Page 126 of Role Play
“What do you mean?” As if I don’t know exactly what he means. My fingers toy with the hem of my sweater.
He runs a hand through his hair, the dark strands standing up at odd angles afterward, making him look younger, more vulnerable. “This is a lot, very fast. Me sneaking into your room at night, then having to wake up early to get back to my bed before Dakota wakes up. Friday nights at home, making cookies instead of going out. It’s so domestic. We’re taking over your whole life.”
What life?Before Forrest, was I living? Or just writing about living?
“With or without you guys, I’d be in on a Friday night making cookies by myself. It feels good not to feel so alone anymore,” I say softly, meaning it more than I should. The weight of that admission takes up residence between us, heavier than it has any right to be.
“The more time I spend with Dakota here, the more I’m convinced I want full custody. I finally feel fulfilled, you know? But that means…” His eyes ping toward his daughter, who’s now carefully organizing chocolate chips by size, her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration.
“A kid-centered life,” I finish for him. “I understand.” And I do, surprisingly. I, who months ago declared to my mother that children were not part of my five-year plan. I, who thought finding success should precede starting a family. Yet here I am, with step stools and juice boxes in my kitchen, and it doesn’t feel like an invasion or interruption.
It simply feels…right.
“Does that make you want to run for the hills?”
“Perhaps…if it’s dark and you’re chasing me.” I wink at him.
He smirks before lowering his rough-hewn voice even more. “New kink unlocked, hmm?”
There’s a lot to talk about…a lot to unpack. And it all starts with Forrest finding a new job. But I’m not sure if we’re ready to have that conversation. All I can think about now is how perfect tonight is and how I’m not interested in heavy conversations ruining our sense of peace.
“We don’t have to figure out everything right now, okay? Tonight is just aboutthis.” I gesture to the cozy kitchen scene, the ingredients strewn across the counter, Dakota humming tunelessly as she sorts through sprinkles.
He forces a smile. “Okay. Just this, then.”
I turn back to the counter, willing my chest to feel less tight, my thoughts to untangle. “What do you want in your kitchen sink cookies, by the way?”
His answering grin is soft and intimate. “I want the exact cookie that brought you into my life.”
How does he do that? How does he manage to saytheright thing to make me forget all my misgivings and throw caution to the wind?
“Coming right up,” I promise, trying to ignore the dangerous fluttering in my chest, the little voice that whispers I’m already in way, way too deep.
Forrest retrieves a beer from the fridge, pops the cap with a satisfying hiss, and leans against the counter, watching us. His eyes are glazed over, his mind clearly elsewhere as he takes turns surveying his daughter, then me.
“Dakota, can you fetch the big mixing spoon from the drawer?” I ask, and she scurries to comply, clearly thrilled to be my official sous-chef. Her footsteps patter across the tile, like an eager little mouse.
A loud ring cuts through the bustle of cookie-making. Forrest checks the caller ID of my phone on the kitchen counter. “It’s your dad,” he mentions casually, causing me to swivel around. “You want to answer?”
I shake my head. “Not tonight.” It’s an unwelcome reminder of our dinner a couple weeks ago. The bitter taste of that evening is still swimming in my mouth like an aftertaste that won’t dissipate.
“You’re going to have to talk to him eventually,” Forrest supplies.
I shoot him a look as I pull open the pretzel bag with way too much gusto, sending pieces flying. “He wasn’t very polite to you either.”
Forrest shrugs. “He’s allowed to be a jerk to me. Comes with the territory. I only got upset that night because he was rude to you.”
I force a small laugh that sounds hollow and tickles my throat the wrong way. “It wasn’t that bad. He’s said worse things to me before. Dad isn’t a bad guy, but he has his moments. When he’s triggered, there’s no filter. He’s kind of like the Grinch during Christmas.”
“So what’s the game plan?” The phone rings again, and Forrest’s eyes drop to the caller ID once more. “Ignore him until his heart grows a few sizes?”
“Ha. I’m optimistic, but not a fool. Dad’s heart will be the size of a chicken liver until his dying day. I’m simply waiting until I feel…better.” I don’t want to face my dad and instantly break down into tears, replaying the disappointment and disapproval written in big, red block letters all over his face.
“Makes sense. Sometimes distance can help put things into perspective. I used to bump heads with my dad all the time until I moved to New York. After that, time was pressed whenever I’d go visit, and so we only focused on the good stuff.”
After portioning out the pretzels in a small bowl, I move on to the toffee bits. “What’s he like?”
Forrest’s posture shifts slightly, a barely perceptible stiffening of his shoulders. “Boone? He’s…” A small smile tugs on his mouth. “I don’t know, he’s Pops, you know? Old-school. Cowboy at heart. Eats red meat seven times a week. Drinks the same brand of beer he has since he was a teenager. Drives a ninety-five Chevy, that by some miracle still runs, when he makes a rare visit to town. He still has a flip phone if that tells you anything.”
