Page 30 of Who's Your Daddy?

“What feeling do you get from this?”

“Happiness. Doesn’t this song make you happy? You don’t get that from anything made after 2005.” He pulls me toward him and starts singing along. “If this is just the be-ginning, my life is gonna be beee-aut-iful.”

“So, you just hate modern music?”

“Not just music. TV, too. I stopped watching series afterGame of Thrones.

“Was it season eight?”

“Yep.” Still swaying with me in his arms, he nods somberly, even though trumpets are blaring in the background. “It destroyed such a fundamental part of me. I can’t...I can’t take the risk and put myself out there like that again.”

I give a nod in solidarity. “I understand.”

He spins me around and after a quick dip, he turns me slightly so I can stare into the fridge too. “So, what do you want to eat?”

He casually rests his forearm on my shoulder and leans on me like I’m his little sister. It reinforces the fact that he’s trying to distance himself from me...sexually.

“Wow! I wasn’t expecting you to have such a well-stocked fridge,” I say, pushing aside the dejection I feel. “I thought all you’d have is beer and leftover Chinese food.”

“If I’d met you a year ago, that’s exactly what you would’ve found in my fridge. But my friend, Dylan, moved in with me after his divorce and that changed very quickly. He’s quite picky about what he consumes, and he’s also a gourmet chef, so all this healthy shit is his doing. He doesn’t eat anything processed. Everything has to be fresh.” He turns to give me a somewhat sheepish look. “I’m not much of a cook though, so I’m thinking eggs and—”

“Oh, I’ll cook!” My overly enthusiastic response shocks me as much as it shocks him, but I don’t even try to hide my excitement. I’ve been living off tinned food and sloppy microwave dinners for two weeks. I’m dying for a home-cooked meal. “I love cooking, and I haven’t cooked in a while.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! Sit down. I’ll take care of the rest.” Rummaging through the fridge, I take out butter, garlic, and eggs. He doesn’t have longganisa, so I improvise and use Italian sausages instead. “I know it’s almost three in the afternoon, but it’s Sunday, so I’m gonna make you a traditional Filipino breakfast. Just like my mom used to make it when I was a kid. Every Sunday, without fail, she’d make sure we had breakfast as a family.”

“That’s a nice tradition.”

I glance over at him. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

“Well, my dad was always working on some movie or another, so we didn’t eat many meals together as a family. And that just created a habit where now we don’t doanythingas a family. We all just kind of live our separate lives with a sporadic text every few months. It’s nice that your dad made time for that. I guess...I just assumed he had Sunday breakfast with his golf buddies at the country club.”

That’s an accurate assumption of Teddy, but my dad was never like that. We were always his number one priority. For the first time, I consider telling Peter the truth, but doing so now will be even more embarrassing. Teddy called me a slut in front of dozens of people, and Peter was a witness to that, too. He’s also aware of the fact that I was atGritlast night to get my ex back. Admitting I was at such a low point that I was willing to take Teddy back, even though he treated me like trash, is a humiliation I don’t wish to relive at this moment.

“My dad always made time for us,” I reply softly. That’s at least not a lie, and I swiftly end the conversation there.

He seats himself on a stool on the other side of the wide island counter while I scour through the kitchen cupboards, looking for pans, utensils, and the other ingredients I need.

“Don’t you have any rice?” I ask.

“No. Dyl and I try not to eat too many carbs.”

“But it’s rice. Rice is a staple food in every household.”

“Not mine. Besides, who eats rice for breakfast, anyway?”

“Me.” I sigh my disappointment. “Now it won’t be just the way my mom used to make it. The sinangag is a critical part of this dish.”

“What is that?”

“Garlic fried rice.”

“I have egg noodles if that helps.”

“It doesn’t...but I guess I have to make do.”

He falls quiet as I go on another quest, this time in search of spices and the noodles. He watches me silently as I walk back to the stove to fry the sausages. I use a bit of honey to achieve that sweet and savory flavor reminiscent of longganisa. I also sprinkle in some garlic powder and a pinch of paprika for a touch of spice. Although it’s not ideal and I have no idea how it will taste, I make the noodles like I would’ve made the rice, frying it in butter and garlic.

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