“Don’t worry, Dad,” I say softly. “She’ll be ready for your brand of entertainment before long. Now let’s go gorge on ice cream.”
“How about you?” he asks softly, his husky voice just loud enough for me to hear. “Are you ready for the brand of entertainment I have planned for you?”
I swallow back my nervousness audibly and don’t agree or disagree. I change the subject like a chickenshit. “I think I’m ready for ice cream.”
“Sure,” he says, smiling that wicked smile that reeled me in like a big mouth bass on day one. “I’ll let you have that play. For now.”
I make my way into the kitchen and feel Rick’s steps follow me. His heated gaze could burn a hole through the ass of my leggings, and the moisture pooling between my thighs reminds me that I will never not want him.
“Holy fu—” he bites out as he takes a look at all the crap Rachel and I bought at the store earlier when I was distracted. My lack of parenting skills is piled up on the island for all and sundry to see.
“Whoops,” I admit. “We might have gone a little overboard at the store earlier.”
“You think?”
“I was distracted, and the tiny powerhouse I birthed took advantage of me in a weak moment,” I protest.
“You’re the parent,” he grumbles, and it’s not quite loud enough for Rachel to hear, but all it takes is one look at her face to know her confidence with her dad is slipping.
“We have an audience,” I say out of the side of my mouth. “Smile.”
“So where do we start?” he asks our daughter.
“Ice cream,” she answers, clearly realizing his displeasure was with me and not her. I made a point to talk to her when he entered her life, and I told her that sometimes grownups disagree. It is never, notever, her fault and that no matter what, we both love her more than anything in this world.
“Sweet.”
“That’s the idea.” I wink.
“Mom likes half a banana in her bowl,” Rachel says, side-eyeing me. “I do not.”
“I would love to split a banana with Mom,” Rick says, snatching one up from the hammered copper bowl on the counter and peeling it with his nimble fingers. Fingers I know all too well what they’re capable of. He breaks it in half and hands it to me with a knowing smirk, the bastard.
I take it and break it into chunks with my hands before dumping them into my bowl. I scoop out my favorite chocolate ice cream, and Rachel passes me the chocolate syrup. We have created an art form over the years of ice cream sundae assembly. When we’re done, we high five each other with our spoons and then look at Rick, whose bowl contains half a banana and one scoop of plain vanilla. To be honest, I’m not even sure where the vanilla came from, because Rachel and I wouldn’t waste our time on that shit.
“That’s it?” I cry. The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“Uhh… no?” he asks before carefully shaking out three plain M&M’s into his bowl. Plain! I shake my head at him and then walk back into the living room.
We resume our places from earlier, and Rachel picks up the remote, pressing Play onPitch Perfect. We eat more ice cream than we probably should; well, Rachel and I do. I’m not sure Rick has ever had ice cream before. I hope his stomach can handle all that rich dairy and sugar. I cringe thinking he might have a long night ahead of him, but it doesn’t look like he actually ate more than the banana.
We laugh through the movie, even Rick. And I will admit, it’s one of my absolute favorites, and I love that my daughter loves it just as much. We sing along most of the time, but this time we both seem to enjoy Rick getting to see it for the first time. I wonder, not for the first time, what his life has been like since I left. I know he hasn’t dated, and I know he had never seenPitch Perfectbefore tonight. But I can’t help but wonder what he did for fun.
It’s late by the time the movie ends. Rachel is sprawled on the length of the sofa like a college coed after their first frat kegger. She does this so often on movie nights that it doesn’t even faze me anymore, but the look on Rick’s face when he notices her is one I will never forget. The way his face gentles, she brings out a softness in him that I thought was long gone. And if I thought he was sexy before, seeing him as a good dad is earth0shattering and devastating all at once, because he is everything we should have had if it wasn’t taken away from us like it was.
“Can you help me get her upstairs?” I ask. “She’s getting too big for me to carry anymore.”
“Of course,” he says, and I can hear him try to clear the emotion from his voice.
“Thanks,” I reply, leading the way up the stairs. I don’t look back to see him scoop her up like a newborn baby and hold her with all the reverence a first-time parent feels when they hold their child for the first time. I can’t. I know it will shred my heart, and I have to guard that organ fiercely so I can protect our daughter in the coming days.
I pull back the covers of her bed, and he gently puts her down, and I cover her up. I pretend not to notice when he lets his fingertips trail gently over the threadbare baby blanket with the little blue anchor stitched in the corner folded up next to her pillow. When he stands up, I smooth her hair back from her face and walk out of the room, flipping the lights off as I go. Rick stops in the doorway and looks back at our daughter, who is sleeping peacefully in her bed like she doesn’t have a care in the world. I’ve protected her from the monsters outside her entire life, and I would go to hell and back to keep her safe.
Failing is not an option.
I walk back downstairs and start gathering up bowls from the coffee table. I dump them all in the empty dishwasher and then start putting away our junk food fest in the fridge and cupboards. Rick silently helps. He doesn’t ask; he just dives in and starts putting things away. The task is done in no time at all, and now I’m left with a frustrated Rick, who is prowling like a tiger when I need to put distance between us.
“Well,” I start awkwardly, “thanks for the help.”
