Page 7 of Tastes Like Summer

“We made a bunch of these bracelets in arts and crafts today. So I made us matching ones.”

We’re stopped at a red light as Rachel lifts her hand from the backseat and shakes it, her grin wide. Twisting in my seat to take the bracelet she made for me, I smile a goofy, proud smile.

My fingers run over the bracelet’s bright beads before stretching it over my hand, letting it snap against my wrist. It’s a snug fit, but I don’t tell her that.

“It’s beautiful, kid. Thank you.” The light turns green, and my eyes turn back to the road. “I’m glad you enjoyed your first day of camp.”

Since jumping into my truck at pick-up, she hasn’t stopped talking about it. About how much fun she had, about all the friends she made. About the ones she reconnected with, apparently (i.e. that woman Diana’s daughters).

Despite that last tidbit, I think Thank god. Because as a relatively new parent, I struggle with this internal battle of wondering whether I’m doing right by her 24/7. For so long, I was nothing more than a glorified sperm donor. But things are different now. I want to be here for her. I want to make sure she’s getting all the love and support she needs in life. And I want to be the one doing it.

I grin down at my new bracelet. “I love it. I’m never taking it off.” And I mean it. I’ll wear it ’til the elastic snaps.

I glance at her beaming face, so much like her mother it hurts. Her large crystal blue eyes, round and wide in excitement as she tells me about her day, long blonde hair a mess, remind me of what Jessie looked like when she was exactly her age. But when my scan of her face leads me to notice her ski-jump nose looking more red than pink, I frown.

“Did you reapply sunscreen throughout the day?”

“I… I don’t remember. Maybe?”

I frown, narrowing my eyes at the road ahead of me. “Might need to talk to the camp counselors. Remind them they should be taking better care of you. That they should be doing their job. Especially with all the time you guys spend in the pool.”

I grunt in frustration because deep down, I know it’s my fault.

Here I go again, fucking up this whole parenting thing.

“I’m sorry. I promise I’ll remember tomorrow.” Her voice is low and small, and it makes me feel sick to my stomach.

“It isn’t your fault. It’s mine.”

“But you’re mad.”

“At myself,” I admit with a sigh.

“Why?”

I shake my head, trying to find the words to make a nine-year-old understand something I’m only now beginning to learn. “Because I didn’t stop and talk to the people in charge. Because we were late, and I didn’t think…” I sigh again. Because I’m a fucking dumbass who prioritized work over taking five fucking seconds to make sure his daughter was taken care of. Working out which dishes would best go on the menu to my restaurant shouldn’t have ever come first. “I just didn’t think. But it’s fine. I’ll fix it tomorrow.”

She groans. “Michael.”

I wince again. It’s not like I expected her to call me Dad overnight. How could I when she didn’t even know that’s who I really was until nine months ago, when her mother died. But, despite taking on the parental role after Jessie’s death, I’ve somehow been demoted from Uncle Michael—her favorite, her pal, her mother’s best friend—to just plain and simple Michael.

My heart twists in my chest and I wince, trying not to think about last year or how devastated Rachel was. How, at thirty-four, I suddenly found myself the parent and sole guardian of a nine-year-old. The confusing time we both went through as we tried to navigate our new dynamic, as she had to process the truth: I was her father and she was coming to live with me. That Jessie had left her in my care, and care for her I would.

“I don’t want you whining, Rach. I need to make sure you’re safe. If they can’t manage to remember to do something as simple as put sunblock on my kid, then we’ll have to pull you out and find you somewhere new for the summer.”

“What? No! I’ve only been there for a day and already made new friends!”

Part of me deflates in relief, so fucking happy she’s happy, that she’s having a good time. But another part of me remembers that having a good time doesn’t always mean you’re being safe. I would know, after all those years of long nights at work, compensating for the stress with copious amounts of alcohol, drugs, and random sex. Sure, comparing my debauchery to a day camp for kids is a stretch, but the principle remains the same, doesn’t it? At least when it comes to my daughter.

“I’m happy you’ve made some friends, but I still want to make sure you’re okay,” I tell her in as comforting a voice as I can manage.

Rachel huffs and looks out the window, argument settled.

Neither one of us breaks the silence as we make the drive to my farm. She ices me out, while I fight the urge to break down and capitulate, to apologize on my knees. For what, exactly? I’m not sure. I only know that seeing her upset is like a knife in the chest, and I’d do anything to make her happy.

It’s only when I turn onto the farm’s gravel road that I speak up: “Do you want Lexi to make you lunch while I work?”

Gaze still focused out the window, Rach lifts her small shoulders in feigned indifference.