The Muse's Undoing

Elbows on the table, Fischer and I clasp hands and lock eyes. “Count us down, bud,” he says.

“Three-two-one-go!”

Our arms flex simultaneously, and my core engages immediately from the amount of resistance I meet. Grimacing, I shift my hips and try to gain an early advantage.

Fischer licks his lips and sucks his lower one into his mouth, narrowing his gaze. Jesus, even his hand is strong. “This is totally unfair,” I grunt, fighting the pressure he’s applying with my whole body.

“How old are you? Twenty-eight? You should have me easy.”

“Dad’s forty-one,” Vaughn offers.

“I’m aware,” I grit out as my arm shakes.

Fischer’s cheeks are getting pink and Vaughn is rooting for him to “take Uncle Matty down!”

Five seconds later, he does, my knuckles slamming into the wood while my left hand comes up to shove him in the chest. He laughs, and Vaughn tackles his head with a hug. “My turn.”

I sit back and watch Fischer pretend to give his son three fighting chances before beating him every time. “I got you good,” he finally says. “Now it’s bedtime.”

“Ugh.”

“If we don’t get on FaceTime soon everyone’s gonna be asleep.”

Vaughn pulls himself up from the floor and shakes out his arm. “Wanna wrestle me, Matty?” he asks. “You can use your left hand.”

“Winner makes the rules,” I say, nodding toward Fischer. “Bedtime, bud.”

He sighs. “Fine.”

Fischer uses his cane to get up from the floor, groaning as he does. He rubs my head as he walks past me and follows Vaughn into the bedroom.

The salad I ordered arrives while Fischer puts his son to bed. They have a whole routine to get through of FaceTime calls and reading that takes another half hour. The payoff is that Vaughn sleeps like he lives life—hard. Which is probably how Fischer gets away with fucking Ravenna when his kid is down the hall.

Not that I’m judging.

Just jealous.

Stupid jealous.

By the time he returns to the couch, I’ve eaten, straightened up the living room, and made him a drink.

“Should I read anything into this?” he asks, sitting down and taking a sip of the vodka tonic.

“You beat me. There’s your prize,” I say.

He sighs. “For the record, I’m not letting you leave without talking about this morning.”

“I think we need to talk about the wild animal you’re raising first,” I say, dodging the topic.

“He’s six.”

“He’s feral.”

“I was just like that,” Fischer says. “Weren’t you? There’s a reason Dick has a bad back.”

“I was not like that.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t know, but he’s a perfectly normal kid with a lot of energy.”