Page 75 of The Irresistible Distraction

“No. You’ve taught me not to answer questions that aren’t asked. I figure the same goes the other way: You want to tell me, you will.”

“God, but I love what a fast learner you are.” He places my hands on his waist and then draws me into his solidity. My head rests against his chest, comforted by the warm heartbeat beneath. “I’ll try to live this normal life of yours. I’ll try to help you get the mental and physical vacation you deserve, and you try my way.”

It’s a terrible idea. “Like The Prince and the Pauper?”

“That’s one way to think of it. I’ll take over all your hours at the diner⁠—”

“You’ll just ask Cally to come in or get Cynthia to help. You’ll find the equivalent of a Lorelai to fix the history essay you were perfectly capable of editing.”

“You’re vastly underestimating that besides my wallet—which is significant—I also have my brain. I’ve full confidence I’m capable of finding novel ways to not only work at your diner, but if you allow me access to your renovation budget, I’ll take that on as well.”

“How do you know I have a budget?”

“You left the plans out.” He holds his hands up, briefly, a gesture of surrender. “I wasn’t snooping, but I did glance at some of the sketches. So I’ll go to the diner, every day you would normally work. I’ll get some nice new leather pants and a shirt from the thrift store tomorrow and start on Wednesday.” He pauses, finally, as if to take a breath. “And you live my life.”

“What’s your point here? That you’re better than I am?”

“Not at all—you’re right when you say I’ll never truly understand what life’s like without my safety nets. I imagine that just knowing I can quit, knowing I can concede this deal, will be comforting in a way that I cannot reproduce. There are no real-life experiments that can ever truly follow the scientific method. This isn’t reproducible. There will always be a part of your existence I don’t understand. I didn’t grow up in a small town⁠—”

“—not a town.”

He raises his broad shoulders in an exaggerated shrug as he chuckles. “But . . . this is me, trying, admitting until you’re willing to truly hear me say it, that I have never felt this strong of a connection with anyone. Of course, all I want is to better understand your life, better determine how I can fit into it.”

“And that’s it?”

“I mean, it would be nice if I could help with your mini identity crisis, the one that’s manifesting through the diner, but that’s kind of secondary, an interesting side quest.” He takes a deep breath and squeezes my hands.

“Please don’t tell me you think I’m too small-brained to improve the diner myself.”

Brody shakes his head. “Don’t belittle yourself and pretend like any of that is coming from me. I fucked up at the diner today, but only because yes, I sometimes act first, apologize afterward, and I’m working on it. But sometimes, when I’m . . .” He stops and rubs his neck.

“Feeling . . . feelings?”

“In this case, threatened. Another unfamiliar and unpleasant emotion that I’m sure is good for me the way diamond push-ups are.” He smiles to himself, but it’s a wry private expression he doesn’t bother to elaborate upon. “What I’m trying to convey here is that you, Sophie Emma Masters, are brilliant and strong and resilient. I think no one—not me, not Arthur or Adeline, not anyone in the town-not-town of Lake Arrowhead—has the right to judge what it’s been like for you, to raise a son like Sebastian, basically on your own. But . . .”

“But . . .”

“You’re not committing to the changes you know are necessary at the diner. You’re waffling because you can’t decide, or⁠—”

“Yes?” I’m wondering if he’s already guessed.

“It’s the same reason Vera couldn’t get rid of Vernon’s stuff. She can choose her own entertainment center. She has money she chooses not to spend. But it was Vernon’s, and so she instructed me to do it because she was ready, but also not ready, to let go. The diner was originally your parents’ vision, but⁠—”

“The more I change it, the harder it will be to remember what they looked like, taking orders and helping me reduce fractions in between, while I sat on a stool.”

“Yeah,” Brody agrees, shoving his large hands into his pockets, stretching the material. “It’s the same reason you had a semi-fling with Tyler 2.0—you couldn’t commit to him without first letting go of the dream of Jesse and that reunited family.” He pauses, a trace of his Beverly Hills flair, his love for high drama. He’s presenting to the jury; he knows how to wait a beat. “Some of the changes you’ve sketched, at least for the diner, aren’t hard. They loved the fifties vibe. You’re great at cookies, popcorn, all the snacks you’ve made to tempt Seba into eating, and also . . . photography. Right now the diner’s a bit disjointed, an amalgamation of warring visions.”

Brody makes it all sound so easy, but I’m not sold. It’s my turn to cross my arms, even though I feel silly, like a tantruming toddler, while doing so. “How, exactly, will I live your life? I can’t Zoom with your clients, answer questions about income and expense declarations.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I’d get nothing out of you living the boring lawyer-me life. I want you to experience the vacation me.”

“You want me to sit at home all day?”

“Spend time with Sebastian in the mornings. Spend time with Sebastian in the afternoons. He’s an absolutely fantastic kid, and I don’t even like kids.”

It’s off topic and it’s not like we’re close to having that talk, but . . . “You don’t like kids?”

“From an evolutionary perspective, I get the necessity. But changing diapers seems very un-fun, and cleaning up after the seemingly constant puke and drool has always felt like pretty effective birth control.”