Page 13 of Dancing in the Dark

Exhaling a tired sigh, I quickly swipe to my inbox and find a message from the same contact I’ve received dozens more over the last few weeks.

I need you to collect an envelope from City Hall on Monday. I’m paying $5k if you get it done before noon. Text me when you’ve got it.

The toilet flushes, and a second later, the faucet turns on. The towel rail squeaks to announce Mia’s drying her hands, then the door swings open so the hallway illuminates from the harsh, bright bathroom light.

She flicks it off and pads into the hall. Then bang. “Ouch!” She crashes into the wall. “Daddy?”

“Follow my voice, baby.” I don’t bother replying to my text. I simply lock the screen and tuck my phone under my pillow, then pushing up on my elbows, I watch my doorway and wait… wait… wait. “This way, Moo. Be careful you don’t hit the wall again.”

Her playful giggle works overtime to mess with me. Dread, because that giggle means she’s wide awake and probably not going back to sleep anytime soon. And elation, because hearing her happy is basically the only thing I live for these days.

“Daddy?”

“In here, babe.” I draw her closer with my words and grit my teeth as she slams her shoulder against the door frame, then as she stumbles because, of all the places she could step, she steps on my discarded boot and risks toppling to her butt. “Be careful.”

“You left your shoes in the middle of the floor, silly!”

I can tell the exact moment her eyes readjust to the darkness, because wariness makes way for excitement, and hesitance is swapped out for a gallop. She races across my room and jumps onto my bed, her bony knees slamming against my shins and promising bruises for tomorrow. But then she dives straight into my arms, her chest crashing against mine, and her perfect hair tickling my nostrils. “Hi, Daddy! I had to pee, and now I’m all awake.”

“You need to learn how to pee with the light still off. It’s too bright, and that’s why you wake up so much.”

“But if I don’t have the light on, I might miss.” She straddles my lap, wrapping her arms around my neck, and presses a breathy kiss to the tip of my nose. “What if I miss, Daddy? I would get wee everywhere.”

“How can you possibly miss?” I chuckle. “You sit on the toilet, which makes the whole thing pretty foolproof. Come on.” I twist, like I do every other night, whip my sheet up and deposit her on my mattress on her side. I make her my little spoon, because this is how she sleeps best. “You need to try to go back to sleep, okay? It’s still the middle of the night, and we have a big day tomorrow.”

“It’s Aubree’s birfday party!” She burrows back against my chest, scooting impossibly closer and dragging my arm across until it becomes a kind of seat belt lashed across her chest. “Are you so excited for the party, Daddy? I wonder if there’ll be cake?” She hums her appreciation. “I love cake.”

“I bet there will be.” I exhale a tired sigh and focus on bringing the energy dowwwn in here. She wants to talk about parties and baked goods. I want her to count sheep. “But unless you go back to sleep, and stay asleep all the way until the sun comes up, we won’t be able to go to the party.”

She gasps and turns rock hard. Like that somehow convinces me she’s resting. “I’m gonna go back to sleep, I promise.”

“Good. We can talk about Aubree’s party after you sleep.” I press a kiss to the back of her head. “Goodnight, baby.” A second kiss. “Sweet dreams.”

She remains stock-still for an entire minute, which, to her, probably feels like an hour. She fakes a soft snore, and when that minute is up, she wriggles within the cocoon of my arm.

“Hey, Daddy?” Slowly, carefully, she turns over and draws her knees up, almost nailing me in the junk with the bony tips, then she brings her hand up and plays with the small thatch of hair on the center of my chest.

She does it blindly and without really thinking. She does it when something big weighs on her mind.

Pulling back, I try to find her in the dark. “Yes, Mia Moo Moo Fletcher?”

She snickers, soft and watery and just aching enough to set my gut on fire. Then she asks, “Are you mad at me because I didn’t dance on the stage the other night?”

“Absolutely not. Daddy would never get mad at you for something like that.”

“But you paid for my costumes. Again,” she sighs. “And you paid for me to enter the recital. And then you practiced wif me every single night so I would know all the steps.”

“Still doesn’t mean I’m mad.” I inch closer and press a kiss to the tip of her nose. “Never ever.”

“But I frozed up,” she sniffles. “And then I cried, because I’m a big baby sometimes.”

“You’re five years old, Moo. Even grown-ups cry sometimes. It’s allowed.”

“I’m sorry for wasting your money. And for wasting the costumes. And for begging you to let me enter the recital anyway, but then wasting it all.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.” I bring my hand up and cup her sweet, still-chubby cheek. “Do you want to dance?”

She nods.