, Jack. Real smooth. But hey, you didn’t punch him in the face, so kudos to you!

“Is the missus around?” Joseph asks, and apparently I’ve been discounted as The One Who Runs The Household. Nice display of 1950s sexism from a man wearing a pink polo.

“No,” I say shortly. “Not anymore. She died.”

Joseph looks like he’s trying to swallow a hedgehog. The Hedgehog of Humiliation.

“That’s why we moved,” I explain quietly. “Too many memories at our old house.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says hollowly.

He doesn’t really mean it. He’s sorry for his loss of social position in my eyes. I’m a better martyr than he is.

“No, no, it’s alright,” I tell him with weariness I’d actually feel if I weren’t still bristling. “You didn’t know. I just couldn’t bear to take the ring off yet.”

We both stand there quietly for a moment, acutely aware of how awkward things are, me gloating and him probably trying to figure out how he can reclaim his position of social superiority.

“I’m sorry,” Joseph says, breaking the silence. “Can you…close the door real quick?”

Confused, I close the door. After a second, I hear a knock and open it again to see Joseph standing there with a huge smile. Still fake. Maybe more fake.

“Hey, I’m your new neighbor, Joseph! I promise to not talk about your dead spouse. I’m throwing a barbeque for the cul-de-sac this weekend and I’d love for you to come by and meet the rest of the neighbors in our community. Whadya say, pal?”

So far the only neighbors I know are Joseph and Brian, and that doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence, but if I want the foreseeable future in this lovely neighborhood to be smooth, I better make nice with the neighbors. I give him an equally huge fake smile.

“That sounds great. My daughter and I would love to stop by. Any food allergies or dietary restrictions I should keep in mind?”

Joseph’s smile dims a hair. Ooh, I’ve still got the upper hand. “No allergies,” he says, “but we’ve got some vegetarians in the neighborhood.”

“Lacto-ovo vegetarians?”

The smile goes down another notch. “Eggs and cheese are fine.”

My smile gets brighter. “Alright! I know just what to make, then.”

We shake hands to seal the deal.

“Well, neighbor,” he says brightly, “I’ll see you at 3 PM sharp on Saturday!”

Nope. You’ll see me at two so I can offer to help set up. “Sure thing, neighbor!”

He starts to walk away, but stops and turns back around. “Hey, in all seriousness, raising a kid on your own can’t be easy. If you ever need to…talk about…stuff…I’m the youth minister at a church down the street.”

Nice try, but this ain’t my first rodeo and if the first 17 and a half years didn’t break me, the last few months to graduation sure as hell won’t.

“Oh, I dunno…I wouldn’t really consider myself a youth.”

He smiles, but it’s somehow…either patronizing or predatory. “You look pretty young to me, but suit yourself!”

And with that, thankfully, he’s gone. I stare out the open door for a long minute, bristling, before closing it. The sound summons Amanda from where she was lurking in the hall.

“He seemed…nice,” she says with an audible lack of sincerity. The plate is nowhere to be seen.

“Where’d those cookies go?” It is kind of past lunchtime…

“They’re gone. I’m sorry.” Amanda manages to make it sound like she’s a doctor breaking bad news to the family. Then she grins. “If it makes you feel any better, they weren’t very good.”

I arch an eyebrow at her. “So you ate all of them anyway?”

She snorts. “Who said anything about eating? I threw ‘em out. They really weren’t very good.”

That makes me laugh. “I guess that makes it break time.”

“Any ideas?”

“Well…we still need to go grocery shopping.”

Amanda grins. “And pick up ingredients for something to take to the barbecue?”

I ruffle her hair. “You know it, Manda Panda. Let’s go.”

“Can we make cookies, too?”

Her grin gets wider. I grin back. “I think we get a ton of Good Neighbor points if we bring his plate back with cookies of our own on it.”

“We’re gonna be the be the best neighbors in the whole cul-de-sac!”

“We’re gonna kick the other neighbors’ butts. With kindness.”

We high five on our way out to the car.

 ===

As we’re loading groceries into the car, a jogger with a baby hails me and holy shit, it’s Craig. We catch up, and I’m floored. He cleaned his act up, married Smashley – Ashley, but she actually still goes by that, go figure – had three kids and divorced. He’s gone from Keg-Stand King to that guy who jogs daily and keeps jogging in place waiting for the crosswalk to keep his heart rate up. We exchange numbers and promise to get together and he dashes off.

Once the groceries are in the fridge, Amanda and I make sandwiches and flop down onto the couch. She kicks one of the empty boxes.

“Too bad we’re gonna be putting my stuff right back into these boxes in a few months.”

I groan. “Noooo, don’t say that!”

“Aww, Dad, it’s gonna be okay. I’ll be fine!”

I know she will. It’s me I’m worried about. She picks up on that, though, and reassures me that she’ll keep in touch. We joke about me filling the void by getting a dog, and her staying home for the dog. A pile of envelopes slides through the mail slot – good to know when the mail gets delivered – and she darts over to check for acceptance letters. Unfortunately, what she got was the opposite of that. I try to cheer her up by pointing out that a school who only wanted portraits in her portfolio clearly wasn’t a good fit for her. She says she’s fine, but I know she’s going to worry about it until another school accepts her. Then she reminds me that The Emmas are sleeping over to see the new place, and I promise to vacate. I have no idea what I’m going to do besides explore the neighborhood, but hey, I should be doing that anyway, right? Right.

I joke that I’m going to go watch The Game. She jokes about the drugs and crime she and The Emmas are going to get into. She vanishes back into her room to make sure everything is ready for a sleepover, and I do a bit more cleaning. Mostly flattening empty boxes and bringing them down to the basement for safekeeping until they’re needed again and getting my room ready for me to crash out in later. Right before The Emmas are due to arrive, I let Amanda know I’m heading out and go wandering.

It actually doesn’t take me long to find a bar, albeit a tiny dive bar. But hey, there’s a game on and people who go to tiny dive bars aren’t likely to be real chatty, right? I push open the door and enter Jim and Kim’s. It’s small and dimly lit with a handful of tables, some booths, and a pool table in the back. I take a seat at the bar and order a Coke. The bartender, it turns out, is neither Jim nor Kim but Neil. I sip my Coke and check out the game. I have no idea who either of the teams are, but one’s just as good as the other to me so I silently root for the one who’s in the lead anyway.

A middle-aged woman holding a nearly-empty wine glass sidles up to the bar and sits uncomfortably close to me. She actually calls me ‘sailor’. I didn’t think that was a thing people actually did. I give her a brusque hello, hoping she’ll go away. No such luck.

“Good to see fresh meat in here. I’m Mary. Come here often?”

I almost ask her why she bothered to ask, since she’s apparently in here enough to know when “fresh meat” has arrived, but I don’t. I tell her I just moved into the neighborhood and turn back to the game without introducing myself.

“Are you watching the game?”

“I’m trying to,” I say pointedly.

Mary continues trying to drunkenly hit on me before asking me to buy her a drink, but I decline.

“Suit yourself, sailor,” she tells me in a tone that’s trying to convey that I’m missing out, but she abandons me for the guy that just walked in so I’m happy.

I sit in comfortable silence, watching the game and sipping my Coke. Neil appears as I empty the glass and asks if I want another. I tell him yes, please, and sip my second Coke while the other team closes the score gap. When the other team takes the lead, another man at the bar lets out a satisfied grunt and mutters, “Go team.”

Oh shit, it’s the brooding man from The Coffee Spoon. He’s sipping whiskey, and from here I can tell that neither he nor his clothes have been within spitting distance of soap for several days. He looks like he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in the last month, and he probably hasn’t had a good meal in even longer. And yet…my fingers are itching to comb his disheveled hair. I want to cook for him. And I wonder what he’d look like if he smiled. It has to be the impending Empty Nest syndrome, the uncertainty of what I’ll do with myself if I don’t have someone to take care of when Amanda goes to college, but I’m feeling…things. Things I have no frame of reference for and am not entirely sure I want to explore with a man who might need to be flea-dipped before I’d be comfortable getting closer than arm’s length to.

And yet, I find myself saying, “Enjoying the game?”

“I am now that we’re winning,” he replies.

“Oh, we must be rooting for different teams.”

Jack, what are you doing? Are you seriously teasing the man who looks like he’d stab you in a dark alley and take your wallet?

He sips his whiskey. “In my opinion, my team is far superior.”

“I have to disagree with that,” I counter lightly. “Based on our win/loss record, I’d say that my team is superior.”

Oh my god I’m going to get stabbed in a dark alley. What am I doing??

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he says with dark satisfaction, “since as it stands right now, my team is beating yours.”

All I can think of are sexually suggestive phrases involving the word “beating” so I bite my tongue and pretend to get engrossed in the game. Thankfully, the other guy lets it drop, but I’m pretty sure I’m blushing. Fuck. The game is pretty close, but in the end, ‘my’ team wins and quiet cheers ripple throughout the bar. I’m irrationally afraid the dangerous disheveled man is going to leave, and raise my glass in a silent toast to him. He raises his in response, and then Neil’s there pouring him another glass.

“Get him another…whatever he’s having,” the man tells Neil. Then he turns to me. “Is that a Jack and Coke?”

“Together, we’re Jack and Coke,” I joke. “I’m Jack. Nice to meet you. I wasn’t really rooting for that team, by the way. I was just pulling your leg. I have no idea who either of those teams are.”

He had been about to take a drink, but he puts his glass down and looks away, like he’s choking back a laugh. “Robert,” he concedes. Then, like he can’t help himself, “You're in a bar, on a Thursday night, drinking straight Coke?”

I shrug. “I don’t drink. I’ve got nothing against it, just…not for me.”

Robert scowls like I’ve personally offended him. “Why not?”

“Well, I always felt like my dad liked the sauce more than he liked me, on account of my middle name.”

“…which is?”

“Daniel.” I give him a lopsided smile. “I was about ten or twelve before I figured out why there were so many glass bottles with my name on them in the house.”

Robert looks away again. It’s a long minute before he says, “You must be new here. Mary already hit on you?”

“Yeah.”

He chuckles. “Mary’s a peach. Well, you picked the best bar in town,” he says in something that’s still a growl but sounds almost friendly at the same time. “As slimy as it is, you’ll never find a better spot than Jim and Kim’s.”

“Is there actually a Jim or Kim that run the place?” I can’t help but ask.

“No. That’d be Neil. Good guy, Neil. Not enough Neils in this world.”

“O…kay,” I say slowly, wondering how drunk Robert is.

Robert gestures Neil over again. “Another Coke for Jack.” Then he toasts me with his whiskey. “Here’s to your health.”

I sip my Coke, unsure how I apparently became friends with a man who looks like he sleeps in dark alleys and yet makes me feel like he’s out of my league.

And, of course, nothing explains why I find myself saying, “Your face…is…good.” Oh my god, am I trying to flirt with Robert? What is wrong with me?

But Robert looks pleasantly surprised, and mutters, “Thanks.” He signals for another whiskey and asks, “What are you doing here tonight, if you weren’t here for the game or to get drunk?”

“Trying to make friends?”

Jack. Jack, stop it.

“I mean…I just moved into the neighborhood and thought it would be a good idea to…put myself out there. And you seem pretty cool, so…”

Robert snorts. “The key to being cool is acting like you don’t care about anything but actually care very deeply about everything to the point where it’s debilitating.”

That…wasn’t a growl. I think he was being honest.

“Really?”

He downs the rest of his drink. “Of course not.”

“Then I have to say, I only came here because I’m running from my problems.” Which…actually is kind of honest.

“I like your style,” Robert says with a quirk of the lips that might have been a smirk.

“Well, by ‘my problems’ I mean the sleepover my daughter’s having,” I admit.

“Hm. Family-type, huh?”

“Single dad.”

Robert nods and stands up. “Be right back. Have to powder my nose.”

“Never seen Robert this talkative,” Neil says from right beside me, holy shit. “He must like you.”

Great. Now I’m blushing for sure and my pulse is racing. I sip my Coke, trying to calm down before Robert gets back. When he comes back from the bathroom, he grabs his leather jacket.

“I’m gonna go home,” he says brusquely. “You heading my way?”

We pay our tabs and leave the bar. I’m not sure which way is “my way”, but Robert starts walking in the direction of the cul-de-sac and I follow because, well, I am heading his way.

“I live in this cul-de-sac down the way,” he says, and all I can think of is that he’s going to be at Joseph’s barbecue on Saturday.

“Me too,” I tell him. “Just moved in today, still haven’t finished unpacking.”

“Great place to be,” he says shortly. “Good neighbors. Well, some of them.”

I kind of want to ask if Joseph is one of the good neighbors but also kind of don’t. We get to Robert’s house, which is just a few houses away from mine. Wait, which one is mine? Robert stops and turns to me.

“I don’t kiss and tell, Jack.”

Wait, kissing? When did we start talking about kissing? My face feels like it’s on fire. Hopefully the darkness hides that.

“So. Are we doing this, or what?” Robert asks.

“What?”

“You know. Do you wanna come inside, or not?”

A wave of realization rushes over me and I feel like I’m fourteen. He’s hitting on me. He’s hitting on me. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I want to do.

…he’s also drunk and needs a shower badly, I remember as the wind shifts.

“If you’re really interested,” I say slowly, “ask me when you’re sober. Your consent is questionable at best right now, and the only way I’m coming inside your house is if you need help getting to bed safely.”

Robert scowls. “Your loss. Door’s unlocked if you change your mind.”

With that, he pushes past me and goes into the house, the door barely closing behind him. Sure enough, he didn’t lock it. I head down the sidewalk and slip into my house, making sure to lock the door. Amanda’s room is quiet. I go to bed, thinking of Robert and making plans for the morning.

===

I’m up at the crack of dawn making pancakes and bacon and scrambling eggs. I leave a note for Amanda letting her know where I am and that breakfast’s in the oven to keep warm, and then I toss some ingredients into an insulated lunch bag and head over to Robert’s, making sure to lock my door behind me. Before I get there, Craig leaves his house and jogs up to me.

“Bro! You ready to hit the asphalt?”

I shake my head. “Not this morning. Met a neighbor last night who is in desperate need of a good breakfast this morning, so…” I don’t have to finish the sentence. Craig knows about my mother-hen nature; that’s how we met.

“Wait…” his eyes widen. “Robert?”

All I can do is grimace.

Craig puts his hands on my shoulders and looks at me solemnly. “You’ve got your work cut out for you, bro. Good luck.”

“Thanks…I think.”

He steps back and gives me a salute. “Go forth and make biscuits, Jack. God knows if anyone needs them, it’s Rob.”

I salute back, and he jogs off.

As promised, Robert’s door is still unlocked. Thankfully, he has a pretty nice coffee maker and some decent coffee. I get that started and try to find a clean glass, but settle for washing one and filling it with water. There’s a bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet, and I leave a couple along with the water where he can reach them easily when he wakes up. He’s sprawled in bed, still fully-clothed. He actually has nice furniture and electronics, but the place is a pigstye. I wash the dishes and utensils I’ll need, set the oven to heat, and start making breakfast.

I hear quiet cursing from the bedroom just after putting the biscuits in, followed by silence and then a very clear, “…the fuck.” There’s more sounds of someone stirring while I scramble eggs and fry bacon, and then I’ve got those plated and covered and the coffee’s done. It takes a bit of shuffling, but I manage to get breakfast onto the table and the dirty dishes from the table into the sink, wash mugs and pour coffee, and then the biscuits come out and get added to the plates. Robert still hasn’t emerged. May as well get started on the dishes while I’m waiting.

“What the fuck,” Robert says a few minutes later.

I rinse the dish I’m holding, then my hands, and turn around. “Breakfast and coffee on the table,” I tell him.

He glowers at me, but sits and starts eating. I put the dish in the drainer and join him, eating my own breakfast. After a minute or two, Amanda pushes the door gingerly open and grins when she sees me.

“Hey, Dad, thanks for breakfast. The Emmas and I are off to school. Remember you have that meeting with my teacher later!”

“I remember,” I assure her. “Go, be good, I’ll see you after the meeting. Love you, Manda Panda.”

She looks a little embarrassed, what with Robert watching, but she’s grinning too. “Love you too, Dad.”

Robert’s giving me a piercing look I know all too well.

“Yes, she’s mine. No, not biologically. No, she’s not adopted. I married her mother shortly before she was born and it’s my name on the birth certificate.”

That gets me a look of quiet understanding. “How long…?”

I sigh. “It’s only been two…almost three months since we got the news that she was declared missing in action, probably dead. She was shot in enemy territory. We know she’s dead, they just couldn’t find or retrieve her body.”

Robert looks away. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he sounds more sincere than Joseph did. “It’s been…three, four years since my wife died. I’d like to say it gets better…”

I put my hand comfortingly on his. “That’s why we moved. Why I’m trying to make friends. We weren’t…in love exactly. We were friends raising the same child, but…”

Robert’s hand twists under mine until we’re holding hands. “Loss is loss,” he growls. “You ever need to talk…”

My throat’s too tight to talk. I nod, and he nods back. Yeah, this is what making friends feels like. We go back to eating, but Robert looks less like he’ll stab me if I move too fast. I pack the rest of the biscuits in a ziplock and tuck them into his fridge before taking the dishes to the sink.

“I need to do the dishes at my place,” I tell him. “Maybe finish unpacking the kitchen stuff too, but later I’ll be baking cookies so I’m not just giving Joseph back an empty plate. The recipe makes four dozen, though, so you’re welcome to come over and have some if you want. I figure two dozen for Joseph’s family, one for me and Amanda, but that still leaves me with extra cookies and I don’t want to start a baking war by giving them to Brian.”

Robert chokes on a laugh. “Fine. Two hours?”

I smile in relief. “Two hours. See you then.”

The short distance back to my place, I feel like I’m floating. Fuck, what’s wrong with me? Still…Craig knows Robert and he didn’t try to warn me away, so that’s deeply reassuring. I prepare the cookie dough and put it in the fridge to chill before cleaning up from breakfast and unpacking the boxes that say KITCHEN.

About two hours later, there’s a “Hey” from the entryway and I peer out to grin at Robert because he’s here, he actually came, and I’m acting like a teenager with a crush. Fuck. I have a crush on Robert. Jack, what is wrong with you? I gesture him into the kitchen and turn the oven on, and as he sits awkwardly at the table I notice that he showered and put on…okay maybe they’re not clean clothes, but they’re considerably less soiled and wrinkled.

“Place looks good,” he says tersely.

“It’s still kind of a mess…”

He snorts. “Cleaner than my place.”

Don’t say anything, Jack. Don’t fuck this up. I pull out the cookie sheets and the bowl of dough. “Want to help me prep the sheets while the oven heats up?”

Robert gives me a borderline hostile look and then shrugs. “Sure.”

I hand him a spoon, keeping two for myself. “Just scoop about this much…” I use one of my spoons to demonstrate. “…and hand it to me. I’ll scoop it onto the cookie sheet and hand it back. Worked the technique out with Amanda, and it halves the prep time.”

He scoops the dough and looks at it skeptically. I scrape my spoonful off using the back of the third spoon and hand the now-empty spoon to him in exchange for the full one. He scoops while I scrape, and in no time we have four dozen cookies.

“There’s still some in the bowl.”

I grin at him. “D’you want to eat the leftover bits, or should I?”

Again, I get an almost-hostile look, but he scrapes his spoon around the side until he’s got a good mouthful of dough, then he hands the bowl to me and sticks the spoon in his mouth. I scrape one of my spoons around getting the last bits, and we enjoy our treat in silence until the oven beeps to let us know it’s pre-heated. I slide two trays in, side-by-side, and amend my mental note to send the real estate agent an Edible Arrangement with chocolate-dipped fruit because this oven is amazing. I offer Robert a drink while we wait for the cookies to bake, juice or milk or soda or water, and reluctantly he lets me pour him a glass of water. I clean up while we’re waiting, and then it’s time to check the cookies. They’re done, so I do the dance of transference and set the timer for the other two dozen.

“I want to get these over to Joseph while the others are baking,” I tell Robert. “You know…deliver them while they’re still warm. You can wait here if you want. It should only take a minute, but if the timer goes off…use your best judgment on if the cookies are done and don’t feel like you have to wait for me before digging in.”

A tiny, tiiiiiny smirk flashes across his face. “Fine.”

I transfer hot cookies from the trays to Joseph’s plate and slip outside. Judging by the blond kids in the yard of the house to the left, I’m going to guess that’s Joseph’s. They watch me as I go up the front walk, just creepily staring. I ring the doorbell.

Joseph answers the door, looking confused and dismayed for a moment before covering it up with a wide smile. “Jack! How good to see you!”

“I brought your plate back,” I tell him, holding it out. “But I didn’t feel right just bringing it back empty, so I thought I’d return your favor.”

He takes the plate, looking uncertain as he realizes the cookies are still warm.

“And I hate to run, but I’ve got the other half of the batch in the oven, so…”

“No, no, you go make sure the cookies are okay,” he says somewhat distantly.

“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow then. Looking forward to it!” Or I am, now that I know Craig and Robert live here, too.

Joseph smiles at me, I wave, and then I jog back over to my house. There’s still five minutes left on the timer.

“Do his kids even talk?” I ask rhetorically as I sit down at the table.

Robert snorts.

“Listen,” I say quietly, “I know how much empty houses suck. Ana was gone most of the time on deployment. If you ever just need to be around people and you don’t want to go to Jim and Kim’s, you’re welcome to come here.”

He looks away. “…maybe.”

“I’m just going to unpack after the cookies are done, but if you want to hang out…”

Quietly, he says, “Sure.”

Oh my god I have a crush on the most anti-social person I’ve met in this neighborhood. The first crush I’ve ever had, and it’s the guy who looks like something the proverbial cat dragged in. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Luckily, the timer goes off and the second half of the cookies are done. I take the trays out and grab some plates. Six for me, six for Amanda, and I stack the other dozen on the third plate for Robert. “Milk?” I ask as I set our plates on the table, and he gives me a tiny nod. I pour two glasses. “Here’s to warm chocolate-chip cookies,” I say, lifting my glass and toasting him with it.

Robert’s already got an entire cookie in his mouth, so it’s hard to read his expression, but I don’t think it’s hostile. He swallows half the cookie and mumbles, “I’ll drink to that.” Our glasses clink gently as he touches his to mine.

We sit in comfortable silence, stuffing ourselves with warm cookies and cold milk. While I’m eating my last cookie, Robert shoves three from his plate to mine.

“You’re sure?” I ask gently.

He grunts. “You made ‘em.”

“But you’re my guest.”

He grunts again and looks away.

“Thank you,” I practically whisper. Oh my god I’m smitten, someone help me.

We eat the last cookies, drain our glasses, and sigh in contentment.

“Make yourself at home while I unpack,” I say after a minute. “I mean that. Watch anything you want, eat and drink anything you want, feet on the couch, the whole nine yards.”

That gets me the borderline-hostile look again, but he nods and we go into the living room. A few hours pass while I unpack to the sounds of whatever Robert’s got the TV on at the moment, and finally the last box is empty.

“Whew! I think it’s time for lunch.” I grin at my guest. “How about you?”

He looks away and shrugs.

“I didn’t have anything fancy planned, just sandwiches and chips, but you’re welcome to join me if you’re hungry.”

Robert’s stomach growls. He doesn’t look at me, but he does say “…yeah.” in a low voice.

“Roast beef okay?”

Tiny nod.

“Provolone, lettuce, mayo, and mustard?”

He gives me a suspicious look. “Brown, or yellow?”

“Brown.”

“Yeah.”

“Juice, soda, milk, more water?” The last option gets me another tiny nod. “Okay. Be right back.”

I throw two generous sandwiches together along with a generous handful of chips on a pair of plates. I try to resist putting the mustard on Robert’s in the shape of a heart, but wind up doing it anyway and then have to spread it around with a knife. Robert’s found some foreign movie with subtitles, and he looks pretty into it, so I hand him his plate and refill his glass before sitting next to him with my own lunch. We eat and watch in silence, all the way through the credits, and he looks so…relaxed. I could look at him for hours. Oh my god I’m a sap.

He stirs as the credits end, and I grab his plate so he doesn’t see me looking.

“I’ll just take these into the kitchen,” I say as I flee.

When I come back, Robert’s hovering uncomfortably by the door.

“I should…go do…clothes,” he mutters.

“Do you want company?” It’s out of my mouth before I even realized I was going to say something, and I know the instant my mouth closes that it was the wrong thing to do.

Robert scowls at me. “It’s laundry. I don’t need a fucking chaperone. We’re neighbors, not bosom buddies, and we’re not glued at the goddamn hip!”

There’s no way in hell I don’t look like I just got stabbed in the heart, especially not with how guiltily Robert looks away.

“O—okay,” I stutter, half of my brain still in shock. “I’ll…see you at the barbecue tomorrow?”

It feels like an eternity before Robert mutters, “Yeah.”

Then he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him, and I have no idea if I fucked up or not.

===

As I drive to the high school for my meeting with Mr. Vega, my thoughts run in an extremely dumb circle. I should have given my number to Robert. I could slip it through his mail slot. But I'll see him at Joseph's tomorrow. But that's tomorrow. I'd bet $20 that he's going drinking again tonight, and I know the bar is in easy walking distance, but what if...?

Jack. Stop it. He's a grown man, he can take care of himself. Somewhat. Maybe. Anyway, I'm at the school now so I'll worry about Robert later.

The secretary gives me a visitor badge and tells me roughly where Mr. Vega's classroom is, but the doors aren't clearly numbered and I'm a little early, so some punk-goth kid and I sort of stare each other down in the hall until the period ends and Mr. Vega looks out, sees me, and waves me over. Turns out he asked me to talk to him because Amanda's falling behind in terms of handing in assignments. He pulls out his gradebook and we discuss the last few months, Ana's death and the move, but the timing is wrong. It doesn't seem to be related to either event. I promise Hugo - he insisted I call him Hugo - that I'll talk to her. As I get up to leave, he mentions something about putting together a cheese tray for tomorrow.

"Tomorrow?" I ask, half curious and half suddenly certain.

"The cul-de-sac I live on is holding a barbecue," he answers. "Kind of looking forward to it more than usual, because the empty house across the way has new owners and I'm sure they've been invited."

I rattle off my address.

Hugo looks surprised. "How did you- waaaait."

"Yeah. That's where Amanda and I moved to."

"Then I apologize in advance for my son," Hugo sighs. "Ernest is going through a...rebellious phase. But the neighbors are good people, I think you and Amanda will be very happy there."

"Even Robert?" I ask before I can reconsider the wisdom of the words. Jack, what are you doing??

Hugo looks somber. "Robert's been going through some tough times since his wife died. I'd be more worried about him hurting himself than hurting anyone else. Have you...already met him?" he asks, almost wincing.

I nod. "We...kind of had lunch together earlier."

That gets me a look that's half surprised and half impressed. "Well. I daresay you hit it off quite well with Robert, then. Uh...are you coming to the barbecue?"

"Of course! You may smell my marinara sauce cooking tonight. I'm making fried ravioli."

"No meat in that sauce?" he asks warily.

"No meat. Are you one of the vegetarians?"

Hugo shakes his head. "Not me. Damien and his son. They live in the beautiful black house next to Robert's. Have you met any of the other neighbors?"

"Brian," I say slowly, "and I knew Craig in college."

"Oh, that just leaves Mat and his daughter." Hugo looks pleased. "Drop by the coffee place just down from our street, Mat runs it."

"The Coffee Spoon."

"So you have met him! Excellent! We'll see you and Amanda tomorrow, and welcome you properly to the neighborhood." Hugo shakes my hand vigorously, smiling broadly, and I shake and smile back.

"Thank you, and yes. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to send my real estate agent something nice for finding me that house."

Hugo laughs and waves me off.

In the end, the agent gets not only a giant assortment of chocolate-dipped fruit but also a $100 bill stuffed into the tiny gift card with a note of "Most sincere thanks!  - Jack" scribbled inside. Then I head home to start my sauce cooking.

=

Amanda comes in as I’m tossing pizza dough, and the scent of my marinara in the crock pot draws her to the kitchen like a moth to flame.

“So…” she starts warily. “How was your meeting with Mr. Vega?”

“Manda…”

She backs away like I’d brandished a knife at her. “Oh, no. That’s the we need to have a talk voice. What did he tell you? I didn’t do it!”

“That’s exactly the problem,” I say gently. “He’s worried about you, kiddo. He knows you have your sights set on some pretty prestigious schools, and if your grades slip much further, they’re going to put your dreams in jeopardy.”

Amanda slumps and leans against the wall. “I know,” she says in a tired voice.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She’s quiet for a minute. I spread sauce and cheese over the pizza dough.

“I feel like no matter what’s going on, I should just suck it up and deal with it because I know you had it so much worse.”

I drop my handful of cheese and hug her. “Honey, no. It’s not a competition. You’re my daughter and I want you to be happy, especially because I had it so much worse.”

She hugs me back and sniffles. “Why are kids mean, Dad?”

“Because they’re afraid, Panda.” I kiss the top of her head. “They’re afraid of what other people will think and day and do, so they lash out and pretend they’re strong to hide that they feel weak.”

“Like dogs,” she says.

“Yep. Like dogs. And high school is a particularly rough time, because everyone’s trying to figure out who they are between wanting to stay a kid and wanting to be an adult and being afraid of having to go out into the real world.”

She looks up at me. “Were you afraid, Dad?”

That makes me chuckle. “Manda Panda, I didn’t have the time or energy to be afraid.”

“But what about…” she bites her lip, not wanting to bring up the crash. I boop her nose lightly.

“Met your mother that same week.”

Amanda scrunches her nose up at me, then gives me a serious look. “What are you going to do when I go off to college?”

“That’s why I’m making friends, sweet pea. Now…what do you want on this pizza?”

“Just toss a bunch of pepperoni on it,” she says with a grin. “Speaking of friends, tell me about the guy you were having breakfast with this morning.”

I turn away, wrestling with the package of pepperoni and struggling to not blush. “Well, I told you I was going out to watch the game. Turns out there actually was a game on. I found a little bar nearby and figured I could kill time, and he was there. We talked a little, and then discovered we were neighbors…” And then he came on to me. Nope, not saying that. “…and he invited me in but I was too tired, so…”

“And then your Dad Instincts kicked in?” she asks.

“You’ll understand when you see him.”

“I already saw him,” she points out. “And yeah, I totally understand.”

“He lost his wife a few years back,” I say quietly.

Manda winces. “Okay, not only do I understand, but I fully support you bringing him here at any time and gladly welcome my new uncle.”

I finish loading the pizza and slide it into the oven to bake. “We’ll put together some of that new furniture after dinner, and then make the ravioli fresh tomorrow morning.”

“What time is the barbeque?”

“It occurs to me, daughter of mine, that it is being hosted in the next yard over and thus, we can time our entrance perfectly. Joseph said three, but…” I set the timer and shrug. “I’m going to aim for two and see how things go.”

Amanda grins at me. “Sounds good, Dad.”

===

While I roll my pasta dough and fill the ravioli, Amanda watches out of the living room windows to keep track of who’s already arrived. She’s a bit dismayed that Hugo is one of our neighbors, but intrigued by Damien and excitedly calls out a description that makes me intrigued, too. Mat’s daughter, Craig’s twins, and Daisy have her eager to go play as I bread and fry the ravioli, and as I’m taking the last ones out to drain she tells me Robert’s slouched over from his house to Joseph’s. I hand her the paper-towel-lined bowl of piping hot fried ravioli, tongs, and a serving spoon. Then I wrap a towel around the crock pot, and we’re off to meet the neighbors and be social.

Joseph’s already got hot dogs grilling. There’s a sprinkler set up in the back that some of the girls are playing in, and the adults are hanging out in a couple of clusters. There’s friendly greetings called out from a few directions as we make our way to the table and set our burdens down, and then Joseph jogs over to welcome us, arms open wide.

“Welcome! I’m so glad you two are here!”

I’m sure you are, Joe. I’m sure you are.

“And you brought…”

“Fried ravioli and marinara sauce,” I supply. “Four-cheese filling. No meat.”

“How…ambitious,” Joseph says, his smile slipping a bit. “Let me introduce you to my family,” he says brightly, guiding us away from the food.

His kids are creepy. It’s also creepy that he’s give them all similar names. Then he calls his wife over because he can’t find the youngest, and it’s the drunk woman from the bar, Mary.

Wait a second. Mary, Joseph, and four kids whose names all sound a lot like Christ.

Joseph’s got problems. And one of them, it’s painfully obvious, is his marriage. Mary is marginally more attentive than my dad was, but she clearly wants nothing to do with raising the kids or socializing, as she excuses herself to tend to a glass of wine. Joseph tries to cover for her, but I'm pretty sure everyone knows that he’s the only one putting any energy into the fiction of them being a happy couple. He excuses himself to find his youngest child, and Amanda and I sidle back over to the food. Naturally, she piles a plate with cookies and other baked goods, with a small bowl for fried ravioli and marinara. I help myself to some of my own cooking and a deviled egg or three, then peruse Hugo's cheese plate and politely take some veggies from a store-bought tray.

"Ha! At least somebody's eating them!" Brian announces from beside me, ladling marinara over his bowl of fried ravioli. "These smell amazing, Jack, I've really got to hand it to you."

That surprises me. "Really?"

"Oh, sure. I can't cook for love or money unless it's something on a grill, so I just bring veggies for Damien and his boy."

Well, that's more humility than I was expecting, but I'll be gracious about it. "I did all the cooking growing up," I tell him. "Even adapted some things to a campfire. I'd be happy to teach you, if you want."

Brian looks me up and down. "You do much camping, then?"

"I'm a country boy, born and raised. It's not summer unless you go fishing and grill your catch on an open flame." I roll my eyes and grin. "Just try telling that to Amanda, though. She won't have anything to do with the fish until it's done cooking."

That makes him laugh. "I can get Daisy to fish, but then she hands it to me. Say, we should go camping together. Bring the girls."

"That sounds great," I tell him honestly.

Brian spears a ravioli and takes a bite. His mouth splits into an enormous grin as he chews and swallows. "Hey, Hugo! Come and try these! He's a big fan of cheese," Brian tells me in a quieter tone as Hugo nods to Mat and Craig and leaves them to join us.

Hugo helps himself while Brian wanders off, and I watch as he takes a bite. "These are really good," he tells me in pleased surprise. "You made them?"

"From scratch. I don't like the store-bought ones. Too bland."

He eyes the contents of my plate. "Fan of good cheese?" he asks. "There's a little French place that does a good cheese plate, and they hold trivia night once a week. I usually go with Mat and Brian and their girls, and we clean up pretty good, but with you along we could split into two teams and see how good Brian really is."

"That sounds fun," I tell him. "I'm game. Wh-"

"Hold that thought," Hugo says suddenly. "ERNEST HEMINGWAY VEGA, ARE YOU SMOKING??"

A sullen teenage boy in an orange hoodie takes a drag on a cigarette and then flicks it into the gutter. "No."

Hugo storms off, leaving me to nibble on cheese. I guess that answers the question of which boy is his. Maybe I could have Amanda watch him on trivia night.

Craig walks up with River strapped to his chest and gives me a careful hug. "Bro! Good to see you! Aw man, and you made the ravioli!"

"Olive oil," I tell him. "It's got omega-threes. It's good for you. And I used fresh tomatoes in the sauce."

"You had me at olive oil," he says with a grin. Then, in a low voice as he fills a bowl, "Don't worry, bro. I told everyone about your mom and the crash and all that. No one's gonna ask awkward questions."

"Thanks, bro," I tell him. "I mean that. Hey, we still need to catch up some time."

He grins. "Well...I need to get a good jog in tomorrow morning, but if you wanted to stop buy and help with breakfast for the girls, I wouldn't say no."

Well, I need to get back into shape anyway. "Maybe I'll join you for that jog."

Craig's face lights up. "Yeah, bro! I mean...I really shouldn't eat something as unhealthy as your biscuits, but..."

"Gotta treat yourself every once in a while, bro," I tell him with a grin of my own.

"Yeah, and they're really good." He glances around. "Uh...how'd Robert like them?"

"Hard to tell," I admit quietly. "He ate them, at least? And he hung out while I baked cookies and unpacked, and then we watched a movie and had sandwiches for lunch..."

Craig gives me the same look of impressed surprise as Hugo had. "Bro. That's amazing. Keep doing your thing, Mr. Mom." He claps me on the shoulder and jogs off to where Hugo is shaking his head at Ernest as he walks off.

I look around for Robert, finally locating him at the small bar in the shade. Before I get more than a few steps closer, though, Mary walks up and engages him in conversation. I stop. What am I doing? What would I even have said? Luckily, I don't have time to stand around being awkward because a man who can only be Damien sweeps me an elegant bow.

"Ah, the newest arrival to our neighborhood," he declares in stately, measured tones. "Please, allow me to introduce myself: Damien Bloodmarch, at your service."

"Jack Morrison," I tell him, doing my best to return the bow. "It's a pleasure."

"The pleasure is all mine," he returns. "Ah - I hope you'll forgive my impertinent question, but the delectable dish you brought. Is it..."

"Meat-free," I assure him.

His face lights up. "I'm so glad to hear it! If you would perhaps care to join me at the small table, I shall sample your culinary offerings before they cool and we can continue our introductions."

"It would be an honor," I tell him with another bow.

I go over to the table, a glass-topped wrought iron affair big enough for two people, where someone I have to assume is Damien brought a crystal carafe of lemonade and a pair of goblets. He joins me with a paper bowl of ravioli and marinara, and pours the lemonade. It's very good. We chat for a bit about his unique lifestyle choice, and then he excuses himself to deal with something his son - Lucien, the kid I had a staredown with in the hallway - has done. While I'm watching them, someone sits at the table where Damien was, making me jump.

It's Robert.

He looks...miserable. Still hung over and well on his way to being drunk again, a glass of whiskey in his hand, but he's clean and so are his clothes. I try to tell myself my heart is racing from the surprise, but I'm a liar and I know it.

"Hey," he says noncommittally.

I swallow my bite of cheese. "Hey." What do I say? "You okay?"

That gets me the borderline hostile look again. "...yeah."

Somehow, I doubt that. "I was about to get myself something to drink because Damien's lemonade is really good but I don't want to drink it all. Want me to grab you something?"

Robert stares at me for a long moment. Then he looks down at his whiskey and drains the glass. "...fine."

I get two plastic cups of Coke with ice, and also put a few ravioli on a plate with a spoonful of sauce. Robert gives me a suspicious look as I put the plate and one of the cups down in front of him, but he picks up one of the fried pasta pockets and nibbles it.

"It's good," he says reluctantly. "Thanks for...breakfast yesterday."

"You're always welcome to come over for breakfast," I say quietly. "Or..." I fish out the folded post-it note with my number scribbled on it and pass it over. "If you're not up for facing the world, text me and I'll come cook for you."

Robert looks at the paper for a long minute before tucking it away. Awkward silence descends. I nibble my cheese; Robert eats the fried ravioli. We both sip our Cokes.

"I talked to Brian," I say to fill the silence. "We're going to arrange a camping trip, do some fishing. Cook on a campfire. It's been a few years since I last went camping."

"I haven't gone camping in years," Robert says quietly. "Not since the last time."

Well, that's mildly concerning. "What happened the last time?"

Robert spins me a hard-boiled, over-the-top story about carrying his buddy for two days with a broken ankle, but he does it completely deadpan, serious as a heart attack. When he reaches the end and looks at me over the rim of his cup for a reaction, I grin and arch an eyebrow at him.

"Just kidding," he says in something close to a warm tone. Then he tells me what really happened.

"Was that revenge for me pulling your leg in the bar?" I ask lightly.

He gives me a tiny smirk. "Nah. I'm just an asshole like that. Good to see you can take a joke, though."

"I'm honestly impressed you managed to say all that with a straight face," I tease him, and he looks faintly pleased.

Amanda and Daisy come barreling up, using a paper plate as a steering wheel. They're playing Long Haul Paranormal Ice Road Ghost Truckers, and it looks like Amanda has taken it on herself to teach the younger girl how playing pretend works. As they're eating gummy worms, Amanda turns to Robert.

"I'm Amanda," she says briskly, holding her hand out. "Jack's my dad. Yes really, no not genetically, yes legally, no not adopted."

"Robert," he says, chuckling. "You must get that a lot." He shakes her hand.

"Since I was in first grade," she admits cheerfully. "So. You gonna come over for breakfast so I can practice making biscuits?"

He looks a bit taken aback. "I..."

"I want to be sure I can have them come out edible before I go off to college," she continues. "And that means practice, practice, practice. So. Yes or no?"

"I...yes," he says uncertainly.

"Great!"

Joseph's twins pop up from seemingly nowhere. "Come play with us," they chorus in creepy unison. "Come play with us forever."

Amanda throws me a panicky look while Daisy retreats quietly. Thankfully, Joseph hurries up.

"Guys, enough with the creepy twin shtick," he chides them. “We’ve talked about this.” They run off giggling. "Sorry about that. I'm about to put the burgers on the grill."

He's wearing the same robin's egg blue sweater over his shoulders as he was when I met him, something that seems odd considering the warmth of the day and the grill. What's more odd, though, is that Robert had been moderately relaxed, but now he's gone back to looking like he's just waiting for an excuse to stab someone, and he's glaring holes into Joseph's back as he walks over to the grill.

"Robert?" I ask quietly.

He looks down at his cup, puts it down, and picks up his empty glass. "I need a drink," he growls, and leaves the table to stalk over to the bar.

I abandon the table as well and head over to where Mat and Hugo are having a heated discussion about art and Craig looks lost. Amanda is across the yard, making flower crowns with Daisy and a girl I’m guessing is Mat’s daughter, something that’s confirmed when she runs up and puts hers on his head. He rolls with it, delighted, and she jokes that it makes him slightly less uncool before running off again. The conversation shifts to Cool Dads and Authoritarian Dads and Craig sticks up for my Mr. Mom-ness. I realize, when I get thirsty, that I left my Coke on Damien’s table and head back over there, but he’s perched on one of the matching wrought-iron chairs and he’s moved both cups to the side.

Which one was mine? Which one was Robert’s?

If I drink from Robert’s, isn’t that what they call an indirect kiss?

Blindly, I take a cup and drink from it. Schrödinger’s Indirect Kiss.

I’m so doomed.

“Please, sit,” Damien urges me. “Let us resume our lovely chat from earlier.”

Right, That. I sit. “Sorry Robert and I hogged your table,” I say, but Damien waves the issue away.

“Think nothing of it, my friend.” He smiles at me. “To be truthful, I was glad my humble furniture could facilitate a conversation between you. I know Robert can be quite…prickly…when it comes to meeting new people, and it warms my heart to see him take such a shine to you.”

“Well, we met…Thursday night.” Great. I’m blushing. “And we…uh…had lunch together yesterday.”

Damien looks intrigued. “Really? Which establishment did you frequent together?”

Now I’m blushing harder. “We…had sandwiches. At my house. And watched a movie.”

He’s giving me the impressed surprise look. What the hell did I get myself into?

Before I can figure out what to say, Craig comes up and hands me a paper plate with a cheeseburger on it.

“Just the way you used to eat ‘em,” he says proudly.

“Thanks, bro,” I say, but then I notice Robert standing several feet behind him, a plate in each hand and what I assume is a cheeseburger on each plate. He’s scowling, and when he sees me looking, he looks away.

Craig looks behind him. “Oh, crap bro, I’m sorry.” He hastily looks back at me as Robert looks in our direction. “I totally forgot you developed that…uh…ketchup aversion in college.”

He snatches the plate back from me and hurries off. Damien and I exchange a slightly-puzzled look, but then Robert walks up and drops one of the plates in front of me.

“Here,” he says shortly, not looking at me.

“Thanks,” I tell him quietly, and he walks off.

Damien looks like he’s just seen a unicorn.

“I would be delighted to make your acquaintance further,” he says as I take a bite of my burger. “I beg you, allow me to host you for a spot of afternoon tea sometime.”

“I would like that,” I say as soon as I’ve swallowed.

Joseph comes up while I’m eating and hands Damien a plate with a burger on it.

“Ah, my thanks,” he says, accepting the plate. “Even with patties made of vegetable protein, your grilling skills are impeccable.”

“It wasn’t my first time behind the grill,” Joseph says with a wink in my direction. “Say, Jack, you should add us all on Dadbook.”

“What’s Dadbook?” I ask warily.

Dadbook, it turns out, is a Facebook knockoff specifically for neighborhood dads. The rest of the evening goes smoothly, with everyone trading stories and watching the kids play. Amanda breaks up a fight between Carmensita and the twins, and I field a few babysitting offers for her. Around sunset, everyone packs up and heads out to their respective homes.

Amanda has plans to go out with friends, which amazes me because how does she still have the energy to do anything at this hour? I remind her to be home before midnight and be careful, to call if she needs anything, and wave as she goes off into the night.

Around midnight, I text Amanda to see if she’s on her way home, but she doesn’t respond. A few minutes later, I text her again. Half an hour later, I’m getting worried. I text her a third time, begging her to let me know she’s okay. Almost an hour later, Amanda finally comes home. She tries to play it cool, but that falls apart when I hug her tightly.

“Dad?”

“Why didn’t you answer my tests?” I half-demand.

She squirms uncomfortably. “I…guess I didn’t see those.”

“Fareeha…”

That makes her freeze. Her birth name reminds us both of her mother.

“You came home an hour and a half after your curfew and you didn’t respond to any of my texts. I kept thinking something had happened, that I was going to get a call from the cops. I was scared.”

She hugs me back. “Oh, Dad…I didn’t mean to…”

I let go and sit on the couch, head in my hands, feeling very tired. “Please don’t do that again,” I say quietly.

Amanda hugs me. “I’m sorry. I won’t do that again. I’m…gonna go to bed now.”

Once she’s in her room, I lock the door and go to my room. My room shouldn’t feel any emptier than usual, because Ana and I never shared a bed, but somehow it does and I wonder if Robert’s sleeping, or if he’s spent the evening at Jim and Kim’s and assured someone else he didn’t kiss and tell if he wanted to come inside.

Does it bother me, the possibility that Robert’s having casual sex? That I could have…

No. It wouldn’t have been right. He took a shine to me, in Damien’s words, and judging by the reactions of my new neighbors that’s a more rare and precious thing.

I fall asleep remembering Robert sprawled in his bed. Maybe in the morning I’ll see if his door is unlocked and make him breakfast.