Raced

So why all a sudden is the idea mulling around in my head when it’s a finish line I swore I was never going to officially cross.

Fuck me running. C’mon, Donavan. Speak the fuck up. Assert yourself. Say hell no instead of wondering what it would feel like to have her name be Rylee Donavan.

“Well, I don’t hear you saying no, now do I?” He glances my way, raises his eyebrows, and then leans back to put his feet up on the coffee table.

Ah fuck, he’s getting comfortable. I know what this means.

Can’t we just back the hell up here? I prefer the guessing game. I can fill in another answer we can get stuck on. Anything but this because it’s causing me to think of things I shouldn’t be thinking.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut momentarily as I try to wish the conversation away. And when I do, all I see is that goddamn vision of Rylee in a white dress that Becks’s comments at the pool party caused me to think of. And shit, that vision comes back with a vengeance. Veils and rings and shit I shouldn’t be thinking of. Shit that’s getting way too comfortable as a visitor in my thoughts lately.

I shake my head. Need to clear this nonsense. Rid it of the road this man is never going to race down. So why do I see the metaphorical finish line at the end of the track all of a sudden?

My heart pounds momentarily until I push away the thoughts his words are creating. What the fuck is going on here? Why does my dad have me thinking of scavenger hunts and marriage proposals? Sweet Jesus.

“You’re not pulling any punches today, are you?”

“I don’t believe I threw one,” he says, completely unaffected.

Is he fucking kidding me? Must be nice to sit there so calm and collected when he’s doling out sucker punches to make a damn point.

I slump down in the chair and rest my head against the back of it, eyes looking up at the pool’s reflection on the ceiling. I focus on it as he allows me the silence I need to swish the thoughts around like mouthwash. A necessary evil that burns before it leaves you cleansed.

Marriage.

The word lingers. There’s something about it that I can’t quite put my finger on. First causing panic, then banging around like a ping pong ball before feeling like that fucking grain of sand in my swim trunks. The one you feel at first, irritating with every movement—your mind thinking of how you need to strip your suit off so you can wash it out—but then as minutes pass to hours, you don’t feel it anymore.

It’s still there, in that spot right between your nuts and your thigh, and you’re kind of okay with it.

And it’s all because of her.

Fucking Rylee. I shake my head, one thought more than all others front and center. With temerity and defiance, obstinance and patience, she chipped away at every hard edge of me until there was nothing left but the truths I feared. The bent and broken. The ones buried so goddamn deep I knew they’d push her away.

And yet when all was said and done, when the poison in my soul was lying on the table so she could see how fucking dark it was, she looked me in the eyes and told me I was brave, loved the broken in me. I gave her my darkest and her response was to give me her light. Her love.

I blow out another sigh and scrub my hand over my face, words forming and then dying before I can speak.

“C’mon, Dad, me? Marry someone?” I spit the words out—words that used to be a given fact—so why in the fuck do they feel like lies when they come from my mouth while I’m looking at her?

“I call bullshit. Nice try though.”

And there’s the knock-out punch.

I stare at him, waiting for him to look at me, wanting the fight to prove he’s wrong. To prove that nothing’s changed. I can be with Rylee but that’s enough for me. No rings, no strings.

But that half-ass smirk is the only reaction he’ll give me to the buttons of mine he’s pushing with expertise. One by fucking one.

So why doesn’t that pitching feeling in my stomach come when I think of it all of a sudden? I have so many fucking excuses why I’ll never get married and yet even with the last push of my button, not a single one comes to mind.

The only thing that does cross my mind is the woman sitting feet away, well within perfect reach.

“Life only hands you so many chances, Son. You seem to have used quite a few this year already. I don’t think you should take many more for granted.” He turns his head now and locks eyes with mine. The man that’s sat beside me most in my life, held my hand to help me conquer my biggest fears, called my superheroes with me, is telling me there’s one left I have yet to face.

That there’s one item left on my scavenger hunt that will give me an even bigger reward than I ever thought I deserved or was imaginable.

Something happens.

Fuck if I can explain it other than that dead calm right before the green flag waves. When your body is amped up on adrenaline, mind is blanking sound out, everything is happening at a lightning-fast speed, but you sit there like time is in slow motion. Calm. Resolute.

At peace.

I force a swallow down my throat, past my heart lodged there, because motherfucker … this broken man who was once held together with Scotch tape is now rock solid, and it’s all because of Rylee.

She may be my kryptonite but fuck if I’m the superhero worthy of her.

His words echo in my head. Pushing me. Questioning me. Making me want things I never expected to want or deserve. Ever. I look down at the label, my fingers playing idly with it as ideas form, possibilities arise.

“How did you know Mom was the one?” I don’t give him a yes or no answer that my thoughts just might be veering in the direction his questions ask me about. I keep my head down, needing to get used to this idea myself.