Page 69 of The Fed Sex Man

I didn’t need to tell her everything. Just enough to ease my pain.

“My father,” I muttered. “He was killed.”

Surprisingly, the words came past my lips with ease. As I extracted them from the compartment where they’d been hidden, however, they cut through my soul like razors.

She stood, walked around the edge of the booth, and sat down beside me. After draping her arm over my shoulder, she nestled at my side. Overcome with sorrow, I laid my head against her chest. Memories of my childhood, and of my mother, came to mind. As a young boy, resting my head against her chest brought comfort.

I mentally hummed the words to Third Eye Blind’s How’s It Going To Be. Halfway through the song, I cleared my throat.

“The car I drive now…it was…it was my father’s first new car. We picked it out together. It was only a few months old when he died.”

“You remind me a lot of my dad,” she said with a smile. “Your father would be proud of what you’ve done with it. I’m sure of it.”

I hoped she was right. I desperately yearned for his approval and felt keeping his car in tip-top condition would pay homage to what was once his pride and joy.

I drew a long breath. “I hope so.”

“Your mother? She wasn’t in the car?”

I should have expected Jo would ask, but the question hit me like a sucker punch, nevertheless.

I lifted my head from her chest and gazed blankly at the adjoining booth, which was empty. “When I was in sixth grade, my father found out my mother was having an affair. He confronted her about it and gave her a chance to work on repairing their marriage. Instead, she left. They got a divorce a few months later. She moved away with someone completely different as soon as the divorce paperwork was signed. I haven’t seen her since.”

“Tyson, I’m—” She covered her mouth with her hand. “I’m sorry.”

A tear trickled along her cheek. I wiped it with the edge of my finger. “What about your parents?” I asked. “Are they still together?”

She nodded. “They got married the instant they graduated high school and were married for almost twelve years before they had kids. My brother is your age. They’ve been married forty-seven years.”

“That’s cool.”

“They’re great people.” She wiped the corner of her eye with the heel of her palm. “I’d like for you to meet them sometime.”

Someone staying married for forty-seven years was commendable. Unbelievable, in my eyes. “Forty-seven years, huh?”

“Forty-eight here in five weeks.”

“That’s admirable,” I said. “Quite an accomplishment.”

“I go over there every Sunday and eat dinner with them and my brother. He had a car just like yours, by the way. It was a Cobra.”

I nodded in acknowledgement. Her brother sounded like my kind of guy. I folded my arms over my chest. “No shit? A Cobra?”

“It was red. Other than that, yours and his are pretty much the same. His didn’t have a supercharger, though. At least that’s what I remember him saying about it. You two would get along great. He takes care of cars just like you do.”

I grinned. “I’m sure we’d have a lot to talk about.”

She removed her glasses and brushed her hair behind her ear with the tip of her finger. “You’re welcome to come meet him and my parents, anytime. You could come to dinner if you like.”

“Does your mom like to cook?”

“She loves it. She’s an amazing cook.”

The only home-cooked meals I’d eaten since my father passed were tossed together by Shawn’s mother. She was single, worked two jobs, and couldn’t cook a decent meal to save her ass.

My mind drifted to the dinner table, talking to my father about the modifications he’d one day make to the Cobra. With my mouth salivating, I gazed blankly at my lasagna and recalled my father’s go-to Sunday dinner.

“My father was an amazing cook, too. Chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes with cream gravy, and green beans with sautéed onions and chunks of bacon was my favorite meal.”

I stole a quick look at Jo. Despite the sorrowful look that she wore, her brown eyes glistened with innocence. As I admired them, I realized until that moment, I had no idea what color her eyes were.

I hated to bring her the grief that came with my childhood. I hadn’t spoken to anyone about losing my father since it happened and speaking to her came easy. I wondered what was different about her. Maybe I needed to speak to someone more than I realized. Maybe I trusted her. Maybe we were just in the right place at the right time. Whatever the reason, I continued to explain the most trying time in my life.

“After he died, I went to live with Shawn,” I explained. “His mother didn’t have the time to cook. Shawn’s dad dipped out before he was born, and she worked at least two jobs the entire time we were in school. Frozen pizzas were her specialty. I miss siting down to eat a meal.”

She grinned. “You’re welcome to join us, anytime.”

One half of me wanted nothing to do with meeting a girl’s parents, ever. It was the first step in relationship development, and I didn’t do relationships. The other half of me wanted to believe it was possible for a relationship to last a lifetime.

Forty-eight years, if nothing else.

The latter half of me spoke. “I’d kill for a home-cooked meal.”

Her eyes gleamed with hope. “Are you busy Sunday?”

“Not yet.”

“Well,” she said with a smile. “You are now.”