Page 56 of The Irresistible Distraction

Brody strokes his thumb across my pulse, tilting his head as if trying to ground me back in the moment.

It’s only been a week, but . . . it’s also been one of the best weeks Sebastian and I have ever had together. “You’re really okay with it being a mini family weekend?”

“Super looking forward to it.”

He sounds sincere, I think. And yet . . . “You said that you’d stop saying the sex when it stopped being fun.”

Brody sighs. “Most relationships stop being fun eventually. But so far, time with you and Seba just . . . keeps getting better. So how about you don’t pull away? How about we deal with the un-fun parts if and when they come up?”

“Lean in?” I force a smile but can’t seem to force any other words to leave my mouth.

“Stop overthinking.”

This time, I do smile. “First, that’s about as effective as telling someone to calm down. Meaning it’s likely never worked, in the history of the multiverse. And second, I think my analysis paralysis is fairly pathological by now.” I lick my lips. “Are we counting this like a bonus date, then? Since you’d be picking me up and we’re leaving earlier?”

“I can’t believe how stingy you are.” Brody shakes his head, his free hand coming forward to tug lightly at the end of my ponytail.

“How else would you classify dinner together on a Saturday night?”

“Eating to break up our commute on the way to the final destination?”

I laugh and give in; Brody raises a hand to high-five me, and I return the gesture automatically.

“What?” I ask, feeling foolish but smiling, which seems to be a common state when I’m with Brody.

“Just helping you practice. Having fun. Reveling in the moment.” He closes the distance between us, one hand still holding mine, before dropping a quick kiss on my mouth. “Leaning in.”

Brody and Sebastian arrive at the diner at three, and with their help, I’m ready to go by a quarter past. It’s such a stupid, trivial thing, but no one ever helps me clean.

I’d never ask Vera, who already does so much; Jesse’s never offered, even on the rare days he picks Sebastian up from the diner. And most days, I let Maggie go home early.

But Brody breezes in, turns on the jukebox, and playfully educates my son about classic rock (everything from the fact that there are two versions of “All Along the Watchtower,” a song I’m pretty sure Sebastian hadn’t known existed, to “the machine” Rage Against the Machine was protesting against). Within five songs, we’re done.

Maggie pauses, watching the boys, and then pinches me.

“Ow.” I give her my What the hell? look, because I’m not going to say hell with Sebastian standing so close.

“Just wanted to make sure it’s not a dream.”

“Then pinch yourself.”

“But . . . my sexual injury.” She gives me a pout before continuing. “Honestly, I only stayed to see if Brody was as hot as my addled brain remembered. Though now that I’ve seen him again, I might advise that, for the sake of my vicarious enjoyment, you should consider keeping this one.” She says this in a neutral tone with a feigned nonchalance that helps me understand how serious she is. Maggie’s baseline is over the top; when she’s quiet, then it’s time to pay attention.

When the boys are done cleaning, Maggie walks up to Brody in the guise of saying goodbye, motioning for him to lower his face so they can make eye contact. My friend’s voice is fierce, though her words belie the I’m going to kill you tone. “Thank you. Sophie needs someone like you to balance her out. Sebastian too.”

Before Brody can reply, Maggie punches him in the arm, shakes off Brody’s reminder to check on Spock and Kirk—clearly something the two of them have already arranged—before repeating her favorite new mantra while doing the two-finger, I’ve got my eyes on you look. “Friends and firearms.” It would be more terrifying if not for the fact that there’s at least a foot of height separating the two, and also, Maggie is now thirty-eight weeks pregnant and definitely . . . waddling.

Brody puts both hands up in a surrendering gesture. “Okay.” He nods before mock-whispering to Sebastian, “Is Maggie always this terrifying?”

“Always,” Sebastian whispers back, eyes wide.

I’m surprised when Brody shows me the blanket and pillow waiting for me, in the front seat. “I figured you could use a nap since Sebastian slept in and I snoozed this morning.” Brody tells Sebastian he can play DJ from the back as long as my son understands subpar music choices will be vetoed.

Though I mean to protest that I’m not really that tired, that I can stay up, I’m lulled by their voices, marveling at the way they converse in the liminal spaces between where subject boundaries ought to be (for example, whether the fluid thermodynamics are correct in the game Dwarf Fortress, and how significantly this impacts gamer enjoyment), but because I neither understand nor care about the finer points of joining in-game engineering guildhalls, I drift off quickly, not waking until we pull into the hotel parking lot. Looking around, I am immediately self-conscious, because I’m vastly underdressed for the grandiose hotel Brody pulls up to.

Brody helps me out, and I take a moment to look around. The Mission Inn Hotel and Spa is exactly what the name suggests, a Spanish mission that’s been converted into a luxurious getaway, complete with grand, overly tall stone archways and lush plants, majestic columns, and seemingly endless towers and domes.

For once, Brody isn’t attuned to either my unease or Sebastian’s. He places a hand on my waist and walks us toward the elevator while explaining that we’ve already been checked in and that the valet will bring our luggage—because obviously, he’s been here before. I tuck my hair behind my ear and pull my ponytail tighter, as if that will make the difference, given the sad, wilting diner-poodle-skirt outfit I’m sporting. The concierge who greets us keeps his eyes on Brody, which makes me feel even more awkward. He asks whether we’d like a tour of the presidential suite—a two-story mini apartment with heavy wooden doors, more impressive columns (of course), and not one, not two, but three outdoor patios—and leaves after Brody tips him twenty dollars, something I notice because I can’t help but notice.