Page 98 of Scouting the Single Dad

Layla looks uncomfortable. “I know, but I’ve been gone for two days already and I . . .” She swallows. “I feel guilty.”

Benny’s mouth opens to protest. Closes. Finally, her face scrunches. “But tomorrow is so soon.”

Layla’s gaze flicks to her, then to me. “I know. I’m sorry.”

The moment hangs over all our heads, lingering until the toaster pops the bagel up, its springs surprising all of us like a jack-in-the-box.

“Are you sad?” Benny asks me suddenly.

I meet her eyes. “A little.”

A lot.

She turns to Layla. “Are you sad?”

“A little,” Layla admits slowly, taking the bagel plate when I slide it her way.

My daughter goes quiet, huffing. Thinking to herself, clearly stewing. “This is dumb.”

“What’s dumb?” I ask, for clarification.

“Grown-ups.”

Benny’s declaration makes Layla and me both laugh, but there’s something about the way her little shoulders pinch forward that sticks with me. She’s got her chin tucked down to hide the expression of hurt on her face.

“Grown-ups are dumb sometimes,” I agree, trying to keep it easy, light.

“Not sometimes. All the time,” Benny corrects, tearing her napkin in half and setting the pieces on the counter.

Layla’s smile falters. She leans over, smoothing a hand down Benny’s hair. “Hey. I know it feels unfair.”

Benny shrugs her off, eyes on Layla’s plate. “Whatever.”

She slides down from the stool, then trudges toward her backpack in the laundry room.

From the outside it looks like normal kid sulking—but I know my daughter’s tells. The way she huffs when she’s trying to hide tears, the set of her jaw when she’s deciding something without saying it out loud.

“I’m so sorry,” Layla begins. “I should have told you first before telling her. I should have—”

I come around the counter and move behind her, then rest my hands on her shoulders, leaning forward. “Hey. Don’t,” I murmur, thumbs kneading the tight lines of her traps. “We knew you were going to leave. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Layla nods, but her shoulders stay tense under my hands. In the laundry room, a cabinet bumps shut. Zipper teeth rasp. Too many sounds, too fast.

“Bens?” I call, checking the time. “Wrap up getting ready. We gotta roll soon.”

Silence.

Layla angles a look over her shoulder, worry tucking the corners of her mouth. “I’ll go talk to—”

“I’ve got it.” I squeeze once and head down the short hall to the mudroom.

No Benny.

The laundry room is empty too. Backpack is still hanging on its hooks on the wall. I could have sworn she came this way.

Nothing.

My pulse trips.