Page 85 of Sin Bin Daddies
I grunt in response, my fingers clenching the laces of my skates.
Maddie isn’t mine. But I want her to be.
I call her before I can talk myself out of it.
She picks up after the second ring, her voice soft. “Hey.”
“Did you go to the aquarium?” I ask.
She exhales. “No.”
“Why?” I ask.
Instead of answering, she groans. Something is on her mind.Maybe the truth of what we did last night is finally hitting her?
“Come with me,” I say instead.
She hesitates. “Where?”
“You’ll see.”
A pause. Then, finally, “Okay.”
She’s waiting outside when I pull up.
The streetlamp overhead casts a glow over her bare legs, the hem of her sundress fluttering in the breeze. She’s effortless. Beautiful.
And when she slides into the passenger seat, the scent of her shampoo—something soft and sweet—fills the truck, messing with my head.
I grip the wheel a little tighter.
She buckles in. “So, are you gonna tell me where we’re going?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
She sighs, but I catch the way her lips twitch, the way she tucks her legs up onto the seat, getting comfortable.
We drive in silence, the Miami skyline fading behind us as I take her somewhere quieter. Somewhere I can breathe.
Somewhere I don’t have to pretend.
The seafood shack sits at the edge of the bay, its wooden deck stretching over the water, waves lapping gently beneath us. The scent of salt lingers in the humid air, mixing with the buttery aroma of grilled seafood.
String lights sway overhead, casting a soft golden glow over the weathered tables and scattered chairs. It’s the kind of place where time slows down, where no one pays attention to a guy like me and a girl like her.
Maddie picks up her taco, fingers brushing against mine as she brings it to her lips. She takes a bite, her eyes fluttering shut for half a second, a quiet hum slipping past her lips.
I shift in my seat, adjusting the ache low in my stomach. She doesn’t notice, too focused on the food, licking a stray drop of sauce from the corner of her mouth.
We talk.
Or at least, I do. More than I should.
I tell her about my dad—how his presence was more of a shadow, a lingering expectation rather than a man. I tell her about my mom, who never knew when to let go, always in my ear, always pushing.
Maddie doesn’t interrupt. She just listens, her fingers tracing slow circles against the rim of her glass, the condensation pooling beneath her touch.
The way she looks at me—soft, understanding—makes something tighten in my chest.
