Page 48 of The Irresistible Distraction

“She gave herself two hours before we left to box up everything she couldn’t bear to be rid of.”

I try not to feel touched, because the moment Brody becomes more than just a carefree, irresponsible fuckboy in my headcanon is the moment I’m well and truly done for. “Big bouquets and grand gestures,” I say aloud, to try to remind myself of who Brody from Beverly Hills is. His assistant and housekeeper are coming, meaning the effort required of him is . . . not necessarily minimal, but⁠—

“Great,” I say, my voice a little dry.

“Admit it, you think I’m adorable.” He’s already patted both the dogs and is opening the door for me as he turns his attention toward Sebastian. “Your mom thinks I’m an amazing nephew.”

“Sure, sure,” Sebastian says, but he doesn’t roll his eyes, meaning it counts as a win.

It’s the first time Brody’s been in our house, and I’m anxious about the fact that I haven’t had a chance to clean and also . . . some of our furniture is more dated than Vera’s. But he barely looks at the furnishings: the old plaid couch that dominates the living area, the even older end tables my father built. To me it’s memories and patched woodwork . . . but Brody barely glances at the poorly applied drywall I did myself and which is still uneven. Instead, he heads over to the stack of photos I’m still in the process of framing.

“These could be postcards,” he muses out loud. “Stickers too, for water bottles. Slap a Lake Arrowhead or Keep Calm and Toast On name under it, and it would be easily monetizable.”

My cheeks are warming again, and the need to deflect is too strong. “These are the types of ideas Maggie loves.”

Brody looks at me, and I answer his unspoken question. “Maggie always wants to promote the diner because she thinks we need to revamp the decorations and dig into the retro thing. She’s also suggested selling postcards and knickknacks.”

“And you?”

I lift a shoulder. “I don’t know. When I was younger, I never thought I’d be running the diner. I always thought—” I leave the sentence unfinished and am saved when Sebastian drags Brody over to our DVD (yes, DVD) collection.

Within minutes, the boys are arguing about whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie.

“Wait, your mom—this mom who’s trained you to police my only sometimes potty mouth—let you watch Die Hard?”

Sebastian shrugs, saying of course with his body language.

“The woman who thinks crap should be the upper level of vulgarity let you watch Bruce Willis shoot up an entire building of people while cursing?”

“My messaging here is simple: Bad words exist in Hollywood, not Lake Arrowhead.”

Brody’s grin is wide and all-encompassing. Even though we’re still a few feet apart, I can feel the way he shifts his body toward me. “And how’s that working out for you so far?”

“Pretty well, as long as no one from Hollywood comes in and sets a bad example.”

“Noted.” Brody dips his chin, his grin widening as that damned dimple makes a reappearance. “Crap will continue to be my upper limit.”

They decide on Thunderbolts* (and explain to me that the * is because they may or may not be the new Avengers) while I prepare popcorn.

“Holy—” Brody starts, only to catch himself. “Holy fantastical fudge. This is good popcorn. Almost as good as your cookies.”

I haven’t had a chance to talk to Brody about the degree to which I often have to trick my son into eating, that despite all the snacks I pile in front of Sebastian, he’s consistently fifth percentile in weight, something our pediatrician, his father, and grandparents have all nagged me about. While there is a part of me that knows my son’s weight is not my sole responsibility, at the heart of it, everything from the cookies I spent months perfecting to the various popcorn flavors are part of my overarching effort to keep Seba’s weight up.

Tonight’s snack is a truffle and parmesan popcorn mix that’s one of Sebastian’s favorites. “Thank you.” Because Sebastian is seated on one side and Brody is sitting in the middle, I can choose to be at a ninety-degree angle to the screen or . . .

Brody pats the space next to him, lifting the blanket he’s already gotten ready. I look at him and then look away. Tyler 2.0 never met Sebastian, who was too young to really know better. So because I hate making last-minute decisions, I choose the ninety-degree-angle lounger, pulling my legs up to my chest.

Though Brody brings an extra blanket over for me, and while he leans in and whispers (too softly for Sebastian to hear), “Coward,” his face is otherwise unreadable.

He goes back to the main couch with Sebastian, stretches one leg on top of the other, and grabs more popcorn. “This really is amazing.”

Sebastian smiles. “You should try her s’mores popcorn.”

Brody’s eyes are comically huge. “S’mores popcorn?” He puts an arm around Sebastian, which my son . . . allows. I feel and hear the small catch in my breathing at the sight even as Brody continues, as if there’s nothing to see here, just my introverted, super-shy son who struggles to make friends allowing himself to be half hugged by Brody. Despite the fact that he doesn’t even always tolerate hugs from me or Jesse. “If this is how we’re going to be eating on movie nights, you and I are going to have to go for longer runs.”

I try not to read into the idea of movie nights, as if this will be an ongoing occurrence.

A few more bites in, Brody turns to me and says, “Not to be that jerk, but why aren’t you selling more popcorn? It’s . . .” Brody makes an exaggerated chef’s kiss gesture, which elicits a laugh out of both Sebastian and me.