“You know, you’re just the person we need in this conversation,” one of the other moms, I’m ninety percent sure her name is Melanie…or Melody, says, and I do my best to hide my cringe.
“Sure, what can I do for you ladies?”
“Well, my husband just got this new sanding belt, and he swears he knows how to use it.” She rolls her eyes, and the other women giggle. “But—”
“Daddy!” I have never loved my daughter more than I do in this moment. I give the women an apologetic smile and turn to greet Livi.
“Hey, sweetheart. You all set to go?” I check.
“Yeah. You got here early today,” she says, and I know she doesn’t mean it to make me feel like an asshole, but it does.
I chuckle uncomfortably and ruffle her hair while she grins at me. She looks exactly like her mother with her pretty blue eyes and light blonde hair, hell even the shape of her cute button nose. If I didn’t know any better, it wouldn’t look like I had a part in her genetics at all.
“We built birdhouses, mine was the best. Most of the other girls didn’t even know how to hold a hammer,” she stage whispers the last part, and I laugh again, this time a genuine one. Yup, there’s where my DNA seems to have kicked in. The kid has been a pro with power tools since she was six.
“I’m sure they were happy to have someone with so much construction experience in their midst then,” I say, and she nods enthusiastically.
“Can we have pizza for dinner?” she asks. I sigh, but honestly cooking is the absolute last thing I want to do right now, so pizza sounds perfect. I’ll toss some carrots onto her plate too, so I don’t feel like the worst father on the planet.
“Sure, go get in the car,” I say, and she sprints for my car. “I’ll see you ladies later,” I call over my shoulder, glancing back to find Judy/Jody/Julie checking out my ass. Shudder.
Livi talks my ear off the entire drive home, telling me all the gossip about the other girls in her troop. Who knew eight-year-old girls had so much going on? Once we get home, I tell her to get started on her homework until the pizza arrives, and she only pouts for a minute before she dramatically drags her backpack to the kitchen table.
I pull out my phone to order dinner and then shoot a text to Val.
Everett: Parenting win for the night, she’s starting her homework without any kind of tantrum
Val: Wow, I’ll alert whoever’s monitoring for signs of the apocalypse
I smile and shake my head before closing the text thread and heading to my bedroom to get in a quick shower before the food arrives. As much as I’ve been dreaming about that bath, it’ll have to wait.
“I’m taking a shower. Don’t answer the door if the pizza comes,” I call out.
“I know,” she replies, and I swear I can hear her rolling her eyes from here. If she has this much attitude at eight, I’m not sure I’m going to be able to handle her teen years.
I crank the water up nice and hot and then strip out of my clothes, groaning as my muscles tug and stretch with every movement. Fuck, I could use a massage. I close my eyes and imagine a pair of strong hands on my back, working out all the kinks and knots. It only takes a few seconds for the G-rated fantasy to morph. Instead of a professional masseuse with their hands all over me, I’m lying face down in bed while they straddle me from behind and work their hands over my tight muscles, making it intimate instead of purely utilitarian.
I grit my teeth and shake off the image, sliding open the shower door and stepping inside so the water can wash away not only the sweat and grime of the day, but my errant thoughts as well.
It’s been five years since my divorce. and my right hand is the only action I’ve gotten since then. Actually, it’s been longer than that. Take Livi’s age, add nine more months and that’s how long it’s been since I’ve gotten off with another person.
The guys ask me about it constantly, why I haven’t dated, why I don’t seem to show any interest in getting back out there. Val asks too. I can see the guilt in her eyes every time the subject of her boyfriend comes up. But it’s not that simple.
I make quick work of soaping up and rinsing off, then I shut off the shower and hurry through drying off and getting dressed as well. As I pass through my bedroom on my way back out to the kitchen, I’m sorely tempted to flop down on the bed and call it a night. If Livi wasn’t with me this week I would probably do just that.
“How’s the homework coming?” I ask.
“Bad,” she says with a groan.
“Let’s have a look.” I pull out the chair next to her and have a seat so I can see what she’s working on. It looks like some pretty basic times tables, so I do my best to explain it to her.
“That’s not how Jeff told me to do it,” she argues.
“Then do it how Jeff told you to do it,” I say, waving at the paper in a be my guest gesture. I don’t mind Val’s boyfriend—I honestly don’t. And if Livi is so sure his way is the right way, I’m not about to argue with her.
After a few more minutes of frustration, she looks at me helplessly, and I patiently explain it my way again. This time she gives in and tries it, and I can’t help being a little smug that my way worked better.
She’s nearly finished when the doorbell rings. She dutifully makes a neat stack of her homework and pushes it to the side so she has room to eat while I answer the door and then plate her dinner. It looks like I’m out of carrots, so I add a handful of fresh green beans instead and pray for the strength to deal with a possible meltdown over something green on her plate.
“Do you hate Jeff?” she asks casually as I set her plate down in front of her.
“What would give you that idea?” I think back over the past few minutes, trying to remember if anything I said might’ve implied I don’t like her mom’s boyfriend. I don’t know the guy well, but I trust Val’s judgment, and if she likes him, I’m sure he’s a great guy.
Livi shrugs. “My friend, Lacy, her dad and stepdad hate each other,” she explains. “She said her dad calls him a dickhead.”
I nearly choke on the bite of food in my mouth.
“Liv, that’s a bad word.”
“Mom said the only bad words are the ones that hurt people’s feelings,” she argues.
“Trust me, if you call someone that, their feelings will be hurt.”
“But she also said words for parts of the anatomy are never bad,” she continues, digging in her heels, determined to be right. Yup, she got that one from her mother for sure.
“I think she meant the scientific terms.”
“What’s the scientific word for dickhead?” She cocks her head with so much damn innocence on her face I almost lose the battle against laughter. I bite the inside of my cheek to hold it in.
“Penis,” I answer. “And I like Jeff just fine,” I assure her, hoping to steer the subject back around.
“Do you still love Mom?” she pries, poking one of the green beans and wrinkling her nose before taking the cheese off the top of one slice of pizza and shoving it into her mouth.
“Of course, I love your mom. Just because we aren’t married anymore doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.” I give her the same answer I’ve been giving her since she was old enough to start asking about this stuff. Val and I divorced when she was only three, so I don’t think Livi even remembers when we were together. I get that it’s natural for her to be curious about it though.