Page 94 of The Irresistible Distraction

“You’re not just . . . I mean, you’re going to follow through, right?”

“Of course.”

Because this is Brody’s way, the confident overconfidence, and because it feels important, I ask the necessary follow-up. “Do you always make serious decisions this . . . impulsively?”

Brody’s eyes narrow and even Seba looks down, as if understanding what I’m actually asking. “Speed and impulsivity are often conflated but are not actually the same. Yes, I am sometimes quick about my decisions, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t deliberated. But since you’re likely not interested in arguing about semantics, yes, sometimes I just know.”

“You just know.”

“Yeah, the whole repeat what I just said back to me doesn’t really work on an attorney.” He sets down his fork and steeples his long fingers. “That said . . . you’re cute enough I’m going to explain anyway. For people who have studied psychology, some of the more recent ones are physicists, by the way, like Leonard Mlodinow, a former physics professor from Caltech, because everything comes back to physics, who—” He pauses to fist-bump Seba, because apparently this is a thing they do now whenever something physics-related comes up, and because the dogs have also missed Brody and Seba and are no longer benefiting from the additional dog trainer Brody’s no longer paying for, they come over and try to get in on the action, meaning there’s a few minutes of delay in the conversation. “Like I was saying, all the newer research on psychology and neuroscience suggests that what we label as gut feelings and intuition are often our subconscious, processing past experiences or recognizing patterns at a speed that’s too fast for us to understand or articulate. So yes, Sophie, sometimes I just know.”

“Easy to jump when⁠—”

Brody holds a hand up. “I have no net here. There is nothing to break my fall if you and Seba decide to uninvite me from your lives.” He looks at me, then Seba. “I’m jumping anyway.”

I swallow while he leans sideways to give my son a quick one-armed hug, reassuring Seba and giving me the time to process.

When I keep looking away, the moment passes. “Now, if you’re willing to call Cally, not on my behalf, obviously, but because it’s what would be best for Reuben and Mario, I’m sure she could help the guys with licensing and looking at potential trucks.”

“Does she have experience in that?”

“Cally has loads of experience helping me implement my various quirks and ideas.”

It’s borderline cheating, but yeah, for Reuben and Mario, I’ll definitely allow it.

Tuesday, we FaceTime with Vera, and Brody tries to convince his aunt to host twice-yearly artist retreats. They talk about how this would be the perfect way to utilize The House, as though it’s A Thing that exists, somewhere. Brody also oversees (shockingly to me) the start of the diner’s floor replacement—they had a cancellation, or Brody talked them into it . . . or something. The contractor texts me that they wouldn’t normally have moved us up quite so much but they had the flooring I wanted in stock and Brody’s a good friend of one of their regulars. I wonder what kind of world Brody travels in that he has a friend who needs flooring regularly, imagining an older man who keeps changing out the living room tiles, before realizing my thinking is too small. Developers need flooring regularly. And that makes sense, given Brody’s circles.

Wednesday, because it’s his day off, he spends the entire time convincing me clothing is a social construct and trying to fuck me against every surface. Maggie (the traitor) told him about my red tank-top-dress, and even though we don’t go anywhere, even though we’re limited by his budget and Seba’s class time, Brody talks me into wearing the dress before he bites my ass cheek and tells me I look even more edible than usual. By the time we pick up Sebastian and host another board game night for Aidan and Nate, who bring Eli and Gideon Smythe, there are many, many pieces of furniture I’ll never again be able to look at without blushing.

The coffee table I had my face pressed to.

The kitchen counter he splayed me down on.

The floor.

The . . . everything, really.

Thursday, Brody reveals he and Maggie both believe that beyond hosting Reuben and Mario’s food truck, we ought to use the extra parking lot to host fairs, where we rent out booth space to local makers, something the licensing for is apparently easy to obtain and which they’re both convinced will drive diner business (and increase overall revenue since we’d be renting out unused parking spaces). While I’m still digesting this, Brody reveals he “convinced” Walter, Reuben, and Mario to stay and paint with him, something I join them for because five people is better than four. Sebastian helps after he finishes his apparently twice-weekly (still free) lessons with Lorelai.

When I lean back and look at the diner . . . it already looks transformed. The walls are now half yellow and, from the waist-level down, a dark teal. Maggie found some large chalkboards at the thrift store and had Tyler make wooden frames for them, meaning now that I’ve agreed to remove the posters, we have a way of advertising specials without changing the individual menus. It was apparently Walter, currently downsizing his living situation, who brought in the large free-standing plants that now decorate the different corners, and even the jukebox looks like it’s been waxed or shined. Even in the dim electric-only nearly-evening light, it looks infinitely better than it did before. It’ll be fantastic during the daytime hours. And the wood flooring is gorgeous and rustic in a way that feels fresh. There are still new booths coming, that won’t happen for a while, but Maggie’s brought in some crocheted blankets, which sounded like a terrible idea (considering how easily they’ll get dirtied with use), but which cover the more worn parts of the booths nicely.

I’ve brought Vera’s camera with me, because that’s just what I do now . . . and I take a few pictures I can ask Cally to post on the Instagram account she’s created for us later. It’s already gotten a few likes, but mostly from locals who have already “discovered” us.

Then I take a deep breath and turn toward Brody to ask, finally, “You’re really staying long enough to see all of this through?”

“You keep asking. And the answer keeps not changing. I’m really staying long enough to see all of this through.”

Then Friday morning, right after I drop Sebastian off at class and when I’m about an hour from meeting Cally for coffee, I get a call from Maggie.

“You have to come, now.”

She’s a week from her due date, but Tyler’s been called away to Santa Barbara to lend support for a wildfire there that’s blazing out of control. “I can’t get him on the phone,” she tells me, already crying so hard I have to ask her to repeat herself three times, even as I’m grabbing my keys and heading toward my car.

When I get there, the doula pulls me aside and tells me Maggie is only two centimeters dilated, but it’s not going well.

“Normally, I’d have both parents make a decision together, about whether they want to go to the hospital for monitoring . . .” Beinni trails off and then finally pulls me aside to whisper, “I don’t think she’s been checked for things like gestational diabetes or preeclampsia, neither of which I am qualified to diagnose.”

In my panic, I’m noticing a variety of details that truly do not matter, that Beinni has the tiniest mole under her lip, that she has a fascinating tattoo peeking out under her shirt. Finally, I cudgel my brain into asking the appropriate question. “But you’re worried enough that you’re telling me?”