The Kisses Without The Misses:
After 9-year-old Evan forgets his goodbye kiss from JJ, JJ spirals while you watch on laughing at how overdramatic your husband is.
The morning air in the Maybank household didn’t just circulate; it vibrated. It was a chaotic symphony of sizzling bacon, the rhythmic thump-thump of a stray soccer ball hitting the hallway baseboards, and the frantic rustle of a nine-year-old boy trying to locate a specific pair of "lucky" socks that had been missing since the Eisenhower administration.
JJ stood in the center of the kitchen, the undisputed king of the carnage. He was leaning against the counter, a spatula in one hand and a look of pure, unadulterated pride on his face as he watched Evan—a miniature, slightly more organized version of himself—streak across the linoleum in a blur of blonde hair and adrenaline.
"Found 'em!" Evan hollered, sliding into the kitchen like he was stealing home plate. He hopped on one foot, tugging a neon-orange sock over his heel. "Dad, we gotta go. Coach says if we're late, we're doing suicide drills, and my lungs aren't ready for that kind of commitment."
JJ chuckled, tossing the spatula into the sink with a practiced flick of the wrist. "Hey, slow your roll, Pogue. You’ve got thirty seconds to spare. Don’t forget the cargo."
You leaned against the doorframe, sipping your coffee and watching the scene unfold with a quiet, knowing smile. You loved this part of the day—the high-octane energy before the house fell into the midday hush. You loved seeing JJ in "Dad Mode," which was really just "JJ Mode" with more responsibilities and slightly better snack choices.
"Got the bag," Evan grunted, swinging his backpack over his shoulders. "Got the water. Got the cleats. Okay, bye Mom! Love you!"
Evan lunged forward, giving your waist a quick, rib-crushing squeeze before spinning around toward the door.
JJ was already in position. It was a ritual. The "Maybank Send-Off."
JJ dropped into a slight crouch to meet Evan’s height, his arms spread wide like he was waiting to catch a winning touchdown. His eyes were closed, his face tilted upward, and his lips were dramatically puckered out—an invitation for the customary goodbye peck on the cheek or forehead that Evan had delivered every single day for nine years.
"Don't keep the public waiting, kid," JJ murmured, his eyes still closed, a smug, expectant grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Evan, however, was already halfway through the door. His mind was on the field, the grass, and the elusive glory of a fourth-grade soccer tournament. He didn't even look back.
"See ya, Dad!" Evan shouted, the screen door slamming shut behind him with a definitive clack.
JJ didn't move. He stayed there, frozen in his crouch, arms wide, lips still puckered out toward the empty space where his son’s face had been a millisecond ago.
You lowered your coffee mug, your eyebrows shooting up. "Uh... JJ?"
He remained perfectly still for five more seconds. Then, slowly—painfully slowly—his arms dropped to his sides. His lips retracted. He opened his eyes, and the look in them was nothing short of a Greek tragedy. It wasn't just disappointment; it was the look of a man who had just watched his entire legacy crumble into the Outer Banks surf.
"He didn't," JJ whispered.
"He’s just in a rush, J," you said, trying to stifle a laugh. "He’s excited about the game."
JJ turned toward you, his movements stiff and robotic. He looked like he had aged forty years in the span of a heartbeat. "He didn't kiss me, Yn. He didn't even hesitate. He just... he walked away. He walked away from all of this." He gestured vaguely to his own face.
"He’s nine," you reminded him, stepping into the kitchen. "Independence is part of the package."
"Independence?" JJ scoffed, his voice rising into a dramatic, gravelly pitch. He staggered toward the kitchen island, gripping the edge of the granite as if he might fall over. "That wasn't independence, Yn. That was a declaration of war. That was a 'thanks for the DNA, old man, but I’ve moved on to greener pastures.' He’s forgotten me. I’m a ghost. A phantom in his rearview mirror."
You leaned back against the counter, crossing your arms. This was it. The breakdown was imminent. "I think you're overreacting just a tiny bit."
"Overreacting?" JJ let out a hollow, theatrical laugh, looking up at the ceiling. "The boy I taught to walk? The boy I taught to bait a hook? He left me hanging! I was puckered, Yn! I was fully puckered! You don't just leave a man in a state of high-intensity pucker and walk out the door!"
He began to pace the kitchen, his hands flying wildly through the air. "It’s over. The era of the Pogue King is dead. I’m just a guy who makes mediocre bacon now. I’m irrelevant. I’m 'The Father Figure Formerly Known as Fun.' Did you see his eyes? There was no love there. Only the cold, calculating ambition of a striker who doesn't need his old man's blessings anymore."
"JJ, he literally told me he loved me three seconds before he left," you pointed out, your shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
JJ stopped in his tracks, pointing a finger at you. "Exactly! He loves you! You're the anchor! Me? I’m just the buoy, Yn! I’m just floating out here, bobbing in the waves, waiting for a seagull to come along and finish the job! I’m all washed up!"
He groaned, a long, low sound that started in his chest and ended with him practically melting onto the kitchen floor. He sat down on the rug, leaning his head against the dishwasher.
"I can feel it already," JJ moaned, staring blankly at the toaster. "The slow drift. I’m gonna float out past the breakers, past the Gulf Stream... just a lonely, unkissed Maybank, lost at sea. My beard will grow long, I’ll start talking to a volleyball named Wilson, and Evan won't even remember my name. He'll just call me 'that guy who used to live in the house with the good snacks.'"
"You are so dramatic," you giggled, walking over to stand between his outstretched legs. You reached down, ruffling his messy blonde hair. "He’ll be back in three hours covered in mud, asking you to fix his bike. I promise, the 'Maybank Legacy' is safe."
JJ looked up at you, his blue eyes wide and glistening with mock-sorrow. He grabbed your hand, pressing it to his cheek like a Victorian heroine. "Tell my story, Yn. Tell the world I tried. Tell them I stayed puckered until the very end."
"Get up, you idiot," you laughed, pulling on his hand. "We have to go to the game. If you're 'washed up,' you might as well go watch your replacement score some goals."
JJ let out one final, heavy sigh, allowing you to haul him to his feet. He brushed off his jeans, though he kept his bottom lip poked out in a pout. "Fine. But if he scores and doesn't point to me in the stands? I’m moving to a deserted island. Don't try to find me. I’ll be the one talking to the crabs."
"Deal," you said, kissing his cheek. "Now let's go, Captain Drama. Your son needs his 'washed-up' dad to cheer for him."
The drive to the soccer fields was soundtracked by JJ’s low-frequency muttering about "the coldness of youth" and "the inevitable betrayal of the next generation." You tried to distract him with a breakfast burrito, but he just stared at the tortilla with soulful, wounded eyes, claiming he had lost his appetite for everything except the salty spray of the ocean that would soon claim him.
By the time you reached the sidelines, JJ had transitioned from "Washed-Up Sea Captain" to "Aggressively Supportive Soccer Dad." He hopped out of the car, slamming his Oakley’s onto his face with a look of grim determination.
"I’m going to remind him," JJ whispered to you, his tone dark. "I’m going to remind him who taught him the importance of the Maybank pucker."
"JJ, please," you laughed, grabbing the folding chairs. "Just let the kid play."
The game was a blur of neon jerseys and the high-pitched whistles of a referee who clearly wanted to be anywhere else. Evan was playing like a man possessed, his little legs churning through the grass. Midway through the second half, the score was tied. Evan intercepted a pass, dribbled past two defenders twice his size, and hammered a shot into the back of the net.
The sideline erupted. Parents were cheering, kids were screaming—but JJ? JJ went rogue.
He didn't just cheer. He leapt over the low rope barrier, sprinted ten yards onto the field, and let out a primal Pogue war cry that silenced the entire park.
"EVAN! EVAN MAYBANK!" JJ roared, cupping his hands around his mouth.
Evan, mid-celebration with his teammates, froze. He looked over, his face instantly turning a shade of red that matched the opposing team's jerseys. "Dad? Get off the field!"
"I CAN’T HEAR YOU OVER THE SOUND OF MY BROKEN HEART!" JJ yelled back, ignoring the referee’s frantic whistling. "BUT I SEE YOU, KID! I SEE THAT GOAL! AND YOU KNOW WHAT THAT GOAL DESERVES?"
"Dad, stop!" Evan hissed, backing away as his friends started to giggle.
JJ didn't stop. He stopped about five feet from Evan, dropped into that same dramatic crouch from the kitchen, spread his arms wide, and squeezed his eyes shut. He thrust his lips out so far it looked physically painful.
"REPAY THE DEBT, SON!" JJ bellowed for the entire county to hear. "THE MORNING DEBT! SEAL THE BOND OR WATCH ME DRIFT INTO THE ATLANTIC!"
The referee approached, looking baffled. "Sir, you need to return to the—"
"NOT NOW, ZEUS!" JJ barked at the ref without opening his eyes. "I’M RECLAIMING MY PATERNITY!"
Evan looked at you, standing paralyzed on the sideline with your face buried in your hands. He looked back at his dad—the man currently making a spectacle of himself in front of the local news crew and the girl Evan had a crush on in homeroom.
With a heavy, world-weary sigh that suggested he was far more mature than his father would ever be, Evan stomped over. He didn't give a gentle peck. He grabbed JJ’s face with two sweaty, grass-stained hands and planted a loud, aggressive smack right on JJ’s forehead.
"There!" Evan shouted. "I love you! Now go sit down before they ban us from the league!"
JJ snapped his eyes open. A radiant, blinding grin broke across his face. He stood up, adjusted his hat, and gave Evan a firm, proud salute.
"That’s my boy," JJ said, his voice back to its usual breezy pitch. He turned to the stunned crowd, waving like he’d just won an election. "He loves me! The sea will have to wait for another day! Carry on!"
As JJ jogged back to the sideline, looking like he’d just conquered Everest, he plopped down in the chair next to you and took a huge, triumphant bite of your leftover burrito.
"See, Yn?" he said, muffled by eggs and beans. "He was just playing hard to get. I still got the magic."
You looked at Evan, who was currently trying to hide inside his own jersey while his teammates mimicked JJ's pucker. "JJ," you sighed, though you couldn't stop the grin from spreading across your face. "You realize he’s going to make us move to a different school district after this, right?"
"Worth it," JJ chirped, leaning over to offer you a very greasy, very dramatic pucker of your own. "Now, did you see that goal? That’s 100% my genes."
The sun had long since dipped below the marshline, leaving the Maybank house draped in the soft, blue-gold haze of a humid Carolina evening. The adrenaline of the game—and the sheer, soul-crushing secondary embarrassment JJ had inflicted upon his heir—had finally faded into a sleepy, bone-deep exhaustion.
You leaned against the doorframe of Evan’s room, watching the silhouette of JJ sitting on the edge of the twin-sized bed. The room smelled like grass stains, laundry detergent, and the faint, lingering scent of the salt air JJ always seemed to carry in his skin.
"Dad?" Evan’s voice was small, muffled by the weight of three blankets and a stuffed shark.
"Yeah, kid?" JJ’s voice had lost its theatrical edge. It was low now, grounded and unusually steady.
"Are you really gonna float out to sea if I forget to kiss you?"
JJ chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. He reached out, his calloused hand smoothing back Evan’s messy blonde hair, pushing it away from his forehead. "Well, maybe not literally. I mean, I’m a pretty strong swimmer. But mentally? In my soul? Yeah, buddy. I’d be drifting. I'd be a Pogue without a compass."
Evan shifted, his eyes wide in the dim glow of the shark nightlight. "Why? It’s just a kiss. It’s kind of girly."
JJ went quiet for a second. He looked down at his hands—hands that had spent years learning how to build, how to break, and how to protect. He looked at the kid who was, quite literally, the best thing he’d ever been a part of.
"Listen to me, Evan," JJ said, leaning in closer. "Life is... it's a lot of noise, okay? It’s loud, and it’s fast, and sometimes it’s a little bit mean. Especially out there on the water, or on that field. You’re gonna grow up, and you’re gonna want to run out that door faster every single day. You’re gonna want to be the man, and you’re gonna think you don’t need the 'soft stuff' anymore."
He paused, his thumb tracing the line of Evan’s jaw.
"But that pucker? That's the anchor, kid. It’s my way of saying that no matter how fast you run, or how many goals you score, or how much the world tries to toughen you up... you’ve always got a safe harbor right here. It’s the one thing that says we’re a team. It’s the 'I got your back' before the world gets a swing at you."
JJ smiled, though there was a rare flick of vulnerability in his eyes that he only ever showed to you and the boy in that bed.
"Plus," JJ added, his smirk returning, "your old man didn’t always have a lot of anchors growing up. So I’m overcompensating. I’m making sure you’re so weighed down by love that you couldn't float away even if you tried. You’re stuck with me, Evan. Even when I’m embarrassing you in front of the varsity scouts."
Evan let out a sleepy, reluctant giggle. "You were really loud, Dad. Everyone saw your face."
"And it was a masterpiece of a face," JJ insisted, leaning down. This time, there was no drama, no shouting, and no puckered-out lips waiting for a response. He just pressed a quiet, lingering kiss to Evan's temple. "Goodnight, kid. Love you."
"Love you too, Dad," Evan murmured, his eyes already fluttering shut.
JJ stayed there for a moment longer, just watching him breathe, before standing up and quietly making his way to the door. He caught your eye in the hallway, and for a second, the "washed-up" Captain was gone, replaced by a man who looked like he’d just found a chest of gold at the bottom of the ocean.
He slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side as you both walked toward your own room.
"So," you whispered, nudging him. "Still feeling like you're drifting out to sea?"
JJ squeezed your shoulder, his grin lopsided and full of that classic Maybank charm. "Nah. I think I’ve got enough signal to stay on the map for at least another twenty-four hours. But tomorrow morning? You better believe I’m standing by that door. I’ve already started practicing my 'broken-hearted' face for when he hits middle school."
"You're impossible," you laughed, leaning your head on his shoulder.
"I’m a treasure, Yn," JJ corrected, kissing the top of your head. "A literal national treasure."
