Page 100 of Scouting the Single Dad

My phone buzzes—Hayes: Park’s empty. Heading toward the main road.

I stop in the middle of a long stretch with nothing but space between me and the mountains, empty lots on either side choked with cacti and creosote bushes. The desert looks gorgeous and carnivorous at the same time—thorned, sun white, full of places a small person could disappear. Coyotes sleep out there. Javelina trot across roads like they own them.

There are freaking rattlesnakes.

Fear spikes so hard I spin back toward the house.

Through the side gate—metal hot in my palm, latch sticking, gravel snapping underfoot. I round the corner into the yard, eyes sweeping. We didn’t check back here.

No time to breathe. I skim past the patio, don’t dare glance at the pool, and clock the clues scattered like breadcrumbs: chalk smeared across the pavers, a plastic dinosaur wedged by the fence post, Benny’s scooter toppled mid-flight.

“Benny?” My voice scrapes.

The yard is still. Too still. Until—there, at the far edge where the wall meets desert.

A tangle of bougainvillea. A burst of flowers hiding something bigger.

A playhouse.

Bright paint faded by sun, windows half hidden by vines, curtains breathing in and out like lungs. A tiny porch cluttered with popsicle sticks and juice pouches as if she’s set up a store. A place built for make-believe, fit for a princess.

I rush over. Pull open the door.

There’s a toy stove with plastic eggs in a pan, a stack of books, a desk with ribbons and brushes and jewelry on its surface. Blankets.

“Hi,” I breathe, the sound coming out in a sob.

Benny doesn’t answer, just pulls her knees up tighter under her chin. Her pretty little face is blotchy the way it gets when a person has cried so hard before deciding not to cry anymore.

I ease myself inside next to her. “Is this okay?”

A beat. Then she lifts one shoulder, not quite a shrug.

Invitation adjacent.

I text Hayes: Found her. We’re in the backyard, in the playhouse.

Hayes:

On my way

“Can I sit with you while we wait for your dad? We can not talk for a minute if you want.”

She wipes her nose with the back of her hand and moves several inches to accommodate my bigger size, shifting closer to the wall, hands still around her knees.

I keep my voice quiet when I say, “Thanks for letting me find you.”

She sniffles again. “I thought if I left, you wouldn’t.”

A dagger to my heart! In a short amount of time, this tiny human has pried open my chest with her little hands and laid her reality on the line.

I can feel it. The fragile truth of it.

I blink hard, doing my best not to show how jarred I am by her statement. How touched I am that she wants me to stay this much.

“We’ll talk about my leaving,” I say, and promise myself we will. After she’s in her dad’s arms. Not now. Not this second.

“Do you want to sit for a minute? Or should we head back slow and make your dad jog toward us so he feels important?”