Page 68 of Friends with Benefits

But why?

He wants to ask, but the question would come out choked, strangled—and besides, does he even know what he’s asking? Why isthisher condition? Why did he agree? Why does she still believe that his father is capable of being more than exactly who he is? If anyone should understand the particular pain of being failed by a parent, isn’t it Evelyn? Why does a small part of him dare to hope that this time,this time, Jacob will prove him wrong?

He doesn’t ask.

Jacob opens the front door before they’re even out of the car, as if he’s been waiting for them. Her. Two things strike Theo: the tenderness in his father’s eyes when they land on Evelyn and his complete lack of facial hair. Clean-shaven Jacob is jarring. It’s like looking at himself with an age filter—his curls grayer, the lines in his face carved deeper. But he’s the carbon copy of his father only in appearance.

“It’s been a minute,” Evelyn says in lieu of hello, crossing the threshold into the house.

It’s that easy for her.

Not Theo. He’s stuck, his feet glued to the concrete stoop and hating how much he wantsthis—breakfast with his dad, with hiswife—to be real. How the simplest of desires can be the most complicated, feel the most impossible. Once he steps in it’s only a matter of time before the illusion is shattered, before he feels like a loser for even pretending at all.

Jacob clears his throat. “Theo.”

He looks into the mirror, at his future face. “Dad.”

Jacob opens the door a tad wider and despite his better judgment, Theo takes the step inside that feels more like a leap. It’s tidier than last time—the papers in neat piles, thewood surfaces dusted, an old photo of their family of three hung up above the fireplace. He blinks at the image of Baby Theo looking straight at the camera, of Lori’s eyes on Theo, of Jacob fixated on Lori.

“What’s on the menu this week?” Evelyn asks.

Her question pulls Theo’s eyes from the photo and his nose toward the scent of cinnamon sweetness.

“I’ve got a spinach and mushroom frittata in the oven,” Jacob says, sitting and sagging into the worn leather La-Z-Boy in the living room. In response, they sit opposite him on the couch. “Cinnamon apple scones are cooling on the stove. I used vegan butter this week. You’ve been warned.”

Evelyn’s nose scrunches. “Thank you.”

Theo’s quiet, processing.

Jacob is baking again?

Attempting vegan pastries?

Jealous.

You are jealous.

“Don’t thank me yet, kid.” Jacob chuckles—thefuck?—before his eyes land on the scabs that run along the knuckles of her right hand. “Who did you punch and what did they do to deserve it?”

Evelyn snorts, then shakes her head. “Bad fall.”

“Not because of Theo again, I hope.”

Jacob says this so casual, so matter-of-fact. Theo tenses and lets the accusation sting, more ashamed than upset as Evelyn loops her right arm through his and presses their palms together. His fingers brush the rough, jagged skin.My fault. My fault. My fault.

Theo knows it.

Jacob knows it.

Evelyn can admit it.

But she just asks, “When has Theo ever let me fall?”

Oh.

He braces for the comeback, unprepared for the gutturalhmph, the rise and fall of Jacob’s (equally Eugene Levy–esque) eyebrows, the changing of the subject entirely. “And how’s the fellowship? Has Sadie Silverman grasped yet that you know what a fucking mixer does?”

“I think so?”

---