Saint Dirty Face After Dark

The front door shut behind me like it was sealing some deal I hadn’t signed.

Basil in the air, Fleetwood Mac humming low, and the sound of a spoon clinking against a pan like it had all been staged.

I found her there. Amy.

My dad’s new wife. My “stepmom.”

Only four months in, and somehow she already looked like she belonged more than he did.

Black swimsuit, messy bun, barefoot on tile.

Wine glass sweating in the sun.

She turned and smiled at me—open, warm, like she was glad I showed up, like she’d been waiting.

“Hey,” she said. “You must be the college kid.”

Yeah. The college kid.

Nineteen years old, still shaking the dust from the bus ride, suddenly standing in a kitchen that felt about three sizes too small.

Her voice filled it. Her smile filled it. And every nerve in me started yelling the same thing: wrong, wrong, wrong.

But wrong has a smell, and it smelled like butter and basil and wine.

Wrong has a soundtrack, and it sounded like Stevie Nicks singing about second chances.

Wrong has a shape, and it was standing barefoot right in front of me.

I told myself it was just the shock of meeting her for the first time.

I told myself it was just the summer heat pressing down.

I told myself it was nothing.

But the truth?

The truth was that the kitchen already felt like confession. And I wasn’t ready to tell her what I’d been thinking. 💦

✊🏻 Stay Dirty, Stay Wicked.

— Saint Dirty Face