I shake my head, trying to throw her off the scent, but realize I can’t lie completely. “I got talking to someone at the diner, that’s all.”
“That’s all? But you’ve been gone for hours! What did you talk about?”
“Nothing much. This and that. And I walked her home. Well, almost home.”
My sister’s eyes, hazel like mine, go wide. “Almost home? That’s not how I raised you.”
“You didn’t raise me. She was leery—rightfully so—of me seeing where she lives. So I … it doesn’t matter. I know the street she lives on and I made sure she got home all right.” I followed at a safe distance, then waited with a weird desperation for her confirming text. It came in within sixty seconds of her entering a three-flat brownstone, no more than four blocks from where I live.
Home safe and sound! I had fun :)
To which I’d replied, Glad to hear it. Good night. Not exactly the most sparkling of repartee, but an adequate answer for both statements. Glad she was safe and glad she had fun. Then I’d quit while I was ahead.
Chiara, detecting weakness as only a sibling can, leans in and sniffs. “Jesus Christmas, you kissed her!”
“You can’t possibly tell, you witch.”
“Sure I can. A faint hint of”—sniff—“gardenia and …”—sniff—“essence of …”—more sniffing that’s starting to piss me off—“frustrated male.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m so proud of you. You didn’t let this chick standing you up throw you off your stride. Back up on that horse!”
“Diner stool.”
A movement catches the corner of my eye and I look up at the light of my world. “What are you doing up?” Really I’m thrilled to see her. I scoot on the sofa to make room and my daughter slots in between us. She’s wearing PJ bottoms and a long sleeved tee that’s two sizes too big for her. It says “Can’t Hear You, I’m Gaming.”
“I heard voices.”
“From all the way up there?”
“Aunt Chiara has a high pitch.”
“Sounds about right.”
Lena curls her dark head into my shoulder. “So did you meet my new mommy tonight?”
If I’d been drinking, I would have done a spit take. My daughter peeks up at me, a mischievous grin on her face. She’s taking this dating thing remarkably well. Most kids want their parents to reconcile, but not Lena. She knows that Tori and I don’t work.
“No, I did not. I had a nice evening talking to … someone.” Someone I’d like to have sex with at some point despite my hints that I was interested in more. Why had I said that? She clearly would have let me take things further tonight yet I’d shut it down.
Harder to get back on that diner stool than I thought.
“Aunt Chiara says you’re lonely and that you need someone to listen to your emo grunting.”
“Did she now.” I make a face at my sister who sticks out her tongue. “How could I be lonely when I have you two occupying every minute of my precious free time? And are you saying you don’t like listening to my emo grunting?” Not sure I even know what that means.
Lena giggles, liking being part of the grown-up talk. “I don’t think you grunt in emo, Dad. That’s what Chiara thinks.”
“Oh, well, she’d know.”
“I would.” Chiara works with troubled LGBTQ+ teens, so she’s well-equipped to recognize the symptoms of teen moodiness, even if they’re manifested by a thirty-two-year-old man. “But we’ll put up with your moods while we wait for this sainted woman to take you on.”
She smiles at me over Lena’s head, and I’m filled with a great fondness for her. I know I’m not the easiest person to live with, especially as I’ve gone sex-free for over a year now and apparently my emo grunting proves it.
“Okay, kiddo,” she says, “you’ve got school tomorrow.”
“But I haven’t heard about Dad’s date.”
“She stood him up.”
Lena goes “aww” but she doesn’t look too cut up about it. She might be taking her parents’ divorce remarkably well but neither is she ready for me to get serious with someone else. One of the reasons I’ve been reluctant to dive back into the dating pool is because my girl needs to know she’s my number one. Dating has the potential to send mixed signals about her importance in my life.
She’s at a tricky age and has a strained relationship with her mom, which is completely Tori’s fault as she never fails to hide her disappointment that Lena isn’t “feminine” enough. So she’s a bit of a tomboy and doesn’t really conform to the girly-girl blueprint. I don’t care. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I will fuck over anyone who hurts her.
It’s crucial I get this life right because there’s no going back to my previous one. I’ve burned all my bridges in New York, become persona non grata, and now it’s Chicago or bust. Which means that Lena comes first, followed by my job. Nothing can screw that up because this is the endgame.
I’m pretty sure I’m going to call Cherry Pie, though. Our chemistry is impossible to ignore and that doesn’t happen often, at least not in my world. I can keep that on the down low—Lena doesn’t need to know every detail of what her father gets up to.
“Okay, g’night!” She stands and kisses us both, then heads upstairs.
When she’s out of earshot, I murmur, “Less of the detail about my dating failures, if you don’t mind.”
Chiara sighs. “She needs to know it’s a jungle out there.”
“Does she? Because I’d like to shelter her for as long as possible.” That seems easier to do away from New York and all the drama with my ex.
Chiara covers my hand with hers. “You’re doing the right thing, setting up here, putting down roots with us.” She amends, “Me.” She sounds so alone and I want to hug away her hurt, but she’ll turn brittle if I get too mushy. “Forget everything that happened in New York and just enjoy your freedom and all the perks that come from being a hot, single dad.”
That makes me think of Cherry Pie again, who seemed to get a kick out of my single dad status. Most women her age wouldn’t be interested in the reality of a guy with a kid, so I don’t hold out much hope that the perks of single dad-dom when it comes to dating will last longer than it takes to eat a slice of pie.
Five
Abby
Holy shit, I’m nervous.
Sam and I met for breakfast this morning at Fern’s before our first shifts at our respective firehouses to give each other a boost—and then I promptly threw up my scrambled eggs on toast in the bathroom. So not a great start to the day. Jude is already on shift at Engine 6, my new firehouse, and has been regaling us with texts for the last 24 hours, each more annoying than the last.
In no time at all, he’s gone from wide-eyed wonder—“the kitchen fridge is huge!”—to a blasé “just got back from a three-alarm fire over on Western. News crews were there.” Not even an exclamation point. Dick.