Page 7 of Bingeworthy
Rocco clears his throat, and when I look over, his throat bobs with emotion.
“Sweetheart, you came so close to…” he trails off, shaking his head at whatever dark thought has been haunting him.
“No,” I say. “You can’t think like that."
I then do something that would have been unthinkable before today. I turn toward Rocco and reach across the distance between us. I touch his shoulder, giving him a comforting squeeze. The muscle is tense, as are the ten knuckles on the wheel. As is his ticking jaw.
“You did the right thing. You’re a great dad.”
Rocco gives a slight nod of acknowledgment, his eyes trained on the road.
“And it’s Thanksgiving weekend!” I chirp. “Time to eat our feelings! Time to watch football players rough each other up instead of beating ourselves up!”
This gets me a reluctant smile, but a smile nonetheless.
Rocco glances my way for the tiniest moment, his eyes crinkly and mischievous, stealing the very breath from my lungs.
Chapter Three
The moment I see my dad, my face grows as hot as a furnace. But why? What have I been caught doing?
“Pumpkin!” Dad opens his arms wide. He wraps me up in a hug so tight, my feet come off the flagstone.
“I’m sorry to hear about the job, kiddo.”
“Thanks,” I say, my words muffled in his shoulder.
He lets me go, and I turn to look for my bag. Rocco has it anchored to his shoulder.
He looks like a husband carrying his wife’s bag, I think to myself.
Lock it up, dummy. Push it down. Bottle it up.
“Thanks for taking care of the kid,” Dad says. I watch as the two men side-hug like old buddies. I roll my eyes.
“I’m not a kid,” I remind him.
Rocco clears his throat and holds open the door for me.
Inside the house, Lucille Morrison is at the bar mixing drinks. She whoops like a tipsy sorority girl when she sees me, and rushes us. Oddly, she hugs Rocco first. For the first time in a long time, jealousy rears its ugly head. But am I jealous about a hug from my mother, or am I jealous that she’s hugging Rocco?
For his part, Rocco demonstrates he’s not much of a hugger as he awkwardly pats Mom’s shoulder, grimacing at me all the while.
“Thank you so much for picking up our girl. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Rocco!”
I shrug. “Just a suggestion, but you could have picked me up at the train station in the morning?”
Mom waves me off. “Oh, come on. You know Thanksgiving morning is barely controlled chaos, between the mimosas and stuffing the turkey.”
“It was my pleasure,” Rocco says in that deep, rich voice that, over the last two hours, had my insides melting like hot butter.
Mom wraps her arms around both of us now. In this nonconsensual group hug, Rocco’s solid frame brushes against mine. For the briefest moment, his other arm circles around my waist. He squeezes. That toasty, warm feeling inside me amplifies.
It’s getting tough to lock this down.
“Apple-tini?” Mom asks as she returns to the bar.
“Oh. Mom, no, Rocco doesn’t drink…”
