Page 17 of Scouting the Single Dad

“Dad, this is serious.”

I groan. Once my daughter latches on to an idea, she’s like a dog with a bone, and there’s no stopping her. I have to give her something, or she won’t let it go.

“I don’t want anyone obsessed with social media.” Someone simple, I guess, if I was forced to choose. Quiet. Sweet. No one flashy, who spends tons of time on hair and makeup.

She caps the pen, satisfied. “This is extremely helpful to the committee.”

I pull into the parking lot behind a turquoise pickup that looks older than half the chairs on that porch. It’s piled high with hay bales, corn stalks, and every shape of pumpkin God ever carved on a bet.

The tailgate is held closed by bungee cords.

Barely.

Benny sees it the same time I do, eyes going wide as saucers. “That’s a lot of everything. It looks like steak stuffed into a hot dog casing.”

I laugh at her analogy. It’s one of her favorites.

“Festival supplies, obviously,” I say, rolling to a cautious crawl behind the old truck. “Give them space.”

Then, as if in slow motion, the bungee cord snaps.

The tailgate falls open.

An avalanche of small gourds begins its descent, at the same time several hay bales—that had been piled on top of one another—thump to the ground, split, and start shedding straw like golden confetti.

“Dad, Watch Out!”

Chapter 3

Layla

Hayes Fielder has arrived in town.

I heard about it from Phil Grimley, who heard it from Joe Blanchard, who heard it from Michelle Olson, the counselor at the high school.

My palms are sweating.

I wipe them on my jeans and give my father’s rickety old truck a pep talk as we rattle past the last stand of pines and into the lodge’s parking lot.

“You get me to the lodge, and I’ll buy you premium gasoline.” I lie smoothly because the truck cannot call me out on my bullshit later.

In the bed: a dozen hay bales, heirloom pumpkins, two bunches of corn stalks, and as many gourds as I could pile inside, along with a hand-painted sign that proclaims Pies! Axes! Hay! all held in by one tired bungee.

This load is headed for the welcome display downtown. I should’ve stopped at the hardware store for a ratchet strap; instead I said “It’ll be fine” like I always do. Famous last words.

The truck hits a dip.

Then a pothole.

Then a honk—long, urgent—behind me.

I glance in the rearview, and my stomach yanks straight through the seat. The tailgate has dropped.

Pumpkins and hay bales and who knows what else are falling onto the pavement in a grandiose explosion, the red pickup truck behind me laying on its horn.

“Shit!” Shit, shit shit!

The tired bungee dangles like a rubber noodle. Hay bales are now dumped onto the once-pristine parking lot, and in my side mirror I catch sight of a small, round pumpkin rolling downhill.