“Period poops are pretty great, too,” Juliet adds.
“I don’t think this is a conversation for me,” I say, starting to rise.
“You’re a girl dad,” Lou says. “This is absolutely a conversation for you.”
“Hell, you’re pulling the Paige card on me?” I press a hand on my chest and pretend to be wounded.
“Lou’s right, though. What if she gets her first period when she’s here with you? Are you prepared for that?”
“She’s eight,” I protest.
“Yeah, well, unfortunately, girls can get their periods really early. Like, nine-years-old early.”
“I was eleven,” Lou announces. “I was mortified because I didn’t have much understanding of it. Then, when my mother taught me more about it, I was depressed about having to deal with it for a lifetime.”
“Irma taught me early,” Juliet says. “She took a more holistic approach that included moon cycles and tides. I can’t remember all of what she told me, but I knew not to be afraid of it.”
It hits me how beautiful it is that two women who come from vastly different childhood environments can become such great friends. I hope Paige finds that in someone someday. Fuck, I hope I do, too. Because I want the best life for my daughter, I sit and listen to every bit of advice these two give me about raising a girl.
Hormones. Relationship trouble. Being boy or girl crazy, which I sincerely hope never happens. I never want her main focus to be having a romantic relationship. I want to raise a strong, independent girl who knows that someone else cansupplement her life and happiness, but that her life and happiness don’t rely on somebody else.
We talk about how mean girls can be, which is epically different than how I remember boys being. We pranked and bullied in ways I’m not proud of, but the stories Lou and Juliet tell are downright mean.
“Once, a girl at school was having a party at her house. Nothing crazy, her parents were home and we were maybe fourteen. It was like an impromptu dance in her garage. The boy she liked had been chatty with me at lunch because we had a shared interest in Tudor history, which we’d been learning about in World History class. She didn’t like that, though. When I showed up at her house, she made a big show of having a gift for me, getting everyone there to watch as she gave it to me. I didn’t understand why she’d have gotten me anything, because we barely ever talked. It turned out to be a bouquet of dead flowers and weeds. She presented them to me like I’d just won Miss Teen USA,” Lou says. “Girls can be assholes. To this day, I hate getting flowers as a gift.”
“I bet she ended up with the boy, too, didn’t she?”
“No way,” I say.
“Yeah, she did,” Lou says. “I didn’t like him like that anyway, but it would have been nice to have him stand up for me as a friend. People suck.”
“People suck,” I agree.
“People can suck a bag of dicks,” Juliet adds, lightening the mood some.
“All right, ladies.” I stand, brushing the sand off my ass. “Thank you for the food and company, but I need to get busy. I’m going to move the punching bag into the garage so I canteach Paige how to throw a punch while she’s here this summer. Sounds like it will be a necessary skill.”
“Can I get in on that action?” Lou asks, sitting up straighter than the relaxed way she’s been lounging.
“Hell yeah, you can. Whenever you’re ready.”
“I appreciate it,” she says with a smile that shows more pain than it does happiness.
I nod, hoping that she reads my understanding before I walk away.
I don’t get too far when she stops me. “And, Grady, to answer your earlier question. Yes, I can see Stowaway as a place where I can grow roots.”
“You can have a crush on her,” Juliet says. “I mean, who wouldn’t? But you can’t push her.”
“Jules, I love you, but fucking hell, woman, how is it that you know nothing about me?”
Like she always does when she’s home for a visit, she wanders over to my house in the morning for coffee. When we were kids, she’d often come over for breakfast because Irma worked early hours.
“I’m not trying to be an asshole. I know you’re a good guy, Grady. You’re the best,” she says, pouring herself a second mug. “But I saw how you looked at her.”
“And how is that?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
No matter how careful I am not to stare at her too long or too longingly, I can’t help that I’m enamored.
