AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I need to hold my shit together. Nothing can happen between the two of us, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, like she suggested. Granted, I don’t have many good friends and no women friends to speak of. But Tabby is so young, and right after Sonya died, I didn’t have the emotional capacity to do much more than play hockey and be a single dad. When I finally came out of the first dark days, it was easier to keep it that way. Between my teammates and raising my young daughter, it left little time for hanging out with the boys or dating.
Did I miss that stuff? Sometimes. Tabby is my world, though. It was a small price to pay.
Still, June could have a point. Friendship between us would be better for Tabby. If this is going to be successful, we need to figure out a working partnership—and I need to find a way to be friendly and keep my hands to myself.
I open the lid on the Styrofoam container of yogurt, and I do my best not to think about the woman who brought it for me.
June
Afterweleavethepractice facility, I take Tabby grocery shopping with me. Last night, Duke ordered in. He mentioned he has a food service he uses during the season, but that doesn’t sound that healthy. It’s probably one of those fancy ones, but the food isn’t homemade. I contacted Ms. Raybourne, and she forwarded me a breakdown of food requirements for the team. I spent the day planning menus for us. We pick up the ingredients on our way home.
Besides, a thrift store is in the same shopping plaza as the grocery store. I want to check it out, and we should have enough time before Tabby’s dance class to do both.
When I’m loading my purchases into the Range Rover, I notice how nice it is to have a larger trunk space. I also figure out how to connect my phone’s Bluetooth to the speakers, and I let Tabby choose songs to listen to on the ride home. Back at Duke’s house, a quick button press has the rear hatch lifting. It’s easy to unload everything.
Maybe having access to the Range Rover will be nice for some things.
By the time I put the groceries and my thrift store purchases away the best I can, it’s time to get Tabby ready for dance class. As we’re leaving, I notice my car is back in the driveway with what appears to be new tires, so I move Tabby’s booster seat over. We take it to dance, and I have to admit my car sounds much better after some attention. Still, I try not to notice how crappy it is compared to Duke’s Range Rover.
On the ride, I ask Tabby about her day, but she’s not very excited to talk about her time at school. I noticed the same thing last night when Duke asked her about her classes and teacher. She clams up. I allow her to drive the conversation. Something about a new game they played on the playground and a boy she beat in a foot race. But the closer we get to the dance studio, the quieter she becomes.
Duke sent me directions with a pointed request that I text when I arrive. Yesterday, I would have interpreted that as pushiness, but now I think he might just be a big worrywart.
The trip is uneventful, so I take a picture of Tabby walking up to the dance studio entrance, her bag hanging on her shoulder and her head down. I send the image to Duke.We made it.
We’re early because I know nothing about how to put on her shoes and figured I would need the extra time. One of the other moms rescues me. She gives me the instructions on how to do it as I watch so I can help Tabby the next time. Tabby remains silent through the entire ordeal, only staring at the floor with a mixture of apprehension and dread. I don’t understand what’s going on, and I don’t know what to ask her. At last, she joins the other girls as her instructor starts them through some sort of jazz warm-up.
Tabby skips along with her friends, and I assume her stiffness is because of her characteristic shyness. But by ten minutes in, she hasn’t loosened up. At the twenty-minute mark, she’s gone from stiff to agitated. At the end of the thirty-minute session, her face is a picture of relief.
She takes off her jazz shoes and puts her sneakers back on, plodding along next to me, back to the parking lot. Once she settles in the backseat in her booster, I head for her house. “So,” I begin. “How long have you hated dance lessons?”
Her eyes become as big as quarters in my rearview mirror. “What? I didn’t say I hated it.”
I chuckle. “No, but I’ve seen people go to dentist appointments with more joy than you just tackled that dance lesson.” She drops her head, staring at her hands. “How long have you been dancing?” I ask, trying again.
“I started in the spring.” Her voice is small. If the radio was on, I might not have heard her.
My eyebrows lift as I glance back at her again in the mirror. “The spring? So, you’ve been taking lessons for about six months?” She nods. “If you don’t hate it, then how do you feel about?”
She shrugs her small shoulders. “It’s fine.”
“Dancing? Dancing is only fine?” I can’t keep the incredulity from my voice. Dancing is one of my favorite things. I’ve never been good at it, but that’s never stopped me. “Dancing’s the best.”
“I like to dance.” Tabby finally says. “But that kind of dancing is just boring.” When I lift my brows in question, she continues. “There are so many rules.” She sighs as if the weight of the world is on her shoulders. “Something that’s supposed to be fun shouldn’t have that many rules.” She shakes her head. “It was my Nana’s idea, though. My mom used to dance, I guess.”
She must have run out of steam because she doesn’t say anything else.
We drive along in silence. I read somewhere about Duke’s wife. There’s not much out there about her. Only that she died not long after Tabby was born. “There’s no rule that we need to like the same things our parents like, you know.” More than anyone, I know that. My mother’s favorite things were gin, avoiding work, men who treated her like crap, and heavy eye makeup. We certainly aren’t the same. “Have you told your father that you’re not really enjoying it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Again, the small shrug. “I don’t want to bother him.”
In the rearview, she isn’t looking at me. She’s staring out the window. I can only see her in profile, but I recognize the stubborn set to her jaw. I’ve seen it on her father’s face a few times already.
“I think your dad will want to know this,” I tell her softly, trying to figure out how I’ll be able to help her with this. I don’t understand the dynamic between father and daughter, and after our conversation last night, I’m not sure how to bring this up to Duke. But there’s no reason that a young girl should have to take lessons she doesn’t enjoy. After six months, she knows for sure how she feels about it. Most of all, communication is the foundation for every relationship—parental or otherwise. “What activities do you like to do, then?”
