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I’d like to meet my daughter, get to know her. I know I don’t have the right to demand that from you, but I’m asking, Mia. Please.
You can contact me on this email, or at the phone number in my email signature.
Colin
I lie back on the couch and stare at the ceiling. The worst thing about getting that email is the reminder that Colin isn’t a bad man. From the start, he was clear with me that he didn’t want children. When I got pregnant, that didn’t change. He wasn’t nasty or cruel or abusive. He just signed away his rights, and that was it. Our split was devastating for me, but relatively amicable. He didn’t want kids, and I discovered I did.
It was awful in the simple finality of it. I was pregnant, heartbroken, and alone.
How could I refuse him the right to meet his own daughter?
Answer: I can’t.
Hauling myself off the couch, I leave my now-cold tea behind and pad to Bailey’s room. She cracks her lids open when I peek through the door, and I find myself slipping through the doorway. I climb into bed beside her and wrap my daughter in my arms, holding her tight.
“Are you okay, Mom?”
“Just needed some snuggles,” I whisper.
Bailey squeezes me in response and promptly falls asleep. I watch her steady breathing for a while, combing my fingers through her dark-gold hair, counting the fine, long eyelashes resting against her cheeks. She’s so perfect. My precious daughter, growing up faster than I ever thought possible.
Later, when I finally feel my lids getting heavy, I untangle myself from my daughter’s limbs and head for my own bed. The sheets are cold, and the moonlight sneaks past the edges of the blinds. I fall into that space just beyond the shallowest edge of sleep, and my mind fills with familiar images.
Bailey, a few months old, colicky, crying and crying and crying. A shadowy figure coming to take her away, accusing me of not being able to care for her. Running and going nowhere, my feet stuck in a sticky black substance. Being so awfully alone, screaming, searching for my child.
I bolt awake, drenched in sweat. My whole body trembles as I claw the covers off my body, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. I gulp down deep breaths, trying to clear the images from my mind.
I haven’t had that nightmare in many, many years—but it seems it still has the same effect on me. Scrubbing my hands over my face, I leave the bedroom with its unfamiliar shadows. I can’t quite resist checking on Bailey, and I find her sleeping peacefully. The kid could sleep through an air raid siren.
The clock on the microwave tells me it’s nearly three o’clock in the morning. I dump my old peppermint tea and make a new mug, then sit back on the couch, spreading the fluffy blanket over my lap.
My fingers have a mind of their own; they lead me to the Blind Date app. Maybe I just need some distraction and thinking of going on a date is sufficiently terrifying so as to brush away the last sticky cobwebs of my nightmare.
NaturalBlondie:How will I know it’s you on Friday? You’ll have to tell me what you’re wearing.
To my surprise, I get a response right away.
TallDarkandHandy:If you want to know what I’m wearing, all you have to do is ask.
A flush creeps over my cheeks. This is a new kind of tenor to our conversation. Nothing has been even slightly sexual between us so far, but… Yes, this is good. Flirting, teasing…that’s a good distraction.
NaturalBlondie:What are you wearing?
NaturalBlondie:And why are you awake?
TallDarkandHandy:Dark-gray sweatpants and socks. And I couldn’t sleep. Too excited about our date.
Yeah, right.It’s just a line, but it still makes me smile to read it.
TallDarkandHandy:Your turn.
For a moment, I allow myself to picture a man wearing gray sweatpants and socks…and nothing else. Unfortunately, I have no idea what my mystery date looks like, so the face that pops into my head is Desmond Thomas.
He would look sexy as hell wearing nothing but sweats and socks. That big, muscular body with coarse, curly chest hair and bumpy, solid abs. I can just imagine a trail of dark hair disappearing behind the elastic waistband of his sweats. Des is solid everywhere, muscle on muscle on muscle. I could curl up into a ball in the crook of his arm and feel completely protected by his warmth, his size.
Mentally slapping myself, I refocus on the man on the phone. There’s no way he’s as hot as Des. Literally no way. I’ve never metanyoneas attractive as Des (the jerk) so imagining him right now is pointless. And counterproductive. I don’t even like him.
Maybe TallDarkandHandy is solid and muscular from working on his hands, but a bit soft around the edges. That can be sexy too. A big bear of a man.
