Travis Parker vs. Not-Date Date

Notes from the Wyld (Please don't bother commenting that I said no more notes):

After completing Melody's Silence and Cycles, I found myself returning to writing about Travis Parker as a way to reset and reconnect with the type of storytelling that has always brought me joy. Writing Travis is like revisiting an old friend--his dry wit, resilience, and knack for sarcastic introspection make him endlessly entertaining to explore. The Day the Wi-Fi Betrayed Me initially set the tone for Travis's voice, and with each story since, I've delved deeper into his world. Taking a break from the intense emotional weight of Melody's Silence and the layered narrative of Cycles made coming back to Travis feel like a creative palate cleanse. His unapologetically honest perspective, even in the face of heartbreak, resonates with a raw authenticity that I love capturing. Whether he's navigating the aftermath of a brutal divorce, battling courtroom antics, or finding unexpected moments of humor, Travis's journey continues to challenge and inspire me as a writer. Returning to his story isn't just about finishing what I started--it's about honoring a character who has grown with me and reflecting on the resilience that lives within all of us.

Most important about the tales of Travis is getting my wife of 31 years to laugh. Without her editing skills, I would probably have a story more akin to a word search.

READY, SET, GO!

________________________________

Travis Parker:

Life has a funny way of knocking you on your ass when you least expect it. One minute, you're cruising through the so-called "happily ever after," complete with the suburban house, the family dog, and the white picket fence. The next, you're dividing assets, changing streaming service passwords out of spite, and wondering how you missed all the glaring red flags. Divorce wasn't exactly on my vision board. But, well, here I am -- single, in my mid 40s, and trying to remember what it's like to have a conversation that doesn't involve negotiations over custody schedules for Beth or who gets to keep the good blender. Spoiler alert: It wasn't me.

To be fair, the writing had been on the wall long before the lawyers got involved. Monica and I had grown into something more like begrudging roommates than partners. By the end, even small talk felt like verbal combat. The thing about infidelity is that once the trust is gone, there's no rewinding. Finding out your wife is having an affair with Big Rick the Gym Guy was the kind of cinematic twist I wouldn't even believe if it were in a bad Lifetime movie. But that's what happened. And once the divorce dust settled, I wasn't left with much except the house, the memories, and a growing addiction to late night action movies from the 90s.

Then, there were the kids. Traci, Francis, and Beth. My three reasons for not completely falling apart. Traci, my oldest, is stubborn as hell, definitely inherited that from me. She's still processing everything, protective as always, and not exactly Monica's biggest fan these days. Francis is... well, Francis. College-bound, protein-shake obsessed, and probably one missed gym day away from writing a strongly-worded letter to the dumbbell industry. And then there's Beth. Sixteen going on thirty. She's the one who still leaves me sarcastic post-it notes on the fridge and gives unsolicited fashion advice like it's her civic duty. They've all handled the chaos in their own ways, and somehow, we're still standing.

Now, though? Now I'm trying to figure out what's next. I wasn't exactly itching to jump back into the dating pool, but life -- or maybe Maggie -- had other plans. What started as a straightforward vendor and government liaison relationship turned into something... more. Maggie works for one of those three-letter agencies overseeing a project I'm tangled up in, but somewhere between the status reports and endless meetings, she became something else -- someone I could talk to. Someone who actually listened when I vented about the disaster that was my marriage. She laughed at my sarcastic takes on therapy, gave brutally honest advice, and somehow didn't run for the hills when I was at my lowest.

---------------------------

There's a certain peace in having your Friday night routine down to a science. I'd cracked open a cold one, planted myself on the couch, and was halfway through an explosions-per-minute action flick that even the characters knew made no sense.

And then my phone buzzed.

Maggie: "Hey, got any plans tomorrow?"

I stared at the message. Maggie was never one for small talk. Normally, her texts read like she was delivering classified intel -- straight to the point, no unnecessary punctuation. The fact that she didn't open with, "Need to discuss the Parker Project. 0800 hours." was unsettling.

I texted back.

Me: "Why? You need backup for a secret mission?"

Maggie: "Not exactly. Thought we could hang out. Grab some food. Walk around the downtown festival."

Okay. That was suspicious. Festivals meant people. Crowds. Cotton candy. Maybe even one of those creepy guys on stilts. Maggie didn't "do" festivals. She "observed" them like she was gathering evidence for a top-secret report on human behavior.

I squinted at the phone like it would confess something to me. Maybe she lost a bet. Maybe this was a punishment.

Me: "Sounds suspiciously like a date."

Maggie: "Please. If I wanted a date, I'd find a guy who doesn't think fast food counts as meal prep."

Ouch. But fair.

Me: "Fine. But I'm calling it a "Not-Date." "

Maggie: "Deal. See you at noon. "

And just like that, I had a Not-Date on the calendar.

No expectations. No pressure. Just two friends, enjoying the sights and sounds of a downtown festival. Definitely not something people in rom-coms did before they accidentally fell in love.

Nope. Not a chance.

The next day, I pulled into the small, trendy café Maggie suggested. It was one of those places where everything on the menu had a name like "Avocado Nirvana" or "Zen Kale Bowl." The people inside probably paid $12 for coffee just to say they did.

But Maggie was already at a corner table, sipping something green and suspiciously healthy. I walked over, raising an eyebrow at the slime-colored beverage.

"Is that... radioactive ooze?" I asked, sliding into the seat across from her.

She smirked. "Matcha latte. It's like coffee, but it makes you feel superior."

"Mission accomplished," I said, waving down the server. "I'll take a black coffee and whatever has the most bacon."

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Shocking."

The server nodded and left, leaving me alone with Maggie's amused stare. She looked good -- not that I was noticing. Okay, fine, I was noticing. Her hair was tied back, and she wore a simple, fitted green sweater that brought out her eyes. Totally platonic observation.

"So," I said, "tell me the truth. Did someone bet you to invite me here?"

She sipped her latte. "Maybe. Or maybe I thought you could use a little sunlight. You know, for vitamin D. People can't survive on takeout and sarcasm alone."

"That's where you're wrong." I grinned. "Sarcasm has trace minerals."

She snorted, nearly choking on her drink. I gave myself an internal high five.

The food arrived soon after -- my plate piled high with eggs, bacon, and enough buttered toast to intimidate any cardiologist. Maggie, naturally, had a small, picturesque plate of something that looked like a salad but pretended to be breakfast.

"You know," I said through a mouthful of bacon, "if I ever get hit by a bus, the doctors will find that my body was 80% this exact meal."

Maggie gave a dry laugh. "And 20% regret."

"That goes without saying."

We kept up the light-hearted banter, talking about work, ridiculous neighbors, and my uncanny ability to attract disaster wherever I went. She made me laugh -- really laugh -- in that way you only do when you're comfortable.

And that's when I realized how rare that feeling had been lately.

After brunch, Maggie and I wandered through the maze of tents and booths lining the festival streets. The smell of fried everything lingered in the air, mingling with the distant sound of a mediocre cover band that had committed musical crimes against Journey.

"This," I said, motioning to the chaos around us, "is how people end up with terrible purchases like metal lawn art and life-sized wooden owls."

Maggie smirked. "Oh no, I'm dragging you to every booth. We're getting the full festival experience."

"I knew it. You're a monster."

She rolled her eyes and grabbed my arm, leading me toward a stand with aggressively vibrant tie-dye shirts. A man in a straw hat, who I assumed was the self-proclaimed Tie-Dye Guru, gave us a wide grin.

"You two are just adorable," he said, with all the confidence of a man who probably meditated to whale sounds. "Matching couple shirts?"

Before I could object, Maggie gasped dramatically. "Oh no! We didn't coordinate. How will we ever recover?"

"Tragic," I deadpanned. "We'll be the scandal of the festival."

The guru cackled like he'd never heard sarcasm before. "Love is all about color! You can't go wrong with a little tie-dye harmony."

"I'll keep that in mind," I muttered as Maggie pulled me away, still laughing.

"You handled that well," she teased.

"I try," I said. "But I think we're at level two of 'people assuming we're a couple.'"

"Oh, absolutely." She grinned. "Next stop, uncomfortable comments from elderly vendors."

Sure enough, at the next booth, a grandmotherly woman selling homemade jams and jellies gave us a once-over and clasped her hands together.

"You two remind me of my husband and me when we were young," she said wistfully. "The way you look at each other."

I blinked. "Oh, I'm pretty sure I was just admiring your blueberry jam."

"Nonsense," she said, shoving a jar into my hands. "True love is like a good jam -- it takes time to sweeten."

Maggie, ever the composed one, nodded sagely. "Wise words."

"Oh, you're enjoying this," I whispered as we walked away.

"A little." She smiled. "Okay, a lot."

We passed through rows of local artisans, dodged a troupe of jugglers who were clearly testing their insurance coverage, and lingered by a tent selling aggressively overpriced scented candles.

"I think we're up to level three," I said, inhaling something labeled 'Midnight Lavender Forest Storm.'

"Which level is that?" Maggie asked.

"The one where people ask when we're getting married."

She grinned. "Perfect. Let's keep going."

I shook my head, but I couldn't deny that I was having a good time. The festival, with all its weirdness and awkward couple assumptions, had managed to distract me from the looming divorce decree. For the first time in months, I felt... normal.

Until, of course, we passed the booth that sealed my fate.

A woman in a billowy purple robe, with enough bangles to set off airport security, locked eyes with me from across the street. A crooked sign read:

"Madame Serena -- Fortune Teller. Past, Present, and Future!"

"Oh no," I said.

"Oh yes," Maggie corrected, already steering me toward the tent. "We are absolutely doing this."

"I regret everything."

She smiled sweetly. "Too late."

And with that, we stepped into the unknown.

The tent was exactly what you'd expect if someone had Googled "stereotypical psychic setup" and hit purchase all. Heavy purple curtains draped the walls, a table covered in dark velvet dominated the center, and the whole place smelled like incense and questionable life choices.

A crystal ball -- because of course there was a crystal ball -- gleamed under the dim glow of a flickering lamp.

And seated behind it, Madame Serena herself.

She was a petite woman with frizzy black hair and a suspicious amount of gold jewelry. She looked like she belonged in a mystery movie, specifically as the character who says, "The cards never lie!" right before someone gets dramatically poisoned.

"Welcome," she purred, extending her hands theatrically. "I see two souls seeking answers."

"More like a couple of people killing time before the fried dough stand opens," I muttered.

Maggie elbowed me. "Play nice."

"Please, sit," Madame Serena said, motioning to the chairs. "The universe has brought you here for a reason."

"The universe or Maggie?" I deadpanned, but I sat down anyway.

Madame Serena smiled knowingly, as if I had just revealed my darkest secrets instead of a mild attempt at humor. She stared at Maggie and me with such intensity that I briefly wondered if she could, in fact, see into my soul. Spoiler: My soul was 90% sarcasm.

"Ah," she said dramatically, peering at us. "You are not... lovers."

"Nope," I replied quickly. "Just friends."

She narrowed her eyes. "But are you sure?"

"Oh, I'm pretty sure," I said, feeling like I'd just walked into a romantic comedy death trap.

Maggie, to her credit, remained entirely unfazed. "What else do you see?"

Madame Serena's fingers hovered over the crystal ball like she was tuning a radio to the spirit world. Then, without even pretending to glance into it, she stared directly at me.

"You carry the weight of betrayal," she said ominously.

I stiffened. "Wow. Lucky guess. Did you Google me before we came in here?"

She ignored me. "But... your heart is still open. Searching. Though it may deny it, it longs for something it believes it cannot have."

Maggie smirked, enjoying this far too much. "And what might that be?"

Madame Serena's eyes gleamed. "Love."

I immediately coughed. "Or indigestion. Hard to tell sometimes."

Maggie elbowed me again, harder this time. "Focus."

Madame Serena pressed on. "I see a bond. Strong. Formed not only through hardship but laughter. Comfort. And... attraction."

"Wow." I gestured to the crystal ball. "That thing sure is opinionated."

"You deflect," Madame Serena said, wagging a ring-covered finger at me. "But even the most stubborn heart cannot deny the truth forever."

Maggie raised an eyebrow at me, clearly amused. "Stubborn heart? Sound familiar?"

"Oh, not at all," I said. "She's probably referring to my unwavering devotion to bacon."

Madame Serena, however, was not done. She leaned in closer, her voice lowering to a dramatic whisper. "You both stand at a crossroads. One path is familiar, comfortable. The other... uncertain, but full of possibility."

She paused, letting the words hang in the air.

"And which path will we choose?" Maggie asked, entirely playing along.

Madame Serena's smile returned. "Only you can decide."

I tried not to roll my eyes, but it was a struggle. "Well, thanks for the cryptic life advice. Can I get a punch card? Do five vague fortunes, get the sixth free?"

Maggie laughed, but Madame Serena didn't even flinch. "The heart knows," she said softly. "You may try to ignore it, but it will not be ignored forever."

With that, she gestured to the entrance, apparently declaring the session over.

"Cool. Super helpful," I said, standing up. "Next time, I'm going to the booth where they make balloon animals. At least they're upfront about the nonsense."

Maggie shook her head, still chuckling, and followed me out. As the sunlight hit us, I exhaled dramatically. "Well, that was enlightening. I'm now 100% certain I've wasted ten minutes of my life."

"Come on," Maggie said with a grin. "You have to admit she was a little... spot on."

"Please. She's probably used that line on every couple today. 'You stand at a crossroads. Choose the love path. Blah, blah, fate.'"

Maggie tilted her head. "And what if she's right?"

I froze for a second too long. "Then I guess I'll need to watch out for mysterious crossroads signs. Maybe they'll come with a 'Free Wi-Fi' symbol."

Maggie rolled her eyes, but the thought lingered.

And deep down -- not that I'd admit it -- I couldn't shake the feeling that Madame Serena had seen right through me.

The festival had started to wind down by late afternoon. The cover band had mercifully stopped playing, replaced by a small acoustic duo that actually seemed to understand what rhythm was.

Maggie and I wandered along the quieter side streets, dodging stray bits of confetti and leftover popcorn bags. The earlier buzz of the crowd had faded, leaving a far more peaceful atmosphere. It would've been perfect--if not for the echo of Madame Serena's words still bouncing around in my head.

"The heart knows."

Yeah, well, I wished it would shut up.

"So," Maggie said, breaking the silence. "Admit it. You're a little freaked out."

I scoffed, though I'm sure the unconvincing tone didn't do me any favors. "Freaked out? Please. Madame Serena's crystal ball probably runs on AA batteries."

Maggie smirked. "She did seem to get under your skin a bit."

"Not at all," I said, perhaps a little too quickly. "I've just never been a fan of fake wisdom and ominous hand gestures."

"Really?" Maggie's grin grew. "Because I'm pretty sure you looked like you were about to leap out of your chair when she mentioned that 'bond' thing."

"Pfft. What bond? We're just two people who share a common interest in mocking ridiculous situations."

"Oh, absolutely," she said, her grin lingering.

We strolled in comfortable silence for a few moments. The breeze was cool, tugging at the loose strands of Maggie's hair. The sky had shifted to that soft golden hue -- the kind you see in romantic movies right before someone makes an emotionally reckless decision.

"So," Maggie finally said, her voice quieter now. "What's next for you?"

"Besides the obvious?" I ran a hand through my hair. "Wait for the divorce decree to come through. Then... figure out what life looks like after all of this."

She nodded slowly. "You ever think about what it's going to be like once you don't have Monica's drama hanging over you?"

I sighed. "I guess I'll finally get to see what 'normal' looks like."

Maggie tilted her head. "And what's normal for Travis Parker?"

I was about to respond with some half-baked joke about watching 90s action movies and eating pizza on the couch, but the words didn't come.

Because the truth was, I wasn't entirely sure. For so long, surviving had been the goal. Now that freedom was within reach, I wasn't certain what I'd do with it.

"Maybe," I said softly, "normal looks a little like this."

I meant it as a casual comment, but the second it left my mouth, I regretted it. Maggie's eyes flicked to mine, and the air between us shifted. It wasn't dramatic like the movies -- no swelling music or slow-motion gazes -- just this quiet, undeniable current pulling us closer.

Her face softened, her lips parting slightly. The sunlight caught in her hair, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn't thinking about courts, lawyers, or regret.

I was just thinking about her.

The space between us narrowed, and for a heartbeat, I swore we were about to--

BRRRING.

My phone. Of course.

I pulled back like I'd been caught committing a felony. Maggie blinked, clearing her throat as I fumbled for my phone.

"Sorry," I muttered, checking the screen. Francis. Perfect timing, as always.

"You should get that," she said, her voice laced with amusement -- and maybe a little relief.

"Yeah." I stood, still feeling the lingering warmth of how close we'd been. "Could be important."

Or, knowing Francis, it could be a meme of a raccoon in a cowboy hat. Fifty-fifty shot.

"Hey," Maggie called as I answered the phone. "Next time, no phones allowed."

I grinned, though my heart was still pounding. "Next time, huh?"

She smiled, and just like that, the moment passed. But I had a feeling we weren't quite done with whatever the hell this was.

Not by a long shot.

I pulled into my driveway later that evening, the hum of my car engine dying down as I sat there for a moment, staring at the porch light. The house looked... peaceful. For once, there was no drama, no unexpected visits, no threats of "discussing things like adults."

It was just me. And that was supposed to feel like a relief.

But my thoughts weren't in the driveway. They were still at the festival.

I replayed the moment over and over, the warmth of Maggie's smile, the way she leaned just close enough that I could count the freckles across her nose. For a split second, it was like the universe had given me a nudge, whispering, "Hey, idiot, maybe stop pretending you're not into her."

And then Francis -- bless his terrible timing -- had yanked me right back to reality.

I let out a groan and banged my head lightly against the steering wheel. "Smooth, Travis. Real smooth."

The thing is, I'd convinced myself for months that Maggie was just a friend. A good friend, sure. Someone I could talk to without judgment, who gave great advice and only occasionally implied I should be locked in a padded room. But that was it. Right?

Except now, I wasn't so sure.

I headed inside, greeted by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the sound of the neighbor's dog barking at what I could only assume was the wind. Tossing my keys on the counter, I kicked off my shoes and slumped onto the couch.

My phone buzzed. Probably Francis following up on whatever nonsense he had called about earlier. But when I picked it up, my stomach did a small, uninvited flip.

Maggie: "Had fun today. You survived the psychic. Proud of you."

I smirked. Proud of me. Like I'd just crossed the finish line of an emotional marathon.

Me: "Barely. Pretty sure Madame Serena's spirit guide still owes me an apology."

The dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then came back.

Maggie: "Next time, we'll get our fortunes told by a magician. Less existential dread, more rabbits in hats. Next time."

There it was again. That easy confidence in the idea that we'd do this again -- whatever "this" was.

I considered my reply carefully. Something witty. Maybe a callback joke. But instead, I went with honesty.

Me: "I really did have fun. Thanks, Maggie."

The dots flickered one more time.

Maggie: "Me too. Sleep well, Parker."

I set my phone down, the smile lingering longer than I'd like to admit.

But as much as I wanted to ride that moment into a pleasant night of uninterrupted sleep, my brain wasn't having it. Because lurking just under that happiness was a question I couldn't shake.

What if I hadn't pulled away?

What if I'd ignored the phone and just... leaned in?

Would we have kissed?

And what the hell would that have meant?

The thought was enough to keep me awake, staring at the ceiling and wondering if maybe -- just maybe -- I wasn't as "over everything" as I claimed to be.

The next morning, I stumbled into the kitchen, still half-asleep and determined to locate coffee before my brain attempted any more self-reflection. The aroma of caffeine was the only thing keeping me upright.

Just as I poured my first cup, my phone buzzed again.

Maggie: "Brunch. Today. No excuses."

I blinked.

Was this... a follow-up Not-Date?

Me: "I thought you said no phones next time. What happened to enforcing rules?"

Maggie: "I'll allow it. But if you're late, I'm picking your order for you. And it will involve kale."

"Kale." The devil's lettuce.

I downed half my coffee and typed back.

Me: "On my way. But I swear, if there's kale, I'm filing a restraining order."

An hour later, I sat across from Maggie once again, the déjà vu almost laughable. This time, the café had the hum of a weekend crowd, the clink of forks and laughter mixing with the scent of overpriced espresso.

"You really do love dragging me to places like this," I teased.

"Consider it character development," she replied, grinning.

And just like that, whatever weirdness I'd felt the night before evaporated. We fell into easy conversation, the kind that made me forget there had ever been tension at all.

But even as I laughed at one of Maggie's quips, a tiny voice at the back of my mind refused to stay quiet.

This wasn't a date.

But maybe... it could be.

A week had passed since the festival, and despite my best efforts, I hadn't managed to shake the memory of that almost-kiss. Every time I thought I had it locked away, my brain helpfully replayed it in crystal-clear HD, like some twisted internal movie marathon.

Maggie and I had texted a few times since then -- the usual sarcastic back-and-forth, complete with her threats of kale-based punishment for any bad behavior. But something was... different. I could feel it. The shift. Like we'd crossed into new territory without either of us daring to put a name to it.

And now, here I was. Back at our usual bar.

Maggie was already there, sitting in the booth we'd practically claimed as ours over the last several months. A half-empty glass of something dark rested in front of her, and she had that familiar Maggie look -- half-observant, half-amused, like she could predict my next move before I even made it.

I slid into the seat across from her, immediately clocking the mischievous glint in her eyes.

"What?" I asked, narrowing mine.

"You're late," she said, tapping the rim of her glass. "I was this close to ordering you something with 'detox' in the name."

"I would've taken it as a personal attack," I shot back. "And a hate crime against bacon."

She grinned. "Lucky for you, I'm feeling merciful."

We clinked our glasses -- mine now filled with something that could pass as beer, though the odds were 50/50 it was hipster craft nonsense with a name like 'Hazy Hop Redemption.'

For a while, we chatted like normal. Talked about work. Lamented the latest corporate buzzwords infiltrating her office. ('Synergy' was apparently back from the dead, like a bad horror franchise.)

But eventually, the conversation slowed. And that unspoken thing -- the one I'd been trying to ignore all week -- settled itself between us.

"So," Maggie said, her tone light but deliberate. "Are we gonna talk about it?"

I blinked. "Talk about what? The fact that I saw a grown man order a kale margarita at the bar earlier?"

"Travis." She gave me the look. "You know what."

There it was. The dreaded confrontation. I could practically hear the courtroom gavel in my head. 'State your feelings, Mr. Parker.'

I sighed, setting my glass down. "Alright. Fine. The festival. The... almost thing."

She nodded. "The almost thing."

"Well," I said, clearing my throat. "It was... a moment. One that probably wouldn't have happened if my phone wasn't determined to be the world's worst chaperone."

"Or," she countered, "maybe it would've happened eventually. Phone or no phone."

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Because she wasn't wrong. I'd spent so much time brushing everything off as 'just friends' that I hadn't stopped to consider what was really happening.

"Okay," I admitted, "so maybe the psychic wasn't totally wrong. Maybe there is... something."

Maggie raised an eyebrow. "A 'something.' That's the best you've got?"

"I'm a man of great eloquence," I deadpanned.

She snorted. "Clearly."

We fell into silence again. But this time, it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that asked a question without words. So what now?

"Well," I said, leaning back, "we could pretend it didn't happen. Go back to being two perfectly normal people who mock kale enthusiasts and bad psychics."

"True."

"Or," I continued, "we could do the insane thing and... see where this goes."

Maggie tilted her head, pretending to mull it over. "And how would we do that, exactly?"

I smirked. "I propose... a second Not-Date. Fully sanctioned. No psychic interference. No phones. Just us. Purely scientific, of course."

"Scientific?"

"For research purposes."

She grinned. "Naturally."

"Strictly data collection."

"Oh, definitely."

We both knew neither of us believed a word of it.

"Alright, Parker," she said, raising her glass once more. "You're on. But be warned -- if you pull any of that almost-kiss nonsense again, I might not let you off the hook next time."

I clinked my glass against hers, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth.

"I'll take my chances."

And for the first time in a long time, I wasn't thinking about court dates, settlements, or regrets. Just Maggie.

And perhaps -- that wasn't such a bad thing.

----------------------------

They say planning a first date is like assembling IKEA furniture -- complicated, confusing, and at the end of it, someone's definitely crying. Preferably not me. I sat on my couch, phone in hand, Googling "first date ideas" like I was trying to crack the Da Vinci Code.

"Romantic dinner by candlelight?" Nope. Too cliché.

"Scenic hiking trail?" Also no. The only thing I wanted to climb was out of this impending awkwardness.

"Paint-and-sip night?" Absolutely not. Knowing me, I'd end up painting something that would haunt Maggie's dreams for years.

I sighed and tossed my phone aside. Then, like a specter summoned by my despair, Beth peeked her head around the corner.

"Okay, spill," she said, hands on her hips. "You've been staring at that phone for, like, an hour. Planning your retirement?"

"Very funny," I grumbled. "I'm trying to plan a date."

Her eyes lit up. "Oh my God. A date date?"

"Not a date date," I corrected, even though it was totally a date date. "Just a... casual outing. With Maggie. Nothing serious."

Beth snorted. "Yeah, because 'casual' always involves this much panicking."

She plopped down next to me, visibly thrilled. I regretted letting her in on this. I should've just said I was researching local tax laws. That would've been a safer bet.

"Okay, Dad," she said, crossing her arms. "What's the plan so far?"

"Uh... food. Possibly drinks. I might throw in some banter if I'm feeling wild."

Beth rolled her eyes. "Great. Really aiming for that 'guy who forgot the anniversary' vibe. Come on, you need to make an impression!"

"And by impression, you mean?"

She gave me the most exaggerated shrug. "I don't know. Not die of embarrassment? Maybe charm her. Or, you know, not compare the restaurant décor to a hostage negotiation room."

"That happened one time," I muttered.

"And yet," she replied, smirking.

By the time the day arrived, I had cycled through three possible outfits, four confidence pep talks, and one existential crisis about my receding hairline.

"Why is this so complicated?" I mumbled, staring at my reflection.

Beth, lounging on my bed like she had nothing better to do, shot me a grin. "Because you're out of practice. Face it, Dad. Your last first date was probably back when dinosaurs were still filling out W-2 forms."

"Thanks, sweetheart. Really boosting morale."

She sat up, twirling her hair. "You look fine. Maggie already likes you. You don't need to overthink this."

"I'm not overthinking." I tugged at my collar. "I'm strategically evaluating my options."

Beth snorted. "Yeah, you're like the military strategist of awkward flirting."

"That's the spirit," I said dryly, but even I had to laugh.

By the time I grabbed my keys, I felt... well, still nervous, but slightly less like I was going to reenact a rom-com disaster. Progress.

"Break a leg," Beth called. "But, like, metaphorically. Please don't actually break anything. Insurance rates are bad enough."

"Noted," I replied, and with that, I was out the door.

Maggie was already waiting at the bar when I arrived. She wore a black dress that wasn't overly fancy but definitely not her standard work attire. She looked... good. Great, actually. Like I'd somehow managed to convince a woman way out of my league to spend time with me.

"Hey," she said, her smile easy and warm. "You made it."

"Of course," I said, channeling my inner smooth talker. "I mean, unless I got lost and stumbled into an elaborate parallel universe. Then this could be awkward."

She laughed, and just like that, the nerves simmered down a little.

We grabbed a table, ordered drinks, and launched into conversation. Maggie was easy to talk to -- sharp, funny, and not afraid to tease me when I deserved it. Which, judging by her smirks, was often.

"So," she said, swirling her wine. "What was your worst date ever?"

I grinned. "Okay, there was this one time in college. Thought it'd be charming to take a girl to one of those hole-in-the-wall diners. Turns out the 'hole' was more literal than expected -- ceiling tiles missing, sketchy wiring, the works."

Maggie's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Let me guess. Food poisoning?"

"Oh no. Worse. Mid-burger, the owner's parrot escaped and dive-bombed my date's head. I had to fend off a literal bird assault with a plastic menu."

She laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink. "You're kidding."

"I wish."

And just like that, the awkwardness was gone.

The food arrived, and for the most part, everything was going well -- until the waiter, a cheerful guy who looked a little too excited to be there, grinned at us.

"So! Are we celebrating anything special tonight?"

I froze. Maggie blinked. The waiter's grin widened.

Oh no. He thought we were celebrating an anniversary. Or maybe an engagement. Or something equally horrifying.

"Um--" I began, my brain short-circuiting. "Yeah! We're... celebrating!"

Maggie shot me a look.

The waiter beamed. "Fantastic! I'll bring out a dessert on the house."

As he walked away, Maggie raised an eyebrow. "Celebrating what, exactly?"

I scrambled. "Uh, celebrating... surviving the week? Paying taxes on time? Successfully not yelling at birds?"

She burst out laughing. "Smooth, Travis. Real smooth."

"Hey," I said, raising my glass. "Here's to spontaneous celebrations."

"To surviving the week," she teased, clinking her glass against mine.

By the end of the night, we were lingering outside the bar. The air was crisp, the city lights glowing. The awkward question hung between us -- was this the end? A hug? A kiss? The classic "I'll text you later" move?

Maggie smirked, clearly amused by my hesitation. "Well, this wasn't terrible."

"High praise," I joked.

She stepped a little closer, her eyes gleaming. "I guess we could do it again sometime."

"Only if celebratory desserts are involved," I replied.

And just like that, we both laughed. No overthinking. No agonizing. Just two people figuring it out.

"Goodnight, Travis," she said softly.

"Goodnight, Maggie."

And for once, I didn't feel like the guy who'd been through the wringer. I felt like I could do this whole dating thing again.

------------------

I knew something was up the moment I walked into the coffee shop. The place was buzzing with the low hum of espresso machines and chatter, but my focus zeroed in on the far corner booth -- the one occupied by Traci, Beth, and Francis.

They looked like they were staging a military intervention.

Traci, in particular, had that steely-eyed determination I'd learned to fear since she was about five years old. Francis leaned back, doing his best to look casual, though the glint of amusement in his eyes betrayed him. And Beth? She was grinning like the cat that caught the canary.

"Why do I feel like I just walked into a courtroom?" I asked, setting my coffee down and sliding into the empty seat.

"Because you did," Traci said, without missing a beat. "And the defendant is you."

Beth nodded sagely. "We're calling this a fact-finding mission."

I sipped my coffee, squinting at them. "Fact-finding? About what?"

Francis snorted. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe the fact that you've been spending an awful lot of time with Maggie lately."

Ah. There it was.

"I knew this was coming," I muttered. "You guys really have nothing better to do?"

Beth gasped, clutching her chest like I'd personally offended her. "Excuse me? Your emotional well-being is prime entertainment."

Traci arched a brow. "Besides, we're not here for entertainment. We're here for the truth."

"Oh, the truth," I deadpanned. "By all means, let's unveil this great conspiracy."

"Exhibit A," Traci declared, pulling out her phone like she was presenting evidence to a jury. "You and Maggie. Brunch. Twice last week."

"So?" I shrugged. "People eat brunch. It's a thing."

Beth leaned in. "Yeah, but people who are 'just friends' don't sit on the same side of the booth and share pancakes like it's some romantic 90s rom-com."

"That's--" I paused. "Okay, that's... not entirely true."

"Exhibit B," Francis chimed in, grinning. "You called Maggie 'Mags' the other day. I heard it. That's not a just-friends nickname."

I groaned. "It's a nickname! Not an engraved wedding ring."

"Oh, it's engraved alright," Beth teased. "Right into your smitten little heart."

"I'm not smitten," I protested. "I'm... cautiously optimistic."

Francis whistled. "Cautiously optimistic? Sounds a lot like emotionally compromised."

I sighed, leaning back. "Look, I don't know what you guys think is happening, but Maggie and I are just... figuring things out."

"Sure," Traci said, clearly unconvinced. "But are you actually figuring things out, or are you both doing that thing where you pretend not to like each other until someone snaps and kisses the other dramatically in the rain?"

"That's oddly specific," I said.

"Rom-com research," she quipped. "I'm very thorough."

Beth was practically vibrating with glee. "Dad, come on. You haven't looked this happy in... well, forever. Maggie's good for you. And you're clearly good for her."

Francis, ever the voice of reason -- except when he wasn't -- added, "We're just saying, if you like her, maybe don't overthink it."

"That's rich coming from you," I said. "You once spent two weeks debating whether you liked someone enough to buy her a milkshake."

"Milkshakes are a commitment," he defended. "But fine. Fair point."

They all stared at me expectantly, like three overly enthusiastic life coaches.

"So, what's the plan?" Traci asked. "Are you asking Maggie out on an official date?"

"We already went on a Not-Date," I mumbled. "Technically. And there was... an almost kiss."

The trio practically combusted.

"An almost kiss?!" Beth shrieked. "How are you just now mentioning this?!"

I held up my hands. "Because it didn't happen. My phone rang. Francis, actually. So, if anyone ruined it--"

"Oops," Francis said, grinning unapologetically. "My bad."

Traci shook her head in mock disappointment. "And you didn't immediately reschedule the almost kiss? Dad, we taught you better than this."

"You really didn't," I shot back.

The interrogation dragged on -- accusations of emotional cowardice, unsolicited pep talks, and wild speculation about my 'true feelings' for Maggie. I was tempted to call for a recess, but knowing them, they would just reconvene in my living room later.

"Fine," I finally said, cutting them off mid-analysis. "You want to know the truth? I like Maggie. A lot. And yes, maybe I'm overthinking it because I haven't done this whole dating thing in a long time. But I'm not rushing it. I'm taking my time because... I don't want to screw it up."

Silence. For the first time since I sat down, they didn't have a comeback.

Then Traci smiled. "Okay. That's fair."

"Totally fair," Beth added. "But still, don't wait forever. Rainstorms are unpredictable."

Francis grinned. "And if you need a dramatic boom box moment, I volunteer."

"Great," I said dryly. "I'll be sure to let Maggie know my personal chaos squad has officially signed off on our relationship."

"You're welcome."

Later that night, I got a text from Maggie.

Maggie: "Survived the friend inquisition, huh? "

I blinked. She knew?

Me: "Who told you?"

Maggie: "Francis may have sent a "We're investigating Dad" selfie. Looked very official. Great lighting."

Me: "Traitor."

Maggie: "So... what's the verdict?"

I smiled, thinking about the absurdity of it all. The truth was, they weren't entirely wrong.

Me: "Verdict is in. Friends think you're a terrible influence. Too charming. Highly dangerous. They recommend further investigation."

Her reply was immediate.

Maggie: "Well, in the interest of fairness, I suppose we should conduct a follow-up date. Purely for research purposes, of course."

Me: "Of course. Gotta keep things scientific."

Maggie: "Friday. 7 PM. Be there, Parker."

Me: "Wouldn't miss it."

And just like that, I had another date. Not a Not-Date. A real one.

They say planning an actual first date is like assembling a complicated piece of IKEA furniture without the instructions -- confusing, frustrating, and at the end of it, you're just left wondering if the whole thing was designed to break your spirit.

And if that wasn't bad enough, I realized I had been using an alarming number of IKEA metaphors lately.

What did that say about me? Was my entire outlook on relationships just a series of confusing assembly manuals and missing Allen wrenches? Had I somehow become the human embodiment of a poorly constructed coffee table?

"I swear," I muttered to myself, pacing my living room. "If I start comparing this date to the stability of a LACK side table, I'm turning myself in."

But really, could anyone blame me? Relationships are way too complicated. There's no helpful diagram with vague cartoon characters showing you how to navigate your emotional baggage. No easy-to-follow steps labeled 'Attach Past Trauma to Healthy Communication' with a cheerful thumbs-up at the end.

And unlike IKEA furniture, if a date goes wrong, you can't just shove it into a corner and call it "modern art."

Naturally, I did what any man in crisis would do -- I called in reinforcements.

Francis, my ever-so-helpful son, was the first to weigh in.

"Dinner's good," he said, crunching down on a fistful of chips like I wasn't standing in front of him mid-breakdown. "But not too fancy. You don't want to look like you're trying too hard."

"Trying too hard is literally the point," I retorted.

"Okay, but no movie," he added. "You can't talk during a movie, and it'll just make things awkward. Plus, what if she's one of those people who claps at the end?"

Fair point.

Then came Beth. Ever the enthusiastic chaos agent.

"Oh, you should take her to one of those mystery escape rooms," she suggested, barely suppressing her glee. "Nothing says romance like trying to solve a fake murder before a 'killer' gets you!"

I stared at her. "Beth, I'm not trying to trauma-bond."

She shrugged. "Suit yourself. Just don't take her somewhere boring, like that restaurant downtown where the breadsticks are harder than Dad jokes."

"Hey!" I protested. "My jokes are--"

Beth gave me a flat look. "You made an IKEA joke about your last breakup. I rest my case."

Touché.

By the time the day arrived, I was still wading through a mental swamp of indecision.

I'd settled on Giovanni's, a small Italian place downtown. Not too fancy, not too casual. Just the right level of "I put effort into this, but I'm not going to dramatically pull out a violin mid-dinner."

The real problem? Clothes.

I had three shirts laid out like a pathetic homage to a midlife fashion crisis.

- Blue: Classic. Safe. Also the exact shade of my last DMV photo.

- Gray: Effortlessly casual. Unfortunately, also the color of mild depression.

- Black: Sleek, but if I wore it, I'd look like I was either attending a funeral or plotting a hostile corporate takeover.

Beth, who had taken it upon herself to "supervise," lounged on my bed like an amused cat.

"Okay, Dad. What's the verdict?"

"I don't know," I groaned. "Why does it feel like I'm making a life-or-death decision over a button-up shirt?"

"Because you're overthinking," she said. "And because you have no game."

"I have game!"

"You once called a woman 'remarkably efficient' like she was a well-designed filing cabinet."

"... Okay. Mild game."

Beth smirked. "Look, just wear the blue one. You'll look like a responsible adult who hasn't emotionally imploded. Yet."

"Comforting."

She patted my shoulder. "That's what I'm here for."

Somehow, I managed to make it to Giovanni's on time. Maggie was already waiting, and when she smiled at me, I felt the nerves unravel just a little.

"You made it," she said.

"Only slightly tempted to fake a car breakdown," I joked. "But hey, commitment."

The restaurant had that cozy charm -- warm lighting, the occasional clinking of glasses, and a soundtrack of Italian music that made me irrationally crave breadsticks.

"So," Maggie started, swirling her wine. "On a scale of one to 'ready to flee,' how nervous are you?"

I grinned. "Moderate flight risk."

We talked. About work. About the ludicrous reality TV shows she secretly loved ("It's research," she claimed). And, of course, I shared my ongoing crisis over why I'd apparently become the IKEA philosopher of Charlotte.

"I swear," I said, "if I ever describe our relationship as a 'flat-pack experience,' you have permission to walk away."

Maggie laughed, nearly spilling her wine. "Deal."

And just like that, the night shifted. We settled into something easy, comfortable -- like a chair that only wobbles a little.

By the time we reached Maggie's car, I felt that familiar mix of post-date euphoria and crippling awkwardness.

Was this the part where I kissed her? Hugged her? Shook her hand like we'd just closed a very successful business merger?

Maggie leaned against her car, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "So... successful Friendship-versary?"

"Definitely," I said. "We may need a commemorative plaque. Maybe one with engraved emojis."

She laughed. "Next year. Same time?"

"Absolutely. Unless I'm dramatically kidnapped by a rogue IKEA cult."

"I'll start the search party," she quipped.

And then it happened. That perfect pause -- the one where both people are very aware of the 'to kiss or not to kiss' dilemma.

I panicked. Obviously.

"So, uh," I stammered. "Goodnight hug? High-five? Elaborate secret handshake?"

Maggie rolled her eyes but stepped closer. "Or -- and hear me out -- we could just kiss like normal adults."

"That... works too."

She kissed me, and it wasn't fireworks or slow-motion movie magic. It was better. It was warm, real, and slightly minty, thanks to the restaurant's enthusiastic commitment to after-dinner mints.

When she pulled away, I was grinning like an idiot.

"Well," I said. "No assembly required."

Maggie groaned. "Travis. No more IKEA jokes."

"Not even one?"

She shook her head, but the smile stayed. "Okay. Maybe one."

And just like that, I knew this wasn't going to be the last time we'd do this.

The first real date? Success.

And for once, I didn't feel like a half-assembled table. I felt... pretty solid.

I woke up with the faintest feeling of dread. Not the usual "I forgot to pay the power bill" kind of dread, but the "I might have done something incredibly stupid" variety.

My brain, still clinging to the fuzzy edges of sleep, tried to piece together the night before like some poorly constructed IKEA coffee table. There was dinner. Laughter. That ridiculous moment where I claimed we were celebrating our Friendship-versary just to avoid an awkward dessert presentation.

And then... the kiss.

A grin crept across my face despite the panic. I kissed Maggie. No crash landing. No disastrous mishaps. Just a solid, successful kiss. One for the record books, if I may say so myself.

But then reality hit me like a rogue Allen wrench. I wasn't waking up in my own bed. The room smelled faintly of lavender, and the sunlight streamed in through unfamiliar curtains.

Oh, crap.

I slowly turned my head. There she was -- Maggie -- still fast asleep, her blonde hair tangled in the most unfairly attractive way. I resisted the urge to groan. Not because I regretted anything, but because I had no idea what to do next.

Was I supposed to sneak out like a raccoon avoiding a security camera? Or stay and pretend I was some charming morning-after expert? Spoiler alert: I was not.

I carefully slipped out from under the covers, attempting to navigate the unfamiliar room with the stealth of a cartoon burglar. Naturally, I failed.

My foot immediately collided with something hard and metallic. A dumbbell. Because of course Maggie would have an actual dumbbell casually lying around. My yelp was less than dignified.

"Ugh," I whispered, hopping on one foot. "Smooth, Travis. Real smooth."

Maggie stirred, murmuring something incoherent before settling back into sleep. Crisis averted.

I spotted my pants tossed over the nearby chair like a crime scene exhibit. My shirt? That was... yeah, definitely on the floor. As I gathered my things, my brain helpfully provided me with worst-case scenarios.

Option One: I bolt and leave a text that says something incredibly suave like, "Had a great time. Thanks for the mints."

Option Two: I wait for Maggie to wake up, and we have a painfully awkward breakfast filled with forced laughter and questions like, "So, what do you usually put on your toast?"

Option Three: Crawl under the bed and live there.

Honestly, Option Three was gaining traction.

Just as I considered making my daring escape, I heard it -- the distinct sound of sheets rustling. I froze mid-pant retrieval.

"Travis?" Maggie's voice was groggy, soft, and far too endearing.

I turned, holding my pants like a guilty man caught in the act of grand larceny. "Morning!" I said, much too enthusiastically.

Maggie blinked at me, then stretched with the confidence of someone who wasn't currently contemplating jumping out a second-story window. "You're still here."

"I am," I confirmed. "And not, you know, fleeing in a cloud of shame like a cartoon villain. So... progress."

She laughed, her eyes crinkling in amusement. "You thought about it, though."

"Absolutely."

There was a beat of silence. Then, without thinking, I blurted out, "Do you want coffee? I could make coffee. Or spill it. Equally possible."

Maggie tilted her head. "Or... we could make coffee together?"

That suggestion was dangerously logical. I nodded like a man who'd just been given step-by-step instructions on surviving the apocalypse. "Together. Yes. That sounds... manageable."

Maggie's kitchen was surprisingly cozy for someone who had once told me she preferred practicality over sentimentality. There were bright yellow mugs, an overly complicated espresso machine, and a bowl of suspiciously perfect lemons that I was pretty sure were just for show.

"Do you always have this many lemons?" I asked, inspecting one as though it held the meaning of life.

"Emergency lemons," she said dryly. "For when life gets particularly cliché."

"Ah. The classic 'when life gives you lemons' situation. Very proactive."

She handed me a mug and leaned against the counter, watching me with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. "So," she said. "Regrets?"

"Only that I didn't bring a manual for this whole 'morning after' thing." I sipped my coffee, immediately regretting the attempt to sound smooth. "You know, IKEA style. Step one: Make coffee. Step two: Question every life decision. Step three: Optional panic."

Maggie laughed -- a genuine, warm laugh that made the awkwardness a little more bearable. "You really have a thing for IKEA metaphors, don't you?"

"It's a problem," I admitted. "At this point, I half expect my life to collapse if I tighten the wrong emotional bolt."

"Well, good news. No hex keys required this morning."

After coffee -- which I only spilled twice -- we settled onto Maggie's small living room couch.

"So," she started, tucking her legs beneath her. "Was that our second date?"

I frowned. "Technically, it could be classified as a continuation of the first date. You know, like an extended edition with bonus content."

Maggie smirked. "And what does that make this conversation? The director's commentary?"

"Exactly. And I'm pretty sure I'm just the guy who accidentally left the camera rolling."

A comfortable silence lingered for a moment. Then, she reached for my hand. "I had a really good time, Travis."

"Me too," I said, though it felt like an understatement. "Honestly? I forgot what this felt like. The whole... waking up next to someone without the world imploding part."

She squeezed my hand. "You did fine. Better than fine, actually."

"Well, let's not get carried away," I teased. "I did threaten your lemons."

"You did." She grinned. "Unforgivable."

Eventually, it was time to go. Not because either of us particularly wanted to, but because life waits for no one -- especially when it involves a teenager at home who may or may not be planning world domination via TikTok.

"I'll call you," I said as I stood by the door, trying to ignore the voice in my head that kept shouting, "Kiss her again, you idiot!"

Maggie smiled. "I'm holding you to that."

I turned, opened the door, and then immediately walked straight into the frame.

Because of course I did.

"You okay?" Maggie called, clearly trying not to laugh.

"Totally fine," I said, rubbing my shoulder. "Just testing the structural integrity of your door. Five stars."

She shook her head. "Goodbye, Travis."

"Goodbye, Maggie."

And with that, I left.

No grand romantic music. No fireworks. Just the sound of my own thoughts wondering if it was possible to die from sheer embarrassment.

But even so, I couldn't stop smiling.

Maybe, I wasn't entirely broken furniture after all.

---------------------

There are two types of secrets: the fun kind, like surprise birthday parties and accidentally-on-purpose "forgotten" chocolate stashes. Then there's the other kind -- the one that leaves you glancing over your shoulder like you're in a low-budget spy thriller.

Unfortunately, I now belonged to the latter.

Maggie and I had decided to keep things quiet for a while. Not forever, just long enough to avoid the inevitable barrage of questions, unsolicited advice, and probably a powerpoint presentation from Beth on why we were "endgame."

It wasn't that I was ashamed or anything. Quite the opposite. But after everything with Monica, the last thing I needed was my family turning our relationship into the latest Parker family project.

Of course, that was easier said than done.

"Why are you smiling like that?" Beth asked one morning over breakfast, squinting at me suspiciously from across the table.

"Like what?" I replied, suddenly hyper-aware of my face. Was I smiling? Could I stop? Was I doing that weird half-smile that made me look like I'd just won a suspiciously low-stakes poker game?

"Like you know something the rest of us don't," she said, narrowing her eyes. "It's creepy."

I scrambled for an excuse. "Maybe I'm just... appreciating life?"

"Gross," she deadpanned. "What happened?"

"Nothing!" I said, entirely too quickly. "Absolutely nothing."

She stared at me. "Okay, now you're just lying. Did you win the lottery? Rob a bank? Finally figure out how to fix the lawnmower?"

I choked on my coffee. "No to all of the above."

But she wasn't buying it. I could see it in her eyes. The Parker Family Interrogation Gene had been activated. And worse -- she wasn't the only one I had to dodge.

Francis wasn't much better. He'd called me out the day before.

"You're glowing, man," he'd said, grinning like he'd solved a murder case. "Glowing."

"That's just the overhead lighting," I retorted. "Very flattering."

"Uh-huh. Sure. And I'm the king of Norway."

It was relentless. Every smile, every daydreaming pause -- all met with highly suspicious scrutiny.

But Maggie and I? We were good. And if keeping this under wraps meant fending off the family detectives a little longer, I'd survive.

For now.

----------------

It all started with what I'm now referring to as The Suggestion.

"You need a break," Maggie had said over dinner one night, her green eyes sparkling with amusement. "We both do. A little weekend getaway. Nothing fancy. Just us."

To anyone else, that probably sounded like a simple, romantic plan. But for me? It immediately triggered a thousand unnecessary scenarios. Would we get lost? Would there be bears? Would I lock myself out of the cabin like some sitcom dad?

But Maggie was persuasive -- dangerously persuasive. Before I knew it, I'd agreed. She even found a charming little cabin tucked away in the mountains. The kind of place where people in rom-coms sip hot cocoa and "accidentally" fall in love.

Not that I was thinking rom-com thoughts. Definitely not.

Okay, maybe a little.

Packing for a weekend trip should be easy. Two days, minimal effort, right? Wrong.

Beth, ever the voice of sarcasm, decided to oversee my preparation like some sort of life coach. "Dad, why are you packing four pairs of socks for a two-day trip?" she asked, peeking into my suitcase.

"Backup socks," I said, as if that was a universally accepted concept. "In case of... sock emergencies."

She snorted. "You're going to the mountains, not storming a castle."

"Listen," I retorted, "the forest is unpredictable. There could be rogue puddles. Or surprise mud. Or -- I don't know -- a highly localized sock crisis."

She patted my shoulder with exaggerated pity. "You're gonna be fine, Dad. Just don't lock yourself in the bathroom again like last Thanksgiving."

"That was one time."

Maggie arrived early Saturday morning, looking far too cheerful for someone willingly about to spend hours in a confined space with me. "Ready?" she grinned, tossing her bag into the backseat.

"As ready as a man who overpacked socks can be."

The drive started out great. Maggie had meticulously planned the playlist -- a perfect blend of classic rock and embarrassingly catchy pop songs. For the first hour, we laughed, sang along, and traded increasingly ridiculous stories about our worst road trip memories.

Somewhere between Maggie's dramatic retelling of the 'Suspicious Gas Station Burrito Incident' and me recounting the time I accidentally locked my keys in my car during a first date, we hit that comfortable silence -- the kind where no words are needed.

I liked that. A lot.

We pulled up to the cabin just before sunset. The place was charming in that rustic "definitely not haunted" way. Wooden porch, stone fireplace, and a suspiciously adorable rocking chair.

Maggie hopped out of the car, taking a deep breath of the mountain air. "Smells like pine and bad decisions."

"That's the spirit," I said, grabbing our bags. "Also, I call dibs on the chair."

"You mean the grandpa chair?" she teased.

"Excuse me. That is a chair of authority. A throne of wisdom."

We were mid-banter when we heard it -- a rustling from the bushes. Now, most people would assume it was a squirrel or maybe a curious deer. But my brain? My brain immediately screamed BEAR.

Maggie, of course, calmly investigated. I, on the other hand, stayed strategically behind her. You know -- as a support system.

Turns out, it wasn't a bear. It was a raccoon. A chubby, unbothered little guy who stared at us like we'd interrupted his very important scavenging routine.

"I'm naming him Steve," Maggie announced.

"Great. Steve the Judgmental Raccoon."

Off to a strong start.

After settling in, we decided to make dinner. A bold choice.

"We could just grill," I suggested, holding up the suspiciously shiny propane tank outside.

Maggie shook her head. "Where's the adventure in that? Cabin weekends are for rustic meals."

Now, let me clarify something. I can cook. Kind of. Okay, I can make eggs. But whatever confidence I had quickly evaporated once we got started.

Maggie, on the other hand, looked like she belonged on a cooking show. Flour in her hair, mischievous grin, laughing every time I accidentally measured something wrong.

"How much salt did you just put in there?" she asked, trying not to giggle.

"I don't know. Enough to ward off evil spirits?"

The end result was... questionable. The potatoes were edible. The steak? Well, let's just say Steve the Raccoon ate well that night.

After dinner -- and our solemn potato toast -- we decided to tackle the next great cabin adventure: The Fire Pit.

Fire-building, as it turns out, is a delicate art. One that I apparently lack. After fifteen minutes of trying and failing, Maggie took over.

"Step aside, Bear Grylls," she teased. "Watch and learn."

True to her word, she had a roaring fire in no time. We sat side by side, the warmth of the flames making the night air bearable. The stars overhead were unreal -- a glittering reminder that sometimes slowing down was the best decision.

"You ever think about how weird it is that we ended up here?" I asked, breaking the silence.

Maggie tilted her head. "The cabin?"

"No. Us."

She smiled softly. "Yeah. But weird isn't always bad."

At some point, we decided that a pillow fort was a necessary addition to our evening. Because apparently, we're both ten years old.

We dragged every cushion and blanket from the cabin into the living room, constructing what could only be described as a questionable architectural achievement.

"Functional? No. Beautiful? Absolutely," Maggie declared.

Inside the fort, we talked for hours. About childhood dreams, failed relationships, even the embarrassing crushes we'd had (Maggie once had a thing for the animated fox from Robin Hood. I tried not to judge.).

Then, she looked at me, her expression soft. "Travis, are you happy?"

It wasn't the kind of question you answer without thinking. And yet, the answer came easily.

"Yeah," I said. "I think I am."

Her eyes held mine, the warmth of the fire reflecting in the green. And without another word, she leaned in.

The kiss was slow, deliberate -- like she was memorizing the feel of it. Her hands slipped up to my face, her fingers tracing along my jawline. I pulled her closer, tasting the wine we'd shared earlier.

One kiss turned into another. Then another. And soon, we weren't thinking at all.

We stumbled from the pillow fort, barely making it to the couch before our laughter turned to hushed whispers and soft gasps. Every lingering touch, every stolen glance, built into something that neither of us tried to stop.

No rush. No doubts. Just us.

That night, the cabin walls stood witness to the start of something that didn't need labels.

And I wouldn't have had it any other way.

I woke up the next morning tangled in blankets, the faint smell of the fire still lingering. Maggie was curled up next to me, her steady breathing a reminder that this wasn't some dream.

My first thought? Don't screw this up.

My second thought? Pancakes.

I snuck out of the fort, determined to redeem my cooking skills. After a valiant attempt -- and only one minor batter explosion -- I managed to produce a stack of passably edible pancakes.

Maggie stumbled into the kitchen, her hair a complete mess. "You're cooking?"

"Attempting," I corrected. "It's about a 60% success rate."

She grinned. "I'll take those odds."

Packing up was surprisingly bittersweet. The cabin, the chaos, even Steve the Raccoon -- it all felt like something I wasn't quite ready to leave.

"You know," Maggie said as we loaded the car, "we could always do this again."

"Are you sure? Next time, I might accidentally burn down the forest."

She laughed. "I'll take my chances."

The drive back felt different. Lighter. Like I'd left some of the weight I'd been carrying up in those mountains.

Maggie reached over, lacing her fingers with mine.

"Best getaway ever?" she teased.

"Well," I mused. "No bears. Only one fire pit disaster. And I didn't lock myself in the bathroom, so yeah -- pretty solid."

She smiled. "Next time, maybe we'll invite Steve."

"Absolutely not."

But even as I said it, I couldn't help but grin. Because next time sounded pretty damn good.

The weekend at the cabin still lingered in my mind. Every laugh, every shared glance, and every kiss with Maggie had settled somewhere in my chest -- the good kind of heavy. It wasn't just a fling. It was... something more.

But now came the real challenge.

Meeting my kids for a family dinner.

Okay, technically, Maggie had already met them. She'd exchanged pleasantries, endured sarcastic quips from Beth, and witnessed Francis attempt to play "cool older brother" while inevitably failing. But this time was different. This was official.

"Just dinner," Maggie had assured me. "No interrogations. No bright lights or sworn testimonies."

"Have you met my kids?" I replied. "Francis has probably drafted a list of questions labeled 'For Immediate Use.' And Beth? She'll have a PowerPoint. I guarantee it."

She'd only laughed. But I knew what was coming.

The day of the dinner, I found myself staring into my closet like the answers to all my problems were hidden behind my assortment of slightly wrinkled button-ups.

"Why are you like this?" I muttered at my reflection. "It's dinner. You've literally faced courtroom battles. Just wear a shirt and--"

"--don't embarrass yourself," I finished aloud. Solid pep talk. Definitely working.

My phone buzzed. Maggie: "On my way. Don't forget to breathe."

I smirked. That woman knew me too well.

I finally settled on a blue shirt -- the universally safe choice. Not too formal, not too "I'm trying to look like I'm not trying." A middle-ground shirt. A truce shirt.

By the time Maggie knocked on the door, I'd cycled through approximately 47 scenarios where dinner went horribly wrong.

"Hey," she greeted, holding a bottle of wine like a peace offering. "You ready?"

"I've accepted my fate."

She laughed, leaning in for a quick kiss. "You'll survive. Probably."

Beth was the first one through the door, because of course she was. She had that mischievous sparkle in her eyes that said, 'I'm prepared to cause chaos.'

"Dad," she said, arms crossed, "You look suspiciously put together. Which leads me to believe you're hiding something."

"Hi, Beth," I replied, ignoring the comment. "Where's Francis?"

"Running late. Something about gym time. He's 'bulking.'"

Of course. Francis and his ongoing quest to "bulk" had become the stuff of family legend. The only thing more dramatic than his protein shake routine was his belief that 'one more set' could solve all of life's problems.

"Hello, Beth," Maggie chimed in, smiling. "It's good to see you again."

Beth gave her a once-over, then nodded approvingly. "Still here, huh? Impressive."

"Oh good," I muttered. "We're starting with sarcasm."

Fifteen minutes later, Francis arrived in full gym attire, still slightly winded like he'd just completed 'the workout of the century.'

"Hey," he said, giving a lopsided grin. "Sorry I'm late. Did I miss the awkward small talk?"

"Nope," Beth shot back. "We saved plenty for you."

"Great. Wouldn't want to miss it."

Maggie, ever the composed one, just smiled. "I'm glad you could make it, Francis."

"Me too. I mean, I had other offers tonight," he joked, "but free dinner wins every time."

"Flawless priorities," I said dryly.

We all gathered around the dining table, Maggie's bottle of wine standing proudly like a beacon of civility. For now.

It didn't take long for Beth to strike.

"So, Maggie," she began, twirling her fork like a villain in a spy movie. "Hypothetically, if you were to describe my dad in three words, what would they be?"

Maggie raised an eyebrow, but her smile remained. "Hmm. Thoughtful. Funny. Loyal."

I couldn't help but grin. "Loyal, huh? You hear that, Beth?"

Beth scoffed. "Yeah, yeah. She's buttering you up."

Francis, who had been quietly observing, jumped in. "Okay, follow-up question. What's the most embarrassing thing Dad's done since you started seeing him?"

"Oh, easy," Maggie said, biting back a laugh. "He tried to convince a waiter that we were celebrating our 'Friendship-versary' just to avoid free dessert."

Francis cackled. "Friendship-versary? Dad. Really?"

"In my defense," I interjected, "the waiter was very enthusiastic about the sparklers. I panicked."

Beth grinned. "Classic."

Somewhere between the laughter and Maggie charming the socks off my kids, I realized something unexpected -- I wasn't nervous anymore.

It was just... comfortable. Like we'd been doing this forever. Maggie handled every quip and joke like a pro. Francis even went as far as to say, "You're pretty cool for a government overlord." Which, in his mind, was basically a glowing review.

And Beth? Well, she was studying Maggie like a scientist observing a mysterious creature.

After dinner, we migrated to the living room. Maggie perched on the couch like she belonged there. I couldn't stop myself from smiling.

"So," Beth finally said, crossing her arms. "You're officially dating my dad. Are you ready for the chaos that comes with that?"

Maggie didn't miss a beat. "Bring it on."

After the kids finally departed -- Beth issuing one last "Don't mess it up, Dad" -- I stood in the kitchen with Maggie, leaning against the counter.

"Well," I said, "that wasn't terrifying at all."

She laughed softly. "They like me."

"I'd say so. Francis didn't even pretend to dislike you for dramatic effect. That's basically a standing ovation."

Maggie tilted her head, her eyes searching mine. "And you? How do you think it went?"

"I think..." I paused, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "I think I'm pretty lucky."

She smiled, stepping closer. "I think so too."

And then, because there was no need to stall, I kissed her. The soft warmth of her lips against mine was enough to make the entire night feel like one big win.

"Next time," she murmured, "I get to choose the family game night."

"Oh, God," I groaned. "You're going to pick something impossible, aren't you?"

"Absolutely."

And just like that, I knew I'd survived the first family dinner.

Barely.

It had been a few weeks since the first family dinner -- the night Maggie officially survived the gauntlet that is my offspring. Things were good. Better than good, really.

We'd settled into a comfortable rhythm. Dinners together, movie nights that always resulted in her making fun of my ridiculous taste in 90s action flicks, and the occasional morning coffee that suspiciously felt like it had been brewed with love.

But of course, relationships are never all sunshine and perfectly brewed lattes.

I suppose I should've seen it coming.

It started with a simple misunderstanding.

Maggie had mentioned weeks ago that her friend Rachel was hosting a charity gala. Not exactly my scene, but I'd nodded along because being a supportive boyfriend means agreeing to attend social events that involve wearing actual pants.

Except -- and this is where things went sideways -- I forgot.

In my defense, there were plenty of contributing factors. Work had been hectic. Francis decided to rearrange his entire dorm room and required parental-level supervision via Facetime. Beth somehow convinced me to join her on a "quick" trip to IKEA that lasted six hours.

Somewhere in all that chaos, the gala slipped my mind.

And that's how I found myself sprawled on the couch, mid-bite into a slice of pepperoni pizza, when Maggie called.

"Hey, I'm about ten minutes out," she said, way too casually. "You ready?"

My stomach sank. Ready for what?

"Oh, uh. Of course!" I bluffed like a man who had just been caught mid-crime. "Totally ready."

She laughed. "I'm so glad. The tux rental wasn't too much trouble?"

Tux. Tux.

The pizza slice drooped sadly in my hand. "Nope. Not a problem at all."

But there was, in fact, a very large problem.

When Maggie arrived, looking stunning in a sleek black dress, I tried to cover my complete lack of preparedness with sheer charisma. Spoiler: It didn't work.

"You're... wearing jeans," she said, her eyes narrowing.

"Yes. But these are... uh, premium jeans?" I gestured vaguely. "Limited edition. Handcrafted by artisans. Very exclusive."

Her jaw tightened. "Travis."

"Okay, okay!" I threw my hands up. "I forgot! I'm sorry."

She exhaled sharply. "You forgot the gala? The one I've been reminding you about for weeks?"

"In my defense, I forgot a lot of things. Like what day it is. And that the milk in my fridge was apparently waging chemical warfare."

She wasn't amused.

"I get it," she said, pacing the living room. "You don't care about these things. Fancy events. Dress codes. But it's not about the gala, Travis. It's about the fact that I asked you to be there, and you blew it off."

"I didn't blow it off!" I protested. "I just... misplaced it in my brain."

Her arms crossed. "That's not better."

I sighed. "I know. I'm sorry. I really am."

But apologies weren't enough. Not this time. The frustration that had been simmering beneath the surface finally erupted.

"Do you know how hard it is to feel like I'm the only one trying?" Maggie's voice cracked slightly. "I'm not asking you to enjoy these things. I'm asking you to show up."

Her words hit like a gut punch. She wasn't wrong. But instead of acknowledging that, my own frustration took over.

"And what about me?" I shot back. "I'm trying, too. Maybe I don't always get it right, but I'm not exactly standing on the sidelines."

Maggie's eyes flashed. "Forgetting a major event isn't exactly 'trying,' Travis."

And there it was. The fight. The first real fight.

Maggie stormed out, leaving me standing in the middle of the room like a human-shaped regret factory.

The pizza slice I'd abandoned earlier still sat on the table, now congealing into something tragic. Fitting.

My phone buzzed. Francis.

Francis: "Beth says you screwed up. How bad?"

Me: "On a scale of 'forgot to text back' to 'accidentally insulted her mother'?"

Francis: "Yikes. Not good."

Not good indeed.

I tried distracting myself with TV, but it was impossible to focus. Every scene, every happy couple, seemed to mock me. Even the infomercial about a revolutionary mop had two actors laughing together like they'd solved world peace with superior floor-cleaning technology.

Hours passed. I considered calling Maggie, but what was I supposed to say? "Hey, sorry I suck at calendars and emotional responsibility"?

Eventually, I did the only thing I could think of. I went to bed, knowing I'd probably lie awake replaying the entire argument on an endless loop.

The next morning, I woke up with a renewed sense of purpose. Or maybe it was just the regret hangover. Either way, I needed to fix this.

Step One: Coffee.

Step Two: Apologize. Like, really apologize.

Maggie deserved more than a half-hearted "my bad." I needed to own up, no excuses.

Step Three: Don't accidentally make things worse.

Admittedly, that one was a stretch.

I showed up at Maggie's apartment, coffee in hand, rehearsing my speech the entire drive over.

When she opened the door, I half-expected her to slam it shut. But she didn't. She just looked... tired.

"Hi," I said, offering the peace-offering coffee. "I come bearing caffeine and remorse."

She sighed but accepted the cup. "Travis."

"I messed up," I said quickly before she could continue. "And not just because I forgot the gala. You were right. I wasn't thinking about what it meant to you. And I hate that I made you feel like I wasn't in this with you."

Her eyes softened, but she didn't respond right away. I could practically hear the wheels turning.

"I know I joke around a lot," I continued. "But I don't take us lightly. You mean too much to me for that."

Maggie stared at me for a moment, then finally, finally, she nodded. "Thank you. For saying that."

Relief washed over me. "So... can I come in?"

She stepped aside. "You're on thin ice. But yes."

We sat on her couch, both of us quieter than usual.

"I should've been honest about how important the gala was," Maggie admitted. "And I shouldn't have assumed you'd just read my mind."

"And I should've written it down," I replied. "Tattooed it on my arm if necessary."

She smiled. "I'm picturing you with a very elegant 'Gala at 7pm' tattoo."

"Classy. Timeless."

Maggie shook her head, but her smile lingered. "We're okay?"

"We're okay," I assured her. "But if I ever forget something like that again, you have full permission to throw cold spaghetti at me."

"That's... oddly specific."

"Just covering all the bases."

By the time I left that evening, things felt lighter. Stronger, even. Turns out, fighting wasn't the end of the world. It just meant we cared enough to figure things out.

On the drive home, my phone buzzed.

Beth: "Did you apologize, or should I start making "Team Maggie" signs?"

Me: "All good. No signs necessary."

Francis: "But we already made shirts."

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't stop smiling.

Life wasn't perfect. Relationships weren't easy. But I'd take the messy moments -- the fights, the awkward apologies, the questionable pizza decisions -- if it meant I got to keep figuring it out with Maggie.

Because in the end? She was worth it.

-------------------------

You'd think after surviving a contentious divorce, forced counseling with a therapist from the underworld, and navigating the battlefield of dating in my 40s, I'd be fully prepared for anything. But then, life has this charming habit of proving me wrong.

It had been a few months since the divorce was finalized. Monica was out of my life, my kids were adjusting, and Maggie and I were--well, we were us. It was comfortable. Good. Peaceful even.

And then I saw Monica.

I wasn't in the middle of some dramatic soap opera grocery store encounter or a "bumping into your ex at a wedding" scenario. Nope. This was far more mundane. A coffee shop. Of all places.

The worst part? I had been feeling smug not five minutes earlier. I'd successfully avoided a massive coffee spill, expertly dodged the toddler with a juice box, and even managed to snag the corner table with the least amount of awkward eye contact potential. A winning morning.

And then she walked in.

Monica.

Now, I'm not proud of what I did next. Some men stand their ground. Some confidently exchange polite greetings. Me?

I ducked.

Like a grown man trying to hide behind a cup of overpriced coffee and a muffin. Real subtle, Travis. Real subtle.

But, of course, the universe wasn't on my side. Because right as I was contemplating my exit strategy, the barista called my name.

"Travis! Large Americano!"

It may as well have been a foghorn. Every head in that café turned. Including Monica's.

Her eyes locked on me, and there it was--the patented Ex-Wife Smirk. Not quite a glare, but not exactly a warm invitation for small talk, either.

Great. Just great.

"Travis," she said, her voice that same sickly-sweet tone she used when she was about to win an argument. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Monica," I replied, because I clearly needed to confirm her existence. "Yeah. Coffee. It's... a thing people do."

Brilliant, Travis. Absolutely brilliant.

She raised an eyebrow. "I see you're still a master conversationalist."

"Only the best," I said, forcing a grin. "So. How've you been?"

"Oh, you know. Adjusting. Living. Getting back out there."

I had no idea what that meant, but I nodded like I was deeply fascinated.

"That's... good," I managed, wishing the floor would just open up and swallow me whole.

Just when I thought I'd successfully navigated the ex-spouse gauntlet, the situation evolved. Because who should walk through the door at that exact moment?

Maggie.

Coffee cup in hand, she spotted me immediately. Her smile was warm, easy--until she saw Monica. Then it faltered. Not dramatically. Just enough for me to see the wheels turning in her mind.

And, because I'm the luckiest guy alive, Monica noticed too.

"Oh," Monica said, her smirk widening. "Is this the infamous Maggie?"

Infamous? Fantastic. This was going downhill faster than my attempts at assembling IKEA furniture.

Maggie, to her eternal credit, approached without hesitation. "Hi, I'm Maggie," she said, extending a hand.

Monica shook it. "Monica. You've... heard of me, I'm sure."

"I have," Maggie replied smoothly. "Though I'm guessing the reviews were mixed."

I nearly choked on my coffee.

"So," Monica said, her voice laced with false politeness. "How's the happy couple?"

Maggie smiled, though I could see the gleam in her eyes. She wasn't backing down.

"We're good. Travis has been wonderful."

"Oh, I'm sure," Monica replied. "Travis was always... dependable."

There it was. The veiled jab.

"Well," Maggie countered, "I find that reliability in a man is pretty attractive. Saves a lot of unnecessary drama."

Touché.

I wanted to applaud, but I wisely kept my hands glued to my coffee cup.

Monica's smile tightened. "Well, I'll let you two enjoy your coffee. I'm sure you have so much to talk about."

"Always," Maggie replied sweetly.

With one final glance, Monica turned and strode out, her designer heels clicking dramatically against the floor. Classic.

The door shut behind her, and I finally exhaled. "Well. That wasn't awkward at all."

Maggie raised an eyebrow. "You hid behind a muffin, Travis."

"In my defense, it was a strategically placed muffin."

She laughed, leaning in to kiss my cheek. "Next time, let me handle it."

"Noted."

We found a quiet table, and I stirred my coffee like it held the answers to my questionable life choices.

"So," Maggie said, sipping her drink. "That went about how I expected."

"Yeah. Classic Monica. Passive aggression with a touch of implied superiority."

"You have a type."

"Apparently."

She smiled, but I could see the curiosity lingering in her eyes. "Did it bother you? Seeing her?"

I considered the question. Did it? Maybe a little. But it wasn't the gut-wrenching, soul-crushing ordeal I might have expected months ago.

"Nah," I said. "Honestly? I'm just glad it's over. No more lawyers. No more drama. Just... us."

Maggie's hand found mine. "Good. Because I'm not a fan of ex-wife coffee ambushes."

"Noted. I'll add that to the list of things to avoid."

By the time we left the coffee shop, the encounter felt more like a distant memory than a monumental event.

"Hungry?" Maggie asked. "Because I'm craving pancakes."

"You read my mind."

We headed to the diner down the street, the tension from earlier completely replaced by the easy comfort I'd grown to love with Maggie.

And as we shared a plate of pancakes, laughing about the absurdity of the morning, I couldn't help but feel relieved.

Monica could have her dramatic exits and cryptic remarks. I had Maggie. And for the first time in a long time, that was more than enough.

"Next time," I said between bites, "I'm ordering a muffin for defensive purposes."

Maggie laughed. "Deal."

-------------------------

You'd think after handling my divorce like a slightly sarcastic pro, raising three kids, and surviving awkward run-ins with my ex, I'd be ready for anything.

But meeting Maggie's family? That was a whole new battlefield.

It wasn't that I didn't want to meet them. Maggie and I had been together for months, and things were... well, actually pretty great. No unexpected legal papers. No mandatory therapy sessions. Just us -- blissfully navigating through coupledom like we'd been doing it forever.

But this? Family introductions? This was high-stakes.

After our coffee shop run-in with Monica, Maggie had smiled over her pancakes and casually dropped it on me.

"My parents want to meet you."

Simple words. Nuclear-level impact.

I nodded like I hadn't just experienced a minor internal meltdown. "Sure. Sounds good."

Travis Parker: Master of Overconfidence.

The week leading up to dinner felt like preparing for a mission briefing. I even started mentally drafting what I assumed were "safe" conversation topics:

- Sports (Except for golf. People get weird about golf.)

- Weather (Classic. Neutral. Everyone loves weather.)

- Not my divorce (Unless they bring it up. Then... dodge.)

Francis and Beth found my pre-game anxiety hilarious.

"Dad," Beth had said, trying to contain her laughter. "You survived years with Monica. What's the worst that could happen?"

"Your grandmother once told a telemarketer she was a reincarnated Viking warlord," I reminded her. "Family dinners are never predictable."

Maggie's parents lived in a picturesque little house, complete with a porch swing and a suspiciously adorable welcome mat. It was the kind of house that HGTV hosts aggressively compliment.

I wore a button-up shirt, trying to strike the right balance between "respectable boyfriend" and "not a corporate stooge." Maggie, of course, looked effortlessly perfect in that laid-back, "I barely tried" way that made me question why I ever thought plaid was a solid fashion choice.

"Ready?" she asked, giving my hand a quick squeeze.

"As I'll ever be."

She smiled. "Just be yourself. They'll love you."

"Have they met... me?"

She laughed, then rang the doorbell.

The door opened, and there they were. Richard and Linda.

Maggie's dad was tall and broad-shouldered, the kind of guy who probably fixed leaky sinks without Googling it first. Linda, on the other hand, radiated warmth. She had the same green eyes as Maggie, and her smile immediately put me at ease.

"Travis!" Linda greeted, pulling me into a surprisingly enthusiastic hug. "We've heard so much about you."

"All good things, I hope."

"Well," Richard said with a grin, "that depends."

Ah. Dad humor. I could work with this.

We gathered around the dining table, which was stacked with enough food to feed a small village. Clearly, Linda had prepared for every possible scenario, including me developing a sudden, insatiable appetite.

"I hope you like pot roast," she said, practically glowing.

"Like it? I've been known to write emotional poetry about pot roast," I deadpanned.

That earned a laugh. One point for Travis.

Conversation flowed surprisingly well. Richard quizzed me about my work, nodding approvingly when I avoided the words "TPS reports" or "synergy." Linda peppered Maggie with childhood stories that involved everything from homemade lemonade stands to a rogue squirrel she once tried to rescue.

"Of course," Linda said dramatically, "Maggie forgot the part where the squirrel chased her halfway across the yard."

"It was a misunderstanding," Maggie protested. "We were supposed to be friends."

"Friends with rabies," Richard added.

"Technically, no rabies were confirmed," Maggie shot back, grinning.

These people were fun. I could feel the tension loosening.

And then, as dinner wound down, it happened.

"So, Travis," Richard said, swirling his wine glass like a seasoned interrogator. "Tell me -- what are your intentions with my daughter?"

Ah. There it was. The question. The one every boyfriend dreads.

Maggie groaned. "Dad, seriously?"

"What?" Richard shrugged. "It's a classic."

I grinned, trying to appear unshaken. "Well, sir, my current intentions involve not embarrassing myself at this dinner table."

He chuckled. "Reasonable answer. But long-term?"

The table fell silent. Even the pot roast seemed to pause mid-bite.

And then I spoke.

"To make her happy," I said, surprising even myself. "She's... incredible. I don't know how I got lucky enough to be with her, but I do know I'm not going to screw it up."

Linda practically beamed. Richard gave me a long, appraising look -- the kind that probably had teenage Maggie trembling. Then, finally, he nodded.

"Well," he said, "you've got guts. I respect that."

After dinner, Maggie and I helped with the dishes. Well, she helped. I mostly stood there pretending to be helpful while not breaking any antique plates.

Richard and Linda eventually retreated to the living room, leaving us alone.

"Well," Maggie said, leaning against the sink. "You survived."

"Barely. I'm 90% sure your dad has a secondary list of questions he didn't get to."

"Oh, absolutely," she teased. "Consider this Round One."

I wrapped my arms around her, feeling the warmth of her laughter. "I like them," I admitted. "They're... good people."

She smiled. "Yeah. They are."

"And your dad? Solid mix of terrifying and entertaining."

"That's the goal."

When it was time to leave, Richard shook my hand firmly.

"Take care of her," he said, though it wasn't a threat. It was more like... permission.

"I will," I promised.

Linda hugged me again. "You're welcome anytime, Travis. Next time, I'll make pie."

Pie? Now that was a power move.

On the drive back, Maggie held my hand. The night air was cool, the streetlights casting a rhythmic glow along the road.

"You really did great," she said softly. "They liked you."

"Well, I didn't knock over the gravy boat, so I'm calling it a win."

She laughed. "Seriously though. I'm glad you're part of this now."

I squeezed her hand. "Me too."

And for the first time in a long time, I didn't just feel like I was surviving life. I was living it.

With Maggie. And that was the biggest win of all.

Rest of the drive back from Maggie's parents' house had been surprisingly calm. No frantic replays of dinner conversations, no existential spirals about whether Richard secretly hated me. Just Maggie's hand in mine, the hum of the engine, and a comforting sense of "That went well."

But that didn't mean I wasn't still thinking.

I'd met her parents. They'd liked me -- or at least hadn't plotted my immediate demise. Maggie had laughed with them, teased them, and pulled me into that world like I belonged there. It felt good. It felt... right.

So naturally, instead of basking in that feeling like a normal person, my brain went into hyper-analysis mode.

Were we official-official now?

I mean, sure, we'd done the dating things. Shared meals, binged terrible reality TV, and engaged in activities that would make any mattress salesman proud. But The Talk? The actual defining-the-relationship talk? Yeah. That hadn't happened.

And because life enjoys irony, Maggie had invited me over for dinner at her place that night. Perfect opportunity.

Or perfect disaster.

By the time I knocked on her door, I'd cycled through at least fourteen scenarios -- ranging from "She laughs in my face and demands I leave" to "She declares her undying love and suggests we adopt a dog named Mr. Pickles."

"Hey, you," she said, greeting me with that soft smile that somehow made all rational thought leave my body. "Come on in."

The smell of something delicious filled the air -- garlic, rosemary, and possibly the distant scent of "Travis is about to say something stupid."

She led me to the kitchen, where a bottle of wine and two glasses waited. "Pasta okay?"

"Pasta's great," I replied. "Especially when I'm not the one risking a spaghetti fire."

Her laugh -- God, that laugh -- was enough to temporarily silence the swirling storm of questions in my head.

But only temporarily.

We ate, talked, and laughed. I told her about Beth's latest sarcastic conquest at school and Francis's ongoing "bulking" journey, which now involved an absurd number of protein shakes. Maggie regaled me with the office drama involving a rogue coffee machine and a very agitated Karen from Accounting.

Everything was normal. Too normal.

The question was practically screaming in the back of my mind. Every time I opened my mouth, though, it turned into a witty remark about parmesan cheese or how I still didn't understand the plot of "Inception."

By dessert, it was getting unbearable.

"So," I said, attempting to sound casual. "That went pretty well last night. Your parents didn't try to slip me a 'leave now' note."

Maggie grinned. "No notes. Though my dad did make a comment about you being 'unexpectedly tolerable.'"

I gasped in mock horror. "A glowing review. I'll frame it."

"Absolutely."

And then... silence. The perfect opening for a real conversation.

I froze. Say something, Travis.

"So... you ever think about how weird spaghetti noodles are?"

Nailed it.

Later, as we settled onto her couch, glasses of wine in hand, the comfortable silence returned. But this time, I could feel her watching me.

"What's on your mind?" she finally asked.

There it was. The million-dollar question.

I cleared my throat, trying to summon the confidence of a man who didn't just have an internal meltdown about pasta. "I've been thinking. About us."

Maggie's expression softened. "Oh?"

"I mean... we've been doing this for a while. And last night -- meeting your parents -- it kind of made me realize that we haven't really, you know, defined anything."

She tilted her head, curious. "And what would you like to define?"

Good. Follow-up questions. Definitely not terrifying.

"I guess... I'm wondering where we stand. Are we... official?" I winced as I said it, realizing I sounded like a teenager at a high school dance. "Like, 'boyfriend-girlfriend' official. Not just 'Hey, that's Travis, he's around sometimes' official."

Maggie bit her lip, clearly amused. "You're seriously worried about that?"

"Well, yeah," I admitted. "For all I know, you're secretly maintaining a fleet of boyfriends. Maybe I'm just 'Wednesday Travis.'"

She burst out laughing. "Wednesday Travis, huh? So who's Monday?"

"Probably someone named Chad. Chad's always a Monday guy."

"Poor Chad," she teased.

She set her wine glass down, shifting closer until her knee brushed against mine. The warmth of her touch sent sparks straight through me.

"Travis," she said softly, her fingers intertwining with mine. "You're not just Wednesday Travis. Or any day Travis. You're my Travis."

I blinked. "Like... officially?"

"Officially."

The weight I didn't realize I'd been carrying lifted instantly. I grinned, letting out a breath I'd been holding for what felt like years. "Well, good. Because I was about two bad jokes away from having to write you a PowerPoint presentation titled 'Why Travis is a Solid Boyfriend Choice.'"

"Oh, I would've made you present it," she said, her laughter bubbling up again. "Complete with charts and graphs."

"Don't tempt me. I have access to clip art."

She leaned in, her lips brushing against mine, the laughter fading into something softer. Something real.

"I'm glad we're official," she whispered.

"Me too."

And just like that, we were.

The next morning, as we lazily sipped coffee and watched the sunlight spill through her living room, it all felt... easy. Like a natural next step, rather than some monumental relationship milestone.

"So," Maggie said, grinning over her mug. "Since we're officially official, does this mean I'm allowed to change your Netflix algorithm?"

"You wouldn't dare."

"Oh, I would. I'm thinking true crime documentaries and poorly reviewed rom-coms."

I gasped dramatically. "My 'Action Hero Standoff' playlist! Gone!"

"Consider it relationship tax."

"Bold move. Dangerous even."

She smirked. "That's why I'm with Wednesday Travis."

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't hide my grin. Official or not, I was exactly where I wanted to be.

It had been a month since The Official Talk. Maggie was now officially my girlfriend, I was officially not screwing things up, and we were officially happy.

We'd fallen into a rhythm -- alternating dinner dates, watching ridiculous game shows, and spending lazy Sunday mornings arguing over which breakfast place had the best pancakes. (Spoiler: I was right.)

But just as I'd settled into the blissful comfort of our relationship, The Future Talk loomed on the horizon like a storm cloud.

It wasn't like we were avoiding it. Maggie and I both had our share of complicated pasts -- mine complete with the Monica-sized crater and hers with an ex-husband who had apparently decided emotional maturity was optional.

Still, the inevitable question lingered.

Where was this going?

It was a Saturday evening, and I had foolishly thought that agreeing to make dinner would somehow distract me from my swirling thoughts. Spaghetti -- my default attempt at "fancy cooking."

Because what says "I'm totally prepared for an emotional conversation" like carbs drowning in marinara?

"Something smells amazing," Maggie said, stepping into the kitchen. She leaned in, giving me a quick kiss. "And you're not even on fire. Impressive."

"Yet," I quipped, stirring the sauce dramatically. "I like to keep the fire extinguisher close for morale."

She grinned. "Is that why you bought the industrial-sized one?"

"Absolutely."

But even as we exchanged jokes, the weight of The Conversation lingered. And judging by the way Maggie bit her lip and glanced at me every so often, she felt it too.

Halfway through dinner, I felt it. That subtle shift in the air. The pause that lingered just a little too long.

"Travis," she started, setting her fork down carefully. "Can I ask you something?"

Here we go.

"Of course," I said, trying to sound like a man who was ready for anything.

She hesitated, and I could see the thoughts swirling behind her green eyes. "Where do you see this going? Us, I mean."

Yup. There it was.

I stalled, taking an exaggerated sip of water like I was pondering the complexities of life itself. "Well, I'm hoping it's not going toward a conversation about my questionable pasta-making skills."

She smiled, but there was a flicker of nervousness in her expression. "I'm serious."

"I know," I said, setting the glass down. "And I've been thinking about it too."

The thing about Future Talks is that they're never just about the future. They're about the past too -- all the moments that shaped how you see commitment.

"I guess part of me is... cautious," I admitted, fiddling with my napkin. "I thought I knew what my future looked like once. Marriage. Family. Stability. Then... well, you know how that turned out."

"Monica," Maggie said softly.

"Yeah." I offered a dry chuckle. "Turns out 'forever' had an asterisk."

She reached across the table, her hand brushing against mine. "I get it. My ex made a lot of promises too. And when they fall apart... it's hard to believe in them again."

I nodded. She did get it. That's what made this both easier and harder.

"But I don't think avoiding it forever is the answer," she continued. "We're not them, Travis. And I don't want fear to decide what happens next."

"So," she said gently. "What do you want?"

It was such a simple question, yet it hit like a freight train.

"I want..." I paused, realizing how much I actually meant it. "I want this. I want us. And I don't know exactly what that looks like in five years or ten years, but I know I want you in it."

Her eyes softened. "That's a good start."

"And you?" I asked, feeling like the floor might crumble if I didn't hear her answer.

"I want the same," she said. "But I also want to know that we're not just... coasting. I want to feel like we're building something."

"That's fair," I said, my thumb tracing absent patterns along the back of her hand. "I want that too. I just... need to believe I'm not going to screw it up."

She squeezed my hand. "Travis, if you were going to screw it up, you would've done it already. Trust me."

"Wow. Such confidence in my abilities."

"I'm just saying." She grinned. "You're doing pretty well so far."

And then came the inevitable follow-up.

"What about the kids?" Maggie asked carefully. "I know they're a huge part of your life."

"Traci, Francis, and Beth are... complicated," I said, which was putting it lightly.

"Beth's supportive. She's given you the official nod of approval, which is basically the equivalent of winning an election in our house."

Maggie laughed. "And Francis?"

"He's... warming up. Slowly. In his own brooding, protein-shake-fueled way."

"And Traci?" she asked, more carefully now. "She's been... distant since the divorce."

I nodded, the mention of my oldest daughter tightening something in my chest. "Yeah. She's protective. Always has been. She's still working through it. But I think she wants me to be happy. She just doesn't know how to reconcile that with her frustration over what happened with Monica."

"I can understand that." Maggie paused. "Would you want me to meet her? Eventually, I mean."

I swallowed hard. "I do. But I think it has to be on her terms. She's stubborn, like her old man."

"She's lucky then," Maggie said with a small smile. "You're pretty great."

"Well, I do have my moments."

She squeezed my hand again. "And if we ever talked about living together?"

"Traci might have thoughts," I admitted. "But hard isn't impossible. They'll always come first, but they also want to see me happy. I think, eventually, they'd come around."

"And I want them to know I'm not trying to replace anyone. I'm just... here."

"I think they already know that."

The conversation naturally drifted into other possibilities. Vacations. Moving in. Maybe even a dog.

"Francis is absolutely going to lobby for a Great Dane," I joked. "Beth will demand something small and fashionable."

"And you?"

"Mutual destruction. I'll end up with both."

She laughed, but then her face grew serious. "And... marriage?"

The word hung in the air like a challenge.

"I'm not against it," I said slowly. "It's not like I swore off ever trying again. But I'd only do it if it's right. If it's... us."

Maggie nodded, her expression unreadable. "I get that."

"And you?" I ventured.

"I think," she said softly, "if I ever got married again, it would have to be because I couldn't imagine life without that person. Not out of obligation. Not because it's 'the next step.' Just because I knew."

"Yeah," I agreed. "That's how it should be."

Later, as we curled up on the couch, the weight of the conversation had eased. It didn't feel like a pressure-filled milestone. It felt like something we'd built -- together.

"Well," Maggie teased, "now that we've had The Future Talk, I guess the next milestone is picking a TV show we both like without resorting to rock-paper-scissors."

"You laugh, but we've almost ended this relationship over your obsession with true crime."

"Oh, please. You've watched at least five episodes willingly."

"Under duress."

She smirked. "Admit it. You wanted to know if the husband did it."

"It's always the husband!"

We dissolved into laughter, and for the first time in forever, the future didn't feel like a looming question mark. It felt like something we'd figure out -- one sarcastic quip and terrible documentary at a time.

And honestly?

That sounded pretty perfect.

-------------------

yonde kurete arigatou gozaimasu