Dad's Nerdy New Boyfriend

Dad’s Nerdy New Boyfriend By J.M. Snyder “Are you excited?” Rick Pruitt asked, glancing in the rearview mirror. His eight-year-old son Micah sat in the back seat, a Slurpee held fast in both hands, the straw clenched tightly between thin lips. Micah turned away from the window long enough to meet his father’s gaze in the mirror’s reflection and nod, then looked back out at the crowded, rainy parking lot. A loud slurp on the straw was his only audible response to Rick’s question. “Funny,” Rick mused aloud, “you don’t look excited.” Micah let the straw slip free. “I am, Dad. Really.” Slowing the car to a crawl, Rick began looking for a free parking space. To his son, he said, “You’ve been talking about this movie nonstop since you first heard about it months ago. Here we are finally, opening weekend, and all I get is a nod and a really? It’s like you don’t even want to be here.” “I do,” Micah protested, throwing a bit more enthusiasm into his voice this time. “Then act like it, kiddo.” Rick saw backup lights ahead and shot forward a few feet, flipping on his turn signal. As he hit the brake, ready to wait for the other car to pull out so he could get the spot, he glanced in the mirror again at his son’s pout. “I’m giving up my whole Saturday for this, you know. I have a lot of work I need to get done—” “I know,” Micah mumbled. “I could’ve asked your mother to take you to see this instead of me,” Rick added. Micah pouted harder. “She doesn’t like Pokémon.” Yeah, well, here’s a newsflash for you, Rick thought, inching forward to make sure the other car coming down the aisle towards him didn’t steal his spot. Neither do I. To be honest, Rick wasn’t quite sure what Pokémon was, exactly. Some sort of animal, maybe? A Japanese cartoon and only the hottest app at the moment, that much he knew. And judging from the amount of merchandising in Micah’s bedroom, it was also a silly little gimmick that was making someone overseas a shitload of money. His son had posters, and toys, and action figures, and DVDs. Bed sheets, bath towels, T-shirts, a jacket, shoes, and socks. A backpack, a pencil box, pens, notebooks, even a lunch box. And a board game, a card game, video games, and comic books. Hell, somehow he even managed to convince his mother to let him download the app, though Rick thought they had agreed when they bought him an iPad Mini tablet that he could only use it for reading and schoolwork, not games. Some yellow thing with a lightning bolt for a tail seemed to be Micah’s favorite character—it was on everything he owned—but when asked, he claimed he liked them all. Rick didn’t get it. Back in his day, it’d been G.I. Joes and He-Man, which at least looked human. His son would be turning nine in a few months, and was already too old to be sleeping with a stuffed animal, in his opinion. Excuse me, a plush toy, Rick thought, jockeying into the freed parking space ahead of the other waiting car. As Micah’s mother had explained more than once, “stuffed animals” were for girls, but “plush toys” were gender neutral. Yeah, right. If you sleep with it, it’s a stuffed animal, as far as I’m concerned. You can try calling a twelve-inch G.I. Joe an action figure, but the moment you take off his fatigues and put him into a boating outfit of Ken’s, he becomes a fashion doll, plain and simple. Not that Rick had anything against that. If his son wanted to sleep with a stuffed animal, more power to the kid. Hell, Rick was a gay man who ended up with a son because he’d made a bad decision at a college party he’d been too drunk at to remember, so who was he to tell Micah what to do? Just don’t fool yourself, he wanted to say. Call a spade a spade, be happy with who you are, and don’t try to pretend you’re anything different—not for others, and not for yourself, either. But he couldn’t say that to a little kid, especially not one as sensitive as Micah was. The boy wasn’t old enough yet to understand Rick wasn’t being mean. And then Susan won’t let me hear the end of it. Putting the car into park, he cut off the engine and half-turned in the seat to study his son. He didn’t speak, just waited for Micah to look at him. After a long moment, Micah did, one corner of his mouth quirking up into a half-smile above the Slurpee’s straw. “Hey,” Rick said gently. “What’s wrong really? Tell your old dad.” “You’re not that old,” Micah countered. With a grin, Rick pointed out, “Older than you. What’s up?” Micah shrugged and dropped his gaze to the Slurpee cup, as if it were suddenly more interesting than anything else in the car. “Nothing.” “Don’t you want to see this movie?” Rick asked. Micah nodded, but something in his face said otherwise. Rick suppressed a sigh. Sometimes it was like pulling teeth to get anything out of the boy. At this age! Rick wondered how much worse things would get once Micah hit his teen years. “You like Pokémon,” Rick prompted. Micah sighed. “Yeah, I do.” The but was unspoken, though Rick could hear it loud and clear, so he added it himself. “But…?” Micah’s face scrunched up. Here it comes. “But it’s for babies and nerds,” Micah wailed. Rick stared at his son. Part of him wanted to point out, Hello? It’s a freaking cartoon. But he realized if he said that, they might as well turn around now and go back home. Tears welled in Micah’s eyes, and his chin trembled as he struggled not to cry. Taking a deep breath, Rick stifled the urge to snicker and, instead, asked gently, “Who told you that?” Micah’s breath hitched in his chest. “Brian Hadley said only babies and nerds like Pokémon! He said Pikachu is a pika-butt!” The words came out in a rush; to punctuate them, Micah sipped his Slurpee and stared balefully at his father, as if daring Rick to contradict his friend. “Okay,” Rick drawled, nodding. Then he admitted, “I don’t even know what that means, but I’m going to bet Brian whatever-his-name-is is wrong.” Micah pouted. “Brian Hadley.” “Well, your friend—” “He’s not my friend!” Micah shouted, his small voice suddenly loud in the closed up car. “He’s a bully! He’s worse than Team Rocket ever is!” Rick pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Oh God, he thought, trying not to laugh. It’s like he’s speaking Greek. When did I get so damn old all of a sudden? At thirty, Rick didn’t think of himself as middle-aged, but whenever he tried to talk with his son, references to Team Rocket and Pikachu and who knew what else made him feel ancient. Had his mother ever felt this way when he was younger, listening to him ramble on about Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, and Darth Vader when Star Wars first came out? If so, she never let on, just smiled and let him tell her all about his favorite characters until he was talked out. “Okay, look,” Rick said calmly, “that kid sounds like a jerk. If he isn’t your friend, why do you even care what he thinks?” Micah nibbled on his straw. “I don’t.” “Then ignore him.” Rick gave his son a tight smile. “He isn’t here right now, is he?” Micah made a show of looking out the window, and Rick had to suppress a sigh. Seriously? he thought. You’re actually going to look? Satisfied, Micah shook his head. “No, he’s not here.” “Good.” Rick unbuckled his seat belt. “Then he won’t know you’re here, will he? And really, what does it matter? You want to see this movie, so we’re going to see it. If we get out of the car right now. So come on. Let’s go catch those things, or something.” Micah laughed. “Hey! It’s gotta catch ‘em all.” “Yeah, whatever.” Rick rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to let some jackass bully you into not doing something you’ve been waiting so long to do.” “Dad!” Micah squealed in delight. “You just called Brian a—” “Don’t repeat that,” Rick warned him. “Surefire way to get your butt kicked, trust me.” With a giggle, Micah slurped the last of his drink, his eyes twinkling mischievously over the top of his straw.