Page 16 of Scouting the Single Dad

“No. Change it to a conversation about, I don’t fucking know. Christmas lists and shit.”

“Dad—language.”

Shit. “Sorry.”

But she is totally unbothered. “It’s already pinned in my contacts. Nana made a Google Form.”

“A Google Form?” I am going to kill my mother. “For what?”

“Application for the position. Questions include ‘Do you return your cart at the grocery store?,’ ‘Biggest pet peeves?,’ and ‘How do you feel about having more kids?’”

“Oh my God. Please tell me you’re joking.”

She shakes her head no. “There’s a short-answer section about boundaries.” She reaches over the center console to pat my arm. “Your broody brand is safe with me.”

We roll under the wooden Star Lake Lodge sign, and I pull into a spot beneath a maple tree. Before either of us moves to take off our seat belts, my daughter angles her body toward mine. Rests her knobby elbows in the space between us.

“Talk to me, Benny. Why would you put that on your list?”

Her eyes flick to the windshield, to the lake beyond it. She shrugs her little shoulder. “’Cause. I just . . . like thinking about you laughing, that’s all.”

Thinking about you laughing.

“I laugh.” I frown.

Benny snorts. “You’re a lot of things, Dad, but giggly isn’t one of them. Which is fine—you’re the best.” She takes a breath. “And also, I’m fine. I don’t need a mom. I have you and I have Nana and I have Coach Jen and Madison’s mom and my brain and stuff. I just . . .” Her sentence trails off. “It would be like having extra whip cream, you know? Optional but nice.”

Optional but nice.

“Benny, I love you, but I do not want any ambushes. No scheming. We’re here for two days, and I don’t need my child staging a parent trap in the beer tent.”

“I would never,” she says. “The beer tent isn’t my style, and I’m underage.”

Duh. “I’m serious, Ben. No accidental bumping me into some woman on the dock that sends her tumbling into my arms. No slipping my number into a raffle jar. No switching spots during the hayride so I’m sitting next to someone single.”

“Wow, Dad.” She clicks her pen and begins scribbling. “You thought of better schemes than I did.”

Fuck.

She settles back, pleased with this entire conversation. “Can I ask one question, purely for science purposes?”

I give her a side-eye. “Proceed with caution.”

She clicks her pen again. “What’s your type?”

“She has to like you,” I say. “Everything else is extra whip cream.”

Benny smiles, liking that answer. “Optional but nice,” she approves.

We crest the hill and the lodge opens up on our right like a movie set—wraparound porch, warm light smudging the windows, a carved bear in a scarf guarding the steps. Banners flap. A gust of wind chases leaves across the asphalt like they’re trying to race us to check-in.

Benny leans forward in her seat belt. “Okay, one last question. And then I’ll stop.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—I’ve heard that before, but go.”

“What do you not want in a girlfriend?”

“I don’t know, Benny. I haven’t thought about it.”