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“Chloe!” I yell through the closed door when the volume doesn’t descend to non-rock-concert levels immediately. “Open up!”
The heart-shaking music finally drops in intensity, and a few seconds later, the door swings open to my beautiful daughter’s repentant face. “Uh, hey, Dad. Music too loud?”
I shake my head with a smile and a laugh. “I’ve only just started to bleed from my ears.”
“Sorry,” she apologizes with a giggle.
“It’s fine. I mean, when I go deaf in about five years, you’ll only have your music to blame. But it’s perfectly fine.” I grin, and she just rolls her eyes on another giggle.
I reach forward and tug on the end of her long ponytail. “And it’s time to come down for dinner anyway.”
Something rings on the screen of her iPad, which is propped up on its stand on the desk, and we both look behind her to the source of it.
“Okay, Dad,” she agrees, walking swiftly toward the tablet. “Let me just answer this call from Hailie and tell her I’ll call her back, and then I’ll be down.”
I look at the screen harder, trying to make out the image there. It doesn’t look like Hailie at all, and I’m instantly confused.
“Uh, Chlo?” I prompt.
“Yeah, Dad?”
“Is Hailie dressed like a chicken or something?”
“What?” she asks, turning her head to face me, the screen still ringing.
“I know you said it’s Hailie, but it looks like a guy dressed like a chicken to me.”
She looks back to the screen and bursts out laughing, grabbing her stomach so hard she almost falls to the floor when she glances back at me.
“What?” I ask.
“Oh my God, Dad. That’s not Hailie. That’s my screensaver of Conan O’Brien dressed as The Crazy Rooster!”
Her laughter rings out in peals as she finally does something to answer the call, and a camera screen pops over the man-chicken, putting Hailie’s face in the window.
Ohh.
“Oh my God,” Chloe squeals again, immediately inciting a whirlwind of excitement from her best friend. “My dad just confused you and Conan O’Brien!” she yells toward the screen, and I take that opportunity to make my exit with a roll of my eyes.
“Two minutes, Chlo,” I remind her, and she turns around to nod as I’m shutting the door, still laughing so hard she can hardly breathe.
Jesus, I think to myself. Some days I convince myself that forty is still young. And then, moments like this make it painfully obvious just how old I’m actually getting.
I’m halfway down the stairs on my way back to the kitchen when my phone vibrates in my back pocket.
I pull it out and look at the screen.
One new message: Heather
Ah, the lovely Heather. A flight attendant with an irregular route, she’s been one of the easiest women to meet up with without complication as of late.
She comes into town, we get together if it works out, and then she goes back on her way without any hurt feelings on either side.
I click the box to open the message and see what she has to say—and to remind myself that I’m not exactly dead and buried yet.Heather: Hey, handsome. In town tonight only. Want to get together?Ah, tonight only. I hum to myself before typing out a message in response. Shame.Me: Can’t tonight, busy. Maybe next time.I have a strict rule when it comes to easy sex, and it’s that I never put it ahead of my daughter on my list of priorities. I fit it in where I can, when I can. But I never cancel even the smallest of moments with my daughter to do it.
If she’s busy with friends or otherwise occupied, okay. But spending time with her is more important than any random fuck will ever be.
I make my way back to the kitchen and take off the lid to the pot of rice to combine it with the chicken when Heather responds.
I scan the message quickly, but I don’t feel any guilt or disappointment.Heather: ? Okay. Next time!I close the message and toss my phone onto the counter to free up my hand for an oven mitt.
A few clicks turn the oven off, and I’m just pulling open the door when Chloe bounces into the room, still feeling the high of my dad-moment-of-confusion. Her amber eyes are so alight they almost look gold, but after one look at my face, she decides to keep any more commentary to herself. Instead, we both turn our attention to the food.
“Oh yeah,” she celebrates as I pull the chicken out of the oven. It’s my special recipe, developed over many, many years with the help of no cookbooks at all, and one of her favorites. “Heck yes!”
“Excited?”
“More than K-Poppers when BTS drops a new album! Your chicken and rice is fire, periodt.”
“Chlo, you know I don’t know what you just said at all. Please, help your dad out by using English.”
