Page 106 of Scouting the Single Dad

I am too tired even for those!

Faith:

Girl, it was like—a 3-hour flight.

Faith:

And you’ve been gone for what, four days?? Hello, I have shit to tell you and you have shit to tell me.

Yet another message comes through: What if you come here instead and we sit in the hot tub and drink wine??

My brows rise. Hmm. Hot tub and wine? That’s something I can get on board with.

It’s tempting. So tempting.

Hot tub and wine sounds like exactly the kind of steam I can handle and might help me get my mind off Hayes—not to mention, it might dull the ache between my thighs.

Me:

Alright. I’ll be home soon enough. Give me 2 hours to freshen up and get my life in order and I’ll be over.

Faith:

Yay! Perfect!

Once I’m finally home, I move on autopilot, letting small chores keep my hands busy while my brain idles.

Suitcase to the hallway where my washer and dryer are, I sort without thinking—jeans, tees, the dress that will forever smell like Arizona and decisions I don’t regret. I toss it all in, along with the swimsuit I wore when we had our steamy kiss in the pool.

The machine hums to life, water rushing.

Back to the dresser. I open the “summer” drawer and dig until my fingers find the Lycra. Pull out the ugly Speedo swimsuit I have shoved in the back and mostly wear for swimming laps at the community center. I hold it to my nose and discover it still smells like chlorine.

Hair up in a knot, I slick on ChapStick. Change out of my airport joggers and sweatshirt and into the swimsuit and a clean pair of joggers and sweatshirt. Ha!

Star Lake is misty and soft as I drive. Faith’s cottage sits right on the curve where the pines lean in to eavesdrop; her porch light glows warm through the drizzle. I skip the front door, cut down the flagstone path on the side of the house, and head straight for the back.

Steam billows over the cedar fence in lazy white ribbons. The lake lies beyond it, pewter and quiet, a single loon stitching a black thread across the surface.

“About time,” Faith calls without turning.

She’s on the deck in a chunky sweater and bare feet, already unscrewing a wine bottle like it personally wronged her. Two glasses wait beside a plate she has arranged by tearing the brownies into chunks and calling it rustic. Strawberries. Almonds.

All the trappings of a girls’ night.

“I brought a bottle too,” I say, lifting my bag.

“Excellent. Get in and let the bubbles fix our lives.”

I kick off my shoes, drop the tote, and peel out of my sweatshirt and joggers. Climb in, relishing how comforting the water is as I settle onto a seat beneath it, Faith sitting across from me, curls puffing in the mist, glass balanced on the ledge. We clink. Sip.

Say nothing for a full minute while the hot water does the first round of friendship therapy.

Faith breaks the silence first, tipping her chin toward the lake like it’s sworn to secrecy. “Okay, I’ll start with my news so you don’t have to jump straight into telling me whatever that glow on your face is.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s called jet lag.”

“Mm-hmm.” She takes a prim little sip, then can’t hold it. “I signed the papers.”