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She pushes her sunglasses up and smiles. “Liam, hi!”
I give her a nod, then turn away to sign Legs in. I sit on the vacant chair furthest away from Debs and her posse, then unzip my niece’s backpack to get her water bottle and dance shoes.
Once she’s ready, I give her a hug. “You’re the brightest star in the room, my girl.”
“I know!” she chirps with all the wonderful confidence only an unjaded eight-year-old can have. She untangles her arms from around my neck and spots her friend Ruby across the room. She gives her a big, enthusiastic wave, then turns to me seriously. “You can go now.”
“You don’t want me to stay and watch?” I chuckle. I’m not hurt or offended.
Well, maybe a tiny bit.
She shakes her head. “Nope.” She pops the “p” and puts her hands on her hips sassily. “You can go do something else.”
Obviously there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for Legs—including participation in the studio’s annual daddy-daughter dance (an archaic tradition that’s non-inclusive of many modern family set-ups, in my humble opinion). But I’ve had a long day, and am vaguely relieved that I don't have to sit here for the next sixty minutes watching thirty children stand on their tiptoes and twirl off-beat.
Plus, I need to get out of this coffee-soaked shirt.
Plus plus, Debs looks like she’s making her way over.
I give Legs another hug and watch her skip over to Ruby, crossing my arms in a vain attempt to disguise the fact that I’m wearing my coffee.
“Coo-eee!” I hear Debs behind me. I make for the door at breakneck speed, almost tripping over my feet.
Once back in the vehicle, I slump in my seat and assess the damage.
Shirt status—ruined. Also, cold and sticking to my skin in the worst way.
Agitated, I slip it off and throw it on the passenger seat in a crumpled heap.
What now? I can’t very well sit outside a dance studio full of children while I’m half-naked. I am most certain there are laws against that. And if there aren’t, there should be.
I have fifty-five minutes to kill and I don’t feel like going all the way home, so I decide to stop by the office. I have a clean shirt there—a whole clean suit, in fact—and everyone should be long gone for the evening.
I turn the key in the ignition and pull onto the main road. It’s one of those glorious evenings where the sun is golden and warm, and the air is ripe with promise of summer. The traffic is even moving smoothly, for once.
I roll the windows down and enjoy the breeze circulating in the vehicle, cool against my bare skin. I may have my careful, precision-based routine that runs like clockwork, holds no surprises, and provides the people I love with everything they need. But there’s something strangely liberating about this unplanned moment.
Maybe there is some kind of method to Annie’s madness…
On a whim, I take a left. It’s not the way to the office, but I have time to kill. Driving aimlessly is spontaneous, right?
I bet she often drives with no destination, the windows cranked down.
I smile at the thought of her riding alongside me in place of my stained shirt, laughing as her hair blows in the wind.
She’d have the radio on, I’m sure.
I flip the car stereo back on. One Direction blares at top volume, right where they left off earlier. I stifle a laugh at the memory of my faux pas while explaining the lyrics to Legs. That girl is going to keep me on my toes these next few years, that’s for sure.
But now that she’s not in the vehicle and I’m no longer worried about her hearing anything her sweet little ears shouldn’t, I find that I don’t want to turn the song off.
In fact, I turn it up.
Tap my fingers on the steering wheel.
Fingers turn into whole hands. Hands turn into head nods.
The track ends and flips to the next on the playlist, and it’s another one I recognize. One I even know the words to. It’s the song about the girl not knowing how beautiful she is. Not knowing how much the guy wants her.
