Page 49 of Peaches

“You know the saying, ‘damned if you do, damned if you don’t?’ Well, that sums up everything you need to know about my father.” He begins to walk again, and I quickly hurry to keep in step. When he notices me struggle a little in my heels once more, he reaches out and takes my elbow to give me support. It’s not the swoon worthyPrince Charming carrying Cinderella off into the sunsetshow of affection from minutes ago, but I’ll take it.

“I grew up my entire life constantly trying to fit into his mold,” he surprises me by elaborating as he continues. “The comedy in my error is, when it seemed like I was finally adjusting, almost certain I had got it right, what he wanted from me that is, he’d change the whole damn plan all together. I’d find myself starting at the bottom again, only to struggle with each step I’d take attempting to win myself back into his good graces.”

We come to a puddle from an earlier rain shower and, excuse me while my romantic heart weakens some more, Casanova picks me up strongly by the waist and hoists me over the mess below, so I don’t ruin anything about my appearance.

It’s finally then, when he sets me back down in front of him, his eyes vulnerable from the conversation and mine full of admiration looking back up at him, that his control slips and his eyes graze down across my figure in such a strong needy way that it causes me to stumble into him slightly.

Okay, maybe I did that on purpose. Roll your eyes at me if you must, but you’d be tempted to do the same!

He smiles, and God help me that beautiful smile takes my breath away before he tightens his grip around my arms and rightens me in my heels. Taking my elbow again, he starts guiding me once more to our destination now only a few feet away.

“It was like a game.”

OK, that’s why he always seems so premeditated.

“A walking labyrinth that frustrated me to no end until I finally wised up.”

I see, finally! No wonder he likes to always know-it-all.

“Problem is, sometimes I think I see a lot of my father’s traits in me.”

Well, I wouldn’t go agreeing with that. I’ve only had one run in with the man since coming to live at his monstrosity of a house, and I’d say they’re the farthest from one another, personality wise, as anyone could ever be. Yes, Brett is serious, a little cautious, (I’m thinking of his restraint when it comes tooursituation, that is), and very nosey. But I wouldn’t say he’s like his prick of a father.

I know you shouldn’t judge someone on first impressions, but hell, we all do. Am I right? And correct me if I’m wrong, because you’ve met him too, but his father is all sorts of asshole, dickhead, jackass, old-school, crazy.

“Nah,” I say, shooting him a questioning look as my head cocks to the side and we come to a stop in front of the pathway that leads to the party. The same pathway I walked just over two weeks ago that brought me to places I never thought I’d go. “I wouldn’t say that. Not at all. Your Dad has this righteous, blameless, God like quality about him. The kind of character flaw you know is just a disguise, a shield for a much deeper-rooted insecurity.

You’re not like that at all.”

He smiles at me, content with my evaluation, and then takes a breath as his hands shove into his penguin suit pockets and he assesses both me and the words that just came out of my mouth.

“You’re very observant, Peaches,” he grins. “But then again, I guess all writers have to be, given their occupation.”

“We do like to people watch, I’ll give you that,” I say in agreement. “What’s more, I think we like to dissect. We’re all philosophers at heart. Obsessed with the psychology and sociology of what makes everything tick, ya know? What makes the world go round.”

His eyes glimmer with something, pride maybe, as his gaze drops to my lips and he lets his own beliefs, theories, ideas, dance around the curve of my mouth for a moment as I begin to feel that all too familiar feeling of euphoria dance in my veins when I let him get to me.And oh, he is getting to me.The way he’s memorizing my lips and all the thingsI hopehe wants to do with them is proof as my ankles wobble and my breath catches.

“I remember,” he finally whispers. “I used to love that part of it.”

“Part of what?” I stutter, dumbfounded, lost in the way his eyes still haven’t raised to find mine as they roam, and he studies the curve of my face. My cheeks. My nose. My chin. His stare focuses everywhere but my own as he smiles, a panty dropping grin, and my heart beats pick up pace in my chest.

“Writing,” he states after a moment longer as his eyes finally lock with mine. “The cathartic pleasure in finding yourself, or others, through the characters and the worlds you create.”

So, I was right. Brett Beckett is a…

“But that’s the first mold my father broke, so let’s not resurrect it. Shall we?”

Okay, was a…

He jokes, but I see the hurt behind his eyes. I guess it’s like they say. Those that can’t do, teach, or boss - whatever. But, again, I can’t help myself, and I press, because that’s what the man across from me would do if the roles were reversed, Mr. Know-it-all of course, and I want to see if I force the issue, will he let me?

“Why do you let him get to you?”Jab.I didn’t mean it that way, but I can see the piercing way my question hurt in his eyes. Still, like a dumb idiot, I go on. “Why does it even matter what he thinks?” Another dig, (Oops), but he takes a deep breath and tries to think of an answer, and with that I silently add another trait to his personality chart that is very rare in my opinion.

Honesty. Even when it hurts.

With genuine betrayal in his eyes, betrayal for himself I’m guessing, which is weird that it’s not for me or his father, he takes a step back and tries to come up with a response.

“After years of swimming against the current, sometimes it’s easiest to give up and let it take you where it’s required of you to go,” he shrugs, hands still in his pant’s pockets. “Even if it threatens to drown you in the process.”

---