Page 49 of Snowed In with My Best Friend's Dad

We moved together, looking at each exhibit from a mixed media artist. We stopped at a piece that had a combination of old toys, pages from what looked like a fairytale book, and paint.

"I just don't get how this is art. I mean, I could do something like this. My niece could do something like this. All they did was paste paper and toys and then slap on a little paint."

I closed my eyes for a moment as her comment grated on me. I opened my eyes and studied the artwork. If Miranda were here, she'd likely see that the pages on the art piece all depicted fairy tales in which women were destitute, pushed into servitude. The toys were symbols of what was traditionally girly—pink, feminine, and smacking of subservient domesticity. While the paint was somewhat abstract, it was clear to me that the artist was showing that women, in many ways, are still held back by these old beliefs.

"Women have come farther since then, but not as far as many would think. Women still earn about thirty percent less than men. They still do seventy percent more of the housework." I could hear Miranda's voice saying if she were here. "And while some companies fight to fund birth control on their insurance plans, they have no problem finding Viagra." She’d told me that little tidbit during ourTrivial Pursuitgame at the cabin. She'd shaken her head. "Women today still can't win. Men want to have innocent, virginal wives and yet want to have sex all the time with women who aren’t their wives. They can't have it both ways." Her comment had made me laugh because I decided she wasn't wrong.

"And men act like women don't like sex. At least the ones that they’ll bring home to meet the family." When she said that, I’d asked her if she liked sex as I pushed the game aside. I’d also pushed away the knowledge that I wouldn’t be bringing her home to meet the family, either.

Jesus fuck. Why was I thinking about her?

"What do you think, Brett?" Naomi asked.

I considered telling her the whole thing about representing the plight of women but decided it wouldn’t interest her. Wasn’t that why I chose her? All style and no substance?

She arched a brow and her hand cupped my dick. "Maybe we've seen enough art?"

My dick actually shriveled into my body. I stepped away, my jaw tight. "I need another drink." I left her there, heading straight for the bar. When I got there, I glanced over my shoulder and she looked at me with that same arched brow. I gave a slight nod. When she sidled up to another man, I knew she'd gotten the message. I wouldn’t be fucking her tonight. Probably not ever.

For the next hour and a half, I stood at the bar, consuming drinks. Next year, I probably wouldn't be invited, or they would have a cash bar to recoup all the booze expense I was drinking.

Dunk came over, standing next to me. "Now, I know something is wrong. Thank God this bar is here or you’d be flat on the floor. What the hell's going on?"

I shrugged off the hand he settled on my shoulder. "Nothing a little booze won't take care of."

"You're beyond the little booze, Brett. Come on, let me take you home and we can talk about it."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Fine. Let me take you home, then." Dunk had the appearance of a bruiser, but deep down, the guy was soft. He liked to talk about feelings. I didn’t want to do that, but neither did I still want to be here, so I nodded.

"Did Janine call you or something?" He asked about my ex-wife as he drove me home.

My head rested against the window as I willed the booze to stay down in my gut. "Why would you say that?"

"Because the last time you got this drunk was when you thought you might be losing custody of Lindsay."

"Lindsay's a grown woman now. I'm not going to lose custody of her."

We drove a while longer in silence, and I was hopeful that Dunk would give up trying to find out why I was so fucked up, not just drunk, but emotionally as well.

"Listen, there's something going on with you and I'm not trying to pry—"

"Yes, you are. It is none of your business."

"It is my business, Brett. First, we’re partners, and if you're going to start going around getting drunk in public and having women grope you where everyone can see, I need to know that because I'm gonna need to hire a really good PR firm. Second, we’re friends, man. Brothers. Maybe I can help."

"You can't." That was the most fucked up thing of all. There was no solution to this torment.

"Maybe I can't help, but it can’t hurt to talk about it."

We arrived at my brownstone, and Dunk helped me inside, plopping me down on my couch as he got water and pain reliever for me.

Then he sat in a chair and studied me. “What’s going on, Brett?”

For a long moment, I didn't respond. I wasn't planning on saying anything. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, willing the booze to numb me. "I fucked someone I shouldn’t have. I seem to have developed feelings for somebody I shouldn't have. She's pregnant with somebody else's kid." There. I said it.

When Dunk didn’t say anything. I peeled open my eyes enough to see him staring at me. "I'm not sure which shocks me more. That you would have feelings for somebody or be upset that they were pregnant by somebody else."

---