Page 83 of Scouting the Single Dad

Robotically I nod.

The door hushes shut behind her. I stand there a beat. Do the death march to the living room. Drop onto the edge of the couch, leave a polite inch of space, try to breathe past the rancid taste in my mouth.

Layla mutes the TV, eyes searching mine. “Everything okay?”

“She brought cheesecake,” I say, because small talk is easier than the truth.

A tiny smile. “That woman is a saint.”

“Mm-hmm.” I stare at the coffee table blankly, trying to think of something intelligent to say, but the only words playing on a loop in my brain are Skylar’s. My tongue won’t shape words.

From the kitchen, Benny barrels into the room, walking too fast for someone balancing a mug filled with marshmallows. “Okay, important update!” She stops, scans our faces, and grins like she’s solved world peace. “Yes, yes, I know I said I was going to jump in the shower, but Madison told me Ian Faulkner is moving to Florida. Florida! Can you believe it?”

I have no idea who Ian Faulkner is. “And do we like Ian?”

Benny scrunches up her face. “Absolutely not.”

Layla laughs. “You’re adorable.”

I sniff the air. “You stink—go take your shower and get your jammies on.”

My daughter rolls her eyes, beseeching Layla. “Will you tuck me in tonight? Dad tells the same lame jokes.”

Layla’s eyes crinkle at the corner. “I’d be honored.”

Silence again after Benny skips off. The washing machine timer goes off.

Layla tucks her legs up, hand sliding over my forearm. “Ian Faulkner,” she says, lips twitching. “Devastating loss.”

“I’ll be sure to send flowers,” I murmur, mustering a smile. Wondering what the fuck I’m gonna do.

She studies me for a beat, not pushing. “Want to start the movie, and then I’ll run up and check on her?”

I nod. “Sure.”

“I’m an excellent tucker, by the way.” Layla smiles, teasing. “I do voices. I do dramatic pauses. I do the special tuck so the blankets are extra tight at the foot of the bed so you feel like a burrito.”

“Burrito,” I repeat. “She’ll love that.”

Layla studies me a few moments before squeezing my forearm once and slipping off the couch. “I’ll be back,” she whispers. “Time for tuck tuck.”

I nod like my head isn’t packed with regret.

Upstairs, floorboards creak, and then I hear her doing a voice I don’t recognize, high pitched and too dramatic for bedtime, followed by a scandalized scream that can only be Benny’s.

A laugh. Then quiet, which can only mean they’ve calmed down and it’s time for lights out.

It’s so fucking domestic that it’s a gut punch right behind the ribs.

It knocks the wind out of me—how easy it sounds.

How normal.

Benny hasn’t had that kind of normal. Not in the way her friends do, with moms who drive them around and take them to the mall and braid their hair.

I mean, I try, but my hands are so fucking big.

Still, she has me, with my bad jokes. Take-out dinners. Fast food and DoorDash. The calendar with color-coded practice schedules and appointments that I split with the nanny.