***
On the way to school one day next week, we pass Fog City Bakery. The shop catches Abby in its tractor-beam scents of sugary sweetness and pillowy bread.
A sign on the glass beckons, and she moves trance-like to it. “Mun-kee,” she reads, sounding out the word. “Monkey bread!”
I clap a few times. “Well done.”
She tugs on my shirtsleeve. “That’s what smells so good. Can we get some?”
“Before school?”
She stares at me like she can’t believe I’d question her request. “Why not? It looks yummy and smells good.”
I peer through the doorway at the shelf of treats, zeroing in on the cinnamon-y, caramel-y pastry calling our names. My stomach rumbles. “It does look tasty, but you just had breakfast. How about we make monkey bread this afternoon?”
Her smile spreads across the city. “Deal.” We resume our pace. “But, Daddy, do you knowhowto make monkey bread?”
I roll my eyes. “I know how to research recipes and buy ingredients.”
She pats my arm. “You’re so smart.”
“So are you.”
When we reach the school, a dark-haired dynamo whirls into Abby from out of nowhere, smash-hugging my kid. “You shouldcome tomygymnastics class today,” the kid declares when she lets go.
My girl beams. “Sure, Gabriella!”
“It’s after school. My dad is taking me. Can you come with me?”
Abby swivels around. “Can I go? She said her class is doing balance beam, and I really love doing the beam. Please, please, please.”
And the monkey bread afternoon falls by the wayside. “Of course, little bear. But I bet you don’t have a leotard, so why don’t I drop one off for you after my yoga session?”
She snickers, then turns to Gabriella. “I call him Daddy Yoga, like Baby Yoda fromThe Mandalorian,” she whispers to Gabriella.
The little brunette giggles.
“Bring leotard, I will,” I say in my best Yoda voice.
Both girls laugh, but then Abby smacks her forehead. “I have a leotard! There’s one in my bag from my last class. And we can make monkey bread when I get home.”
“Seems you have the whole afternoon planned.”
Abby smiles proudly. “I do.”
Gabriella looks up at me and presses her hands together. “Mister Taylor, next time I come over, can I paint your toes again?”
I arch a brow. “Were you the culprit who made them pink and blue last time?”
A deep belly laugh comes from nearby, and I turn to the source of it—a guy in glasses with a thick beard. “She does drive-by pedicures when dads fall asleep.” The man extends a hand. “I’m Arturo. Gabriella’s dad. Good to meet you.”
As the girls scurry off to the playground before the bell rings, Arturo gestures to them. “Gabriella said she wanted Abby to come to gymnastics today. Is that cool with you? It’s kind of last minute, but I’ll take the girls.”
“Absolutely. I appreciate you doing that,” I tell him. “Let me know where to pick her up?”
He waves me off. “Nah. S’all good. I can drop her off when they’re done.”
“Works for me,” I say with a smile. “You’re a full-service dad.”
