Page 52 of Plaything

I blinked a few times, slowly lowering the pathetic choice of defense I grabbed, “I don’t know! I grabbed the closest thing to me,” I explained.

“Didn’t your mama or daddy ever teach you how to throw a punch?” he asked as if it were surprising to him.

“No!” I shook my head, pushing my eyebrows together. This was the strangest experience I’d ever had.

He rolled his eyes, turning his body, “Crash course, little lady, pay attention,” he started, and my mouth dropped open. He balled his fist, “Alright, remember when you throw a punch, keep your thumb on the outside of your first, or you’ll break it,” he informed. He parted his leg, “All your power comes from this here leg, got it? So you’ll want to step into it and swing like hell,” he gave me a quick nod.

I stood there stunned for several seconds, replaying the last two minutes over in my mind. “Who are you?” I repeated again, this time my voice less scared and more confused.

He held his hand out to me, “Pardon my manners, little lady. My name is Chester. Chester Wright.”

My shoulders relaxed, and I realized the horrible misunderstanding I’d made. Wright, this must be Wyatt’s dad.

He raised his eyebrows, “And who might you be?” He prompted.

I slowly reached out and shook his hand, “Odette. Your Wyatt’s father?” I confirmed.

He smiled brightly. “That’s right, that’s my boy,” he said proudly. “I borrowed his shop vacuum; I was just dropping it off,” he explained. He glanced down at my hand that he still held. What kind of handshake is that? Girl, you better give me a firm one. Didn’t your daddy ever teach you how to give a firm handshake?”

I raised my eyebrows and squeezed his hand, holding mine firmer.

He nodded, “That’s better,” he let go.

I’d never met anyone like Chester before. He was direct yet polite and very unfiltered. I’d never noticed Wyatt’s accent before, but Chester seems to be from the Deep South.

He put his hands in the front pockets of his overalls, “I’ve never met one of their lady friends before; they keep real private,” he said suddenly.

Their? So... Wyatt’s dad knew that they like to share? That was strange. “Oh, I’m not- I mean, not really,” I struggled to get the words out. I wasn’t ready for labels, and I was sure Wyatt wouldn’t appreciate me telling his dad our business.

Chester chuckled, “You don’t gotta lie to me, sugar. Them boys have been dating the same girls since they were in middle school.” He picked up the vacuum and walked past me into the kitten.

I paused for a second before I followed him in, “Really?” I let the curiosity get the best of me.

Chester nodded, making a strained sound as he set the vacuum in a storage closet. “Oh yeah, they tried to be sneaky about it, of course. But teenagers are stupid, and Wyatt never could keep a secret from me,” he said nonchalantly.

I smiled. “And you allowed that?” I asked. My father would have disowned me—literally.

Chester stood back up and gave me a questioning look, “What do you reckon I should’ve done with him?”

I shrugged, “I don’t know. A lot of parents would have been... less than pleased.”

Chester smiled, “Not this old man.” He glanced around the kitchen, “My boys done a damn good job at everything he’s ever done. His friends are good kids too, and I’m happy that they’ve got each other,” he nodded quickly.

I smiled, wishing that somewhere, at some point, my father was telling someone about how proud he was of me. But I knew that he’d never do that. “Well, you did a good job raising him,” I said honestly.

Chester grinned, “I’ve gotta give some credit to his mama, but yes, I did,” he joked. He glanced at the unopened ingredients on the counter. “What are you makin’?” He asked.

I ran my hand through my hair, “I’m trying to make fettuccine, but the stove keeps igniting a flame a foot high. Even if I quickly switch the gauge to a lower setting, it stays lit,” I explained. Having someone else to vent to besides Cat is refreshing. I’d been fighting with the stove for half an hour.

Chester walked over to the stove and tried it himself, quickly turning it off when he saw the high flame. “It looks like the gas might be too loose,” he diagnosed. He started walking to the door. “I’ve got my tools in my truck. Let me take a look at it,” he stated.

I widened my eyes, “You don’t have to do that, Mr. Wright-”

“Happy to do it,” he dismissed. “And call me Pops, Sugar. My sons got the degree, I just work on cars,” he smiled, exiting the kitchen.

Was this what it was like to have a good dad?

I laughed, taking another sip of the beer Chester offered me. We’d been talking for hours, and I absolutely adored him. I mentioned not liking beer, and he insisted that it was because I was drinking it wrong. Truthfully, I’d only ever smelled beer and always hated the scent. He cut up some limes, and we plopped them into the glass with our thumbs.

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