Frank’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as they pulled into town, knuckles pale beneath his sun-darkened skin. The truck groaned a little under the weight of Brendan’s belongings—a life packed up in boxes after a messy breakup Frank had no interest in hearing about. 

Brendan sat hunched in the passenger seat, arms folded, jaw tight. His thick-rimmed glasses slid a little down his nose every time they hit a bump. He pushed them back up with a tired flick of his finger. He wore a gray hoodie, threadbare from too many washes, and skinny jeans cuffed above worn sneakers. His dark hair was shaggy, grown long at the sides—messy in a way Frank suspected was intentional. 

Frank had commented on the jeans at the gas station. 

“You got any pants that don’t hug your thighs like that?” 

Brendan didn’t look up from his phone. “These pants are fine, Dad.” 

Frank muttered something about “go-go dancers” and “too much ankle” and then dropped it. Like he dropped everything these days. 

Frank was broad and solid—pushing sixty, with a belly that had settled in after retirement but shoulders that still filled a doorway. He wore Levi’s that had faded in the seat and a tucked-in flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. A cross hung around his thick neck. It never came off. He smelled faintly of diesel, sweat, and the kind of soap that only came in three-pack quantities. 

He loved his son. He just didn’t understand him. Never had. 

Brendan had always been… quiet. Soft spoken. His world had been full of books, music, and long walks alone. No team sports, dirt bikes, or fishing trips. And now this breakup—with a man whose name Frank refused to say out loud—had sent him packing, moving back home from the coast like some wounded animal. 

When Brendan asked for help, Frank didn’t hesitate to take his old truck on the multi-day roundtrip to bring his son and his things back home. But he hadn’t asked for details about the relationship. He didn’t want them. He just drove. 

Pleasanton appeared like an old film reel being brought into focus. It had perfect houses, perfect hedges, and a main street lined with a barber shop, a soda fountain, and American flags that looked freshly pressed without a wrinkle in sight. There were no chain stores or billboards, just clean sidewalks and people who waved when they passed. 

“Still a couple hours of daylight left,” Brendan said as Frank rolled through a stop sign. “We could be almost to Chicago before dark.” 

Frank sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “My eyes are going crossed. We’ll get dinner here and then play it by ear.” 

Brendan snorted almost inaudibly. Classic Dad. It wasn’t a suggestion or a recommendation, just a declarative statement. We’ll get dinner here. Brendan was grateful for his dad’s help and even more grateful that he didn’t want to discuss Brendan’s breakup. Still, Brendan would have preferred to keep driving. He wanted the end of this road trip to come as close to the beginning as possible. 

The diner they chose was bedecked with spotless chrome and cherry red booths. The cook, dressed in a white paper hat, an immaculate chef’s jacket, and a black bow tie, came around the counter and greeted them like old friends. 

“You boys just passing through?” he almost chirped. 

Brendan gave a weary nod. Frank looked up from the menu. “Headed east. Long way to go.” 

“Well, you’re in luck,” the cook beamed. “Pleasanton is famous for looking after its travelers. We’ve got just the place for you boys to spend the night. A real home away from home.” 

“Thanks, but—” 

Frank held up a chubby hand. Brendan fell silent and looked down at his menu. Flushed red with embarrassment, Brendan hated the way he, at nearly thirty, still cowed to his father’s nonverbal cues. Moving back home might’ve been a mistake. 

They ordered and ate in awkward silence. When the cook returned with their check, a house key strung on a silver keychain rested atop the black vinyl booklet. 

“Overnight accommodations compliments of the Pleasanton Hospitality Association,” he said. “You’ll love it here.” 

Brendan looked outside. It was still early; they could have covered another hundred miles if they just got back in the truck and hit the road. Frank, however, had already decided, dropping the key in his shirt pocket. 

The house on Elm Street was white clapboard with blue shutters and a little brass number on the mailbox: 52. There was no hotel or short-term rental signage and no front desk. Just a welcome note in tidy, copperplate handwriting, a freshly baked pie on the kitchen counter, and a master bedroom already turned down for guests. 

Brendan raised an eyebrow. “Creepy,” he whispered, half grimacing. 

Frank exhaled through his nose. “It’s clean. And it’s free.” 

The bedroom smelled like fresh linens and lavender. The matching twin beds were stiff, and the walls were bare but for a cross and a Norman Rockwell painting of an Independence Day parade. Frank’s boots were lined up neatly by the door—he didn’t remember doing that. A blue terrycloth robe hung in the closet. Frank stared at it for a long time. 

When he looked in the mirror, his reflection seemed slightly off. His stubble was missing, but he hadn’t shaved. His hands looked smoother, his nails trimmed and buffed. A wave of warmth passed through his chest, and he chuckled under his breath for no reason at all. 

He caught himself. The hell is wrong with me? 

The following day, Frank found himself navigating the cupboards and drawers in the kitchen like an old pro. He cracked eggs with practiced ease while whistling a tune he didn’t recognize. The apron he wore—red and white gingham—fit snugly around his belly and waist. He didn’t remember putting it on. 

Brendan padded down the stairs and sat at the kitchen table, rubbing his eyes. His hair was combed back. He wore slacks, a belt, and a crisp white undershirt tucked in tight like he’d just stepped out of a Sears catalog. He looked confident. Taller, somehow, and more sure of himself. 

Frank flushed with pride. He turned back to the stove. 

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he said without thinking. 

Brendan froze. 

Frank didn’t. He flipped the eggs and smiled to himself. 

Outside, the streets of Pleasanton were quiet, as if waiting. Waiting for them to forget. Waiting for them to change. Waiting for them to settle in. 

Frank stood at the stove, wearing slacks that hugged him tighter than Brendan’s jeans ever had, a pale yellow button-down, and the same red gingham apron that seemed to have always hung in the Elm Street kitchen. His thick forearms were dusted with flour. A strand of gray hair kept slipping from where he’d combed it back with pomade. He had never used pomade, not before Pleasanton. 

He stirred a pot with steady hands, humming a sweet, old-fashioned Glen Miller tune. The scent of pot roast filled the house—rich, savory, and comforting. He felt proud and fulfilled. 

The click of the front door pulled him from his domestic trance. Brendan stepped in, adjusting the collar of his dark blue shirt, crisp and tucked in despite it being well past quitting time. The slim black tie framed his chest and drew the eye to his narrow waist. His clean-shaven face accentuated his angular jaw, and his posture reflected a straight-backed, square-shouldered, just-home-from-the-office confidence. 

Frank turned with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. 

“There’s my working man,” he said, his voice light and singsong. 

Brendan glanced at him, lips twitching into a smirk. “And there’s my manwife. You’ve been busy.” 

Frank beamed. “Dusted the baseboards. Polished the good China. Watched the mechanic finally tow the old truck away. Then, I thought, ‘What kind of man comes home from work without a hot dinner waiting?’” He said it like it was the most natural thing. Like he hadn’t spent thirty years running a construction company. Like he hadn’t once called men like this soft. 

Brendan walked up behind him and placed a hand on his lower back. “You’re really getting the hang of this, Frankie.” 

Frank giggled—giggled—and shook his head. “Stop. You’re going to make me blush.” 

After dinner, they remained at the kitchen table, the polished wood gleaming under the overhead lights. The silverware clinked softly against the plates. Frank poured Brendan another iced tea with steady hands. 

Brendan set his napkin onto his plate. “We should probably talk about this.” 

Frank’s smile faltered. “About what?” 

Brendan tilted his head slightly. His tone was calm but assertive. “About us. This house. This town. The way things have changed.” 

Frank laughed a little too loudly. “Changed? I don’t know what you mean. I just… I just like taking care of you.” 

“You’re my father,” Brendan said, not unkindly. 

The words short-circuited Frank’s thoughts for a moment. “I know that,” he said quickly, fumbling with the knot in his apron straps. “Of course, I know that. But that doesn’t mean I can’t look after you. I’ve always looked after you, haven’t I?” 

Brendan leaned forward. “Frankie, you iron my shirts. 

“Well, someone’s got to.” 

“You pack me lunches.” 

Frank’s face flushed. “Only because you forget, and you need your strength.” 

“You greet me at the door with a kiss on the cheek.” 

Frank went quiet. The discordance of two coexisting realities confused him for a long moment. Finally, his thoughts sorted themselves out. 

“I’m proud of you, Brendan. You work so hard at the office. You deserve a clean house. A hot meal. A man wife who knows his place.” 

Frank heard the words as he said them, and couldn’t take them back even if he wanted to. 

Brendan didn’t react. He simply reached out and placed a hand over Frank’s. “I appreciate you, Frankie. Every day.” 

Frank’s chest fluttered. He felt seen more than he had in years. 

That night before bed, Frank bathed and donned the blue terrycloth robe. He rubbed lotion into his forearms the way the pamphlet in the bathroom had suggested. A pair of toothbrushes rested in the cup by the sink—a navy blue one labeled “Man” and a baby blue one labeled “wife.” 

Frank stared at the complementary brushes, his heart pounding. There was a message in the symmetry, which he both resisted and wanted more than anything. He crawled into his bed and rolled over to gaze at Brendan, who read the paper atop the covers on his own twin bed. The lamplight cast their shadows along the wall. Two men—son and father, but also Man and wife. 

Brendan didn’t say anything as he turned the page. 

Frank whispered, “You comfortable, dear?” 

“Perfect, Frankie. Just perfect,” he said without looking up. 

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