Page 76 of Please, Sir

“Better. A lot better.” She sinks her fingers into my back, beneath my shirt, bringing my body awake in places it’s been dormant for the last two weeks.

“You hungry? Jo Jo and I made some food. And, in case you didn’t catch on, we’ve talked about everything except what happened the other morning.” I kiss the top of her head. “Perfect timing.”

She winces but turns her expression very quickly into a smile. “I may talk to teenagers about this all day, but I can’t make any promises I’ll be helpful.”

I shrug. “You can’t do any worse than me. Hell, Jo’s already told me to use food as a metaphor, so,” I say, smirking. Together we walk to the table where Jolene has fixed plates for all three of us. Mine is made the way I like it, and it warms my heart, as corny as that sounds, that she remembers.

“Miss Riley, do you want cheese?” Jo Jo says, holding the green bottle of parmesan over her plate. Riley nods, and Jo Jo sprinkles.

“You can just call me Riley, Lene,” Riley offers, sticking the tines of her fork in a heap of spaghetti and twirling.

Jolene smiles. “And I think you and dad can just call me Jo Jo.”

“Oh thank goodness,” Riley sighs. “You are Jo Jo forever and always.”

“Ditto,” I add to Jolene, who immediately wags a finger between us.

“Ganging up on me already,” she teases.

“Old dogs struggle learning new tricks,” I tell her, loading up a bite of pasta.

“That may work as an excuse for you, but Riley isn’t old like you.” Jolene snatches a piece of garlic bread, dunking it in her pasta. My eyes veer to Riley’s for a moment, and I catch her already shooting me a look.

She is much younger than me. And I realize that even though we fell into this out of nowhere, we do have a lot of talks about our future in store. Riley is young enough that she may want to be a mother, or start her own business, or whatever. And she deserves to have everything she wants.

“Hello?” Jo Jo taunts, moving her fork in front of my face. “You spaced out.”

“Ah,” I clear my throat. “Back to before. What you walked in on.”

The three of us go red, and after a minute long debate over who is the most embarrassed, and the laughter dies, I rip off the Band-Aid.

“As you get older, and you have more and more experiences, you’ll learn what you like. I mean, the first time you had chocolate, you didn’t like white chocolate, or peppermint chocolate. You had dark chocolate and you swore up and down that it was the only kind of chocolate you liked. Remember that?” I take a sip of my water and Riley smirks. “You don’t know what you like if you never try it. And sometimes you end up liking and needing things that not everyoneelse likes or needs, or even understands. Remember how Grandpa Charlie loved sauerkraut? We don’t like it,” I say, turning to Riley. “Do you?”

She wrinkles her nose. “No. It stinks.”

“Exactly. But lots of people like it, and we think it’s stinky. And I love peanut butter, but Jo Jo, you don’t enjoy more than a spoonful of it. My point is, everybody likes different things, and sex is no different. The only thing is, it’s more personal. People talk less openly about what kind of sex they like, because sex and your sexual relationship with someone is really personal, and private to just the two of you.”

Riley reaches for a piece of garlic bread. “Everyone likes something different, and being with someone who likes what you like and wants what you want, in and out of the bedroom, is really important.”

“What you walked in on was just two adults who like the same thing,” I add, before sitting back and watching my girl process. She spins pasta on her fork but doesn’t take a bite. “If there’s anything you want to talk about or if you have any questions–”

She shakes her head, stuffing pasta in her mouth, talking around the food as she says, “Nope, I got it. Just… get a lock.”

I dip my head. “Noted.”

Her eyes pan to Riley, and something passes between them. A moment, but maybe something more. A silent understanding and a mutual desire to live a happy life with a family, no matter what that looks like. “You’re staying here, right?” Worry overtakes her features for a moment as she casts her dark eyes on me. “Dad, she’s not going home right? He knows where she lives. I heard him say that.” She looks my way, panicked. “You said that. You said he knows.”

Riley and I haven’t had much time alone to talk about everything that happened that night, where we’re headedand what’s in store for us. But I told her in the gym and on the ride home that she’d be staying with us until a restraining order is in tact. Truth be told, I hope she never leaves, but that’s not a decision for today.

Riley shakes her head. “No, I’m not going home, Jo Jo. Your dad said I could stay in the guest room here.”

Jo Jo stops mid spaghetti twirl. “Guest room?” She arches a brow, then proceeds to make a face like she’s in the presence of smelly idiots. “You’re not gonna stay in dad’s room with him?”

“Jo Jo, you’re kind of putting us on the spot. We haven’t really had time to talk all this through yet. Best thing for Riley right now is to feel safe and comfortable. The guest room is pressure free. She’s got her own bathroom,” I argue, knowing full well that I’d like Riley to sleep in my bed every night if she wanted to. But she needs time. The three of us, in truth, need a little time.

“But… you two are gonna start dating, though, right?” she asks.

“Oh yes,” Riley answers right away at the same time I say, “damn straight.”

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