“The sex is determined by the dad. I’m only giving the Y chromosome.”
Leighton rolls her eyes. Hayes is still talking to Lake in a quiet voice, but she doesn’t seem to be having any of it.
“Good luck, buddy.” Foster pulls out his wallet. “I’ve got twenty on him having five girls.”
“I’m in. But I bet one boy sneaks in there,” Decker says.
Hayes passes a twenty down to Foster. “I bet he’s got nine kids like his dad’s family and all girls just because he kept trying for that boy.”
Everyone laughs except Easton. “You guys are assholes.”
The lights dim a bit, signaling that the talent show is about to start, and we all quiet down. But when the lights go down completely and the spotlight hits the stage, my anxiety ramps up.
“You’re strangling your program,” Decker whispers in my ear.
“I am not.” I look at the program crinkled in my hands.
His light laugh reaches my ears.
The seat next to me is still empty. It’s not like my dad to ever say he can come and not show up, especially when it involves Hazel. He’s always reliable where she’s concerned.
Decker sits the way he does all the time—shoulders back, no indication of discomfort, perfectly at peace. He’s wearing a navy Henley and jeans. Nothing special, but still my body yearns to be touched by him.
“Stop stressing. She’s ready,” he says softly.
“I know she’s ready.”
“Then why are you?—”
“Because I’m her mother, and she’s seven, and she wants this, and I want this for her.” I stop and look at him. “What if…”
“She did it perfectly twelve times yesterday.”
“She did it twelve times in my backyard. Not on a stage with all her peers and parents watching her.”
“She’s gonna be fine either way.”
I widen my eyes at him.
“I’m just saying.” He shrugs.
The principal makes an announcement about the hard work all the kids have put in, then the show starts.
We watch two piano pieces, a magic act that involves a suspicious amount of parental assistance, two sisters do a dance routine, and Lincoln’s friend Micah plays the harmonica. His other friend, Bodhi, does a jump rope routine that’s truly impressive. I clap for all of them. Our row goes crazy for Monroe’s dance routine and Lincoln’s juggling with baseballs using his glove.
As the acts move on, my heart rate climbs.
When the principal announces Hazel, I nearly stop breathing. Decker’s hand slides into mine, and he squeezes.
The curtain at the side of the stage parts, and she walks onto the stage in the outfit we picked together—white shorts, the pink top I had to change from the sequined one she originally wanted after she decided the sequins interfered too much with the spinning hoop. Her hair is in the two braids Decker complimented when he came to walk us to the school, and she was pleased he noticed. She’s carrying the hoop at her side, and she surveys the audience with those serious eyes, I know she’s looking for us.
I raise my hand with the hopes she sees, and it sets her at ease.
She finds me in the crowd. Her eyes shift to Decker, and the anxiety slides off her face. Can I really be surprised he has the same effect on my daughter as he does on me?
The song she picked plays, the one I have heard approximately 473 times. As she starts the hoop, my breathing stops. I can hold it for the two minutes of her routine, I’m sure of it.
She’s good. I know this, I’ve watched it every night for weeks, but she’s good in a way that is different with the lights on her and music filling the auditorium. The waist rotation is clean, fluid. She looks like a natural. I’m already relaxing and ready to clap and whistle and jump up on that stage and hug her. Okay, I won’t do that, but I want to.
