Page 4 of Christmas with My Ex's Dad
I stand in the middle of open suitcases and half-unpacked boxes. Elliot, on the other hand, lounges on the bed with his video game controller, completely immersed in the virtual world projected on the screen before him. The sound of rapid gunfire and his occasional curses fill the room, making it hard for me to focus.
I’m not the kind of girl who has something against video games, but when it stops him from being a usefulboyfriend, then, yes, I have a problem with it.
“Hey, what are we doing for dinner?” I ask, the irritation building inside me like a simmering pot on the verge of boiling over. But Elliot doesn’t even look up from the screen.
“I dunno. Go ask my dad,” he responds dismissively, not missing a beat in his game.
“Really?” I snap, my patience reaching its limit. “You can’t pause your game for two seconds to have an actual conversation with me?”
Elliot finally glances at me, annoyance flitting across his face. “Why are you making such a big deal about this? Just go talk to him.”
His lack of concern infuriates me. I glare at him, my voice sharp and unwavering. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you actually took responsibility for something once in a while.”
But Elliot just shrugs, turning back to his game as if nothing happened.
He doesn’t care about this relationship…and I don’t think he has in a very long time. Why am I even still with him?Because he’s the first guy I ever said ‘I love you’ to and I don’t have the balls to leave…I’m pathetic.
My chest tightens with a mix of frustration and hurt as I turn away from Elliot, the sound of his video game still echoing in my ears. Each step down the staircase feels heavier than the last.
When I enter the kitchen, a surprising sight greets me: Griffin, chopping vegetables at the counter. His movements are precise and practiced, like a seasoned chef in his element. The faint aroma of garlic and spices fills the air, making my stomach growl in anticipation.
Elliot hadn’t told me that his dad could cook…there’s nothing sexier than that.
“Oh,” I say, my voice betraying my surprise. “You’re cooking.”
Griffin glances up, his expression neutral but his eyes revealing a hint of curiosity. “Somebody has to. You hungry?”
I nod before hesitantly stepping forward. “Can I help?” I ask, hoping to prove myself useful in this unfamiliar territory.
Griffin raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “Do you even know your way around a kitchen?” His tone is laced with doubt, but there’s a playful edge that catches me off guard.
“Try me,” I retort, placing my hands on my hips and giving him a mock glare. A small, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before he relents, handing me a cutting board and a knife. “Fine. But don’t make a mess.”
“Deal,” I agree, rolling up my sleeves and diving into the task at hand. As we cook side by side, I find myself falling into a rhythm alongside Griffin, chopping vegetables and stirring sauces with surprising ease.
Watching Griffin move with natural confidence in the kitchen, never overbearing or condescending, I can’t help but compare it to Elliot’s complete lack of interest in cooking or sharing any domestic tasks. I suppress a sigh as I think about how Elliot’s never even made me toast, let alone prepared an entire meal together.
“Hey,” Griffin says, pulling me from my thoughts. “You’re doing pretty well.” He gives me an approving nod, and I can’t help but feel a surge of pride.
I shouldn’t care about compliments from this man, but I do.
“Thanks,” I mutter, focusing intently on dicing the last carrot. “Maybe I’m not so hopeless after all.”
“Never said you were,” Griffin replies, a hint of amusement coloring his voice.
As our preparation continues, I can’t help but to steal quick glances at Griffin.
“Does Elliot know?” Griffin’s deep voice disrupts the quiet, and I blink in surprise.
“Know what?” I ask.
Griffin regards me pointedly, his eyes locked on mine. “That you work at a strip club.”
My cheeks burn with embarrassment, and I look away. “No. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell him.”
He sets down his knife, turning to face me fully. “Why not?”
“Because he wouldn’t understand,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “And I don’t want to deal with the judgment. It’s been hard since he lost his job and stripping pays the bills.”
