by Claire Adams
“You’re saying I can hit you.”
“Yeah. Wherever you want. Well, maybe not the balls. Go on. Punch me in the face if you want. I’m ready.”
He didn’t say anything right away, and I thought he wasn’t going to do it. At least I had offered.
But then he spun around and caught me right on the cheekbone with a thunderous right hook. Any harder and my cheekbone probably would have cracked; as it was my head snapped to the side and I felt something in my neck pop, though that sensation wasn’t entirely unpleasant. The whole left side of my face though, felt like it was on fire. A giant pulsing white hot fire. My initial instinct had been to fight back, but I clenched my jaw and stood there, not doing anything. My eye started to water. Jonathan flexed and released his fist.
“Jesus,” I said, half-expecting him to jump on me and start hitting me again, but he didn’t. “That’s some fucking arm you got there.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve been working out, remember? That’s where I met Daisy.”
Touche.
“Thanks, though,” he said. “That did make me feel a little bit better.”
“Well,” I said, bringing my hand up to the side of my face and gingerly touching my cheek. “Now that you’ve got that out of your system . . .”
“I’ve been giving it some thought, though, and I think it’s time for me to move on.”
“Move on? From the company?”
“From the company, from the city, from this state. Maybe even the entire country. I don’t know. I want a change. Not just a change of job, but a complete change of environment. I think it would probably do me some good.”
“Okay,” I said, nodding, though I wasn’t quite sure what to think about the whole thing. My cheek was still throbbing. “It sounds like you’ve thought it through, so I’m certainly not going to try to change your mind. And hey—maybe it would be good.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe it will.”
That night, Daisy came over and we ordered take out because neither of us felt like cooking. I told her about my conversation earlier with Jonathan.
“So just like that, he’s leaving?” she asked.
“Just like that.” I pulled one of the cartons out of the paper bag and opened it. “I think this one’s the kung pao chicken.”
She peered into the container. “Yeah, it is. Wow. That surprises me. About Jonathan.”
“I know. I was surprised too.”
She looked at me, a piece of chicken held in between the two chopsticks. “Was this before or after he hit you?”
“After. Pretty much immediately after. I let him hit me though. Just so we’re clear.”
“Yeah, I’m still not quite sure I follow the logic in that one.”
“It was sort of . . . cathartic for him, I think. It’s not like we got into some sort of crazy brawl or anything. Which is what I think he wanted to do at first. So we talked about the whole leak thing, and then he hit me, and then he seemed to feel better and told me that he was going to be leaving. He didn’t say where he was going, though.” I shrugged. “Maybe it’s for the better. I know I’m going to have to eventually talk with Martin, and have to listen to him tell me I told you so, in regards to whose side the leak came from.”
“It might be better that he leaves,” Daisy said. “You wouldn’t be able to completely trust him again, would you?”
I shrugged as I opened up another container, this one containing egg rolls. “You know what’s weird is that I feel like I still could. Even after all that stuff he said, I still feel like if he wanted to stay, that we’d just move past this. But if he wants to go, I’m not going to stop him. It does kind of feel like it’s the end of an era, though.”
She set her container down and looked at me. “This can be the start of a new one, then,” she said. “For us, anyway. And I really believe now, more than ever, that as long as we stay true to our feelings, then that is what’s most important. Because if I had done that to begin with, we could have probably avoided a lot of the stuff that we’ve been through so far.”
I thought back to the day she first showed up in my office for that job interview. If you had told me then that I’d be sitting here now, feeling how I did toward her, I never would have believed it, but there you have it. Things sometimes worked out in ways that you couldn’t even fathom.
“We have been through a lot,” I said, “but honestly, Daisy, there’s no one else I’d rather go through it with.”
She smiled. “I feel the same way.”
Epilogue
Daisy
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I said, taking a deep breath.
Ian squeezed my shoulders. “Of course you can,” he said. “You’re going to be great.”
I took another deep breath and tried to ignore the knots in my stomach. Everything seemed so surreal. I was about to walk out on stage, in front of a (large) group of people, and give a talk, as part of the TEDxBoston conference. My book, You’ve Got This: Overcoming the Quarter-Life Crisis, about my quarter-life crisis, had come out a few months ago and gotten some really good reviews in some very important places, and suddenly, it seemed, everyone thought that I had something important to say. And it had all started with that article I’d written at my mother’s encouragement, which, once posted on the blog, had been liked, retweeted, and favorited tens of thousands of times. Subsequent essays I’d written had later been compiled, and I’d written a few more to round out what had turned into a best-selling book you could now find in the personal development section.
Ian kept his hands on my shoulders, massaging them lightly. “I am so proud of you,” he said.
I took another deep breath and felt my anxiety quell a bit at the sound of his voice. “Thanks.”
People that I didn’t even know were hailing me as an expert on my generation, despite the fact that I felt like I still knew nothing. I mean, all I had done really, was written a book—and a rather short one at that—about my experience. I spoke about it candidly, and didn’t sugar-coat anything, and ultimately, I guess I found my happy ending, because Ian and I were still together, because I’d put my college degree to use, because I finally felt a measure of contentedness with my life that I hadn’t before.
So that made people believe I somehow had answers that could help them, too. The idea that I was helping people made me feel good, even though it seemed crazy that I would be someone people would turn to for advice like this.
Even my mother had been begrudgingly happy for me, despite the fact that the deal for her own book had fallen through and she was currently looking for a publisher.
“And after your book signing, I’m going to take you out to celebrate, and then we’ll go pick up Aaron.”
I smiled, thinking about Aaron, who was almost two now. We picked him up Saturday afternoon, and he stayed with us until Monday morning. He was definitely not the handful that everyone told me he was going to be once he was a toddler. He was actually really fun to be around, and I enjoyed the time he was with us. Even though Ian and I weren’t married, I’d settled into the role of step-mother much more easily than I thought I would have. Eventually, I knew, Ian and I would tie the knot, but for now, living together and learning how to be parents to Aaron was good enough for the both of us. And maybe, some day, Ian and I would have a kid of our own, but there was still plenty of time for that.
Right now, I had a talk to give.
Ian leaned down and gave me a kiss. “You’re going to be great,” he said. “I love you.”
I kissed him back. “I love you, too.” Then I took a deep breath and stepped out onto the stage.
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THE SINGLE DAD
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imag
ination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Claire Adams
Chapter One
Blake
I could feel the sweat dripping down the back of my jersey as I adjusted the flag sticking out of the waistband of my sweats. It was a chilly December afternoon to wage a touch football war between the Waltham Police and Fire Department, but a big storm was predicted for the following week, and we were determined that if this were to be our last game of the season, we were going to go out with a bang.
It was the fourth quarter and the score was tied 21-21 as my firefighters took the field. I listened as my best friend, Tony Williams, outlined our last chance at scoring on our opponents, but in my head I was calculating how much longer I could play before I had to call it quits and go pick up my 16-year-old daughter, Nina, from my ex-wife’s house.
“B, you listening?” Tony shouted.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said with a sheepish grin, knowing that he’d repeat the play as soon as we broke out of the huddle.
“Get your head on, man,” Beatty, the acting offensive lineman, scolded as we lined up for the play.
“Mind your own fuckin’ business, Beatty,” I shot back, as I took my place at the end of the line.
Tony moved behind the center and started the call, I watched out of the corner of my eye until I saw the snap, and then took off down the field.
“Go wide, Gaston! Go wide!” Tony called, as I ran toward the sideline. I turned and saw him drop his arm back and then launch the football in my direction just before two defensive players knocked him over. I could hear Tony swearing a blue streak as I kept my eyes on the ball hurtling toward me. I caught it and took off in a dead run heading for the end zone.
“Run, you slow son of a bitch!” Tony screamed, as I evaded the defensive players who were definitely bigger, but decidedly slower than I was. A half a yard from the goal line, Joey Vanetti, a young and fit detective who’d recently joined the Waltham PD, grabbed me and yanked me to the ground.
“Uhf!” I grunted, as I hit the grass and felt the wind rushing out of my lungs. I lay there still clutching the ball to my side trying to catch my breath. When I did, I sat up and grumbled, “It’s touch football you stupid fuck. No tackling!”
“I didn’t tackle, old man,” Joey laughed, as he offered me a hand. “I pulled you down by your flag.”
“The hell you did,” I shot back, as I ignored his hand and pushed myself up onto my feet. I was in damn good shape for a 38-year-old man, but not as good as a 23-year-old just out of the Academy. I knew I’d pay for this tomorrow, but right now I was pissed at the guy who’d punched tomorrow’s ticket for me.
“Chill out, Gaston,” Tony said, as he walked over and stood between the two of us. “Vanetti, you are one seriously stupid mofo. Don’t make me call your CO and tell him how you’ve brought shame upon the squad.”
“Fuck off, Williams,” Joey said with a grin.
“Ahh, I love good healthy competition between those who are charged with protecting and serving the public,” Tony crowed, as he took the ball from my arms. Lowering his voice, he added, “It helps me work out the frustration from not getting laid.”
“Trouble in paradise, Big T?” I asked, as he turned back toward the guys waiting for the next play.
“My friend, without trouble there would be no paradise,” he sighed. I smacked him on the back of the head as we bent down for the huddle.
A half an hour later, our victorious team was shaking hands with the vanquished and making plans to meet over at The Lucky Clover on Lexington. Tony pleaded with me to join them all for just one beer, but I had to beg off since Nina was waiting for me to pick her up.
“Aww, man, I thought divorce would make you more fun,” Tony complained. “Now you’re always going to pick up the kid or heading over to take care of something at Remy’s condo. Why did you even divorce her if you’re going to still be doing all her work? At least if you’d stayed married, you’d be getting the benefits.”
“You have no idea what you are talking about,” I chuckled as I shook my head.
“Oh, that’s right; how are the swingers?” Tony asked, a little too curiously.
“They’re still after me,” I said, wanting to avoid having this conversation within earshot of any of my co-workers. Tony’s idea of what swingers did was based on out-of-date stereotypes and internet porn, and it often irritated me when he brought the subject up.
“Yeah, but that wife is smokin’ hot, man!” Tony said, lowering his voice. “I’d hit it if it wasn’t for her old man.”
“And the fact that you love your wife,” I said with a wry grin.
“Yeah, well, there’s that, too,” Tony grinned. “But seriously, what a bunch of weirdos, right?”
“Dude, I’ve explained this to you a million times,” I sighed. “Swingers aren’t the weirdos you imagine them to be. They’ve got their kinks, but a huge part of the whole thing is based on consent and communication. It’s not the pill-popping hippies you think you remember from the life you never lived.”
“Harsh, man,” Tony said, giving me a fake hurt look. I laughed and slapped him on the back before I climbed up into my pickup and backed out of the parking lot.
It didn’t take long to get to Remy’s since nowhere in Waltham is more than a short drive, but by the time I was pulling into the drive, my phone was blowing up with messages from Remy asking where I was and when I would pick Nina up. I took a deep breath and reminded myself not to lose my cool in front of my daughter.
I was halfway up the walk when Remy whipped open the front door and started in on me.
“You were supposed to be here 45 minutes ago, Blake,” she said, in the disapproving tone that made me simultaneously cringe and want to tell her where to shove her superiority complex.
“It was the last game of the season,” I said, knowing that this would not be enough to ward off her disapproval.
“Oh, I see; so a touch football game is more important than spending quality time with your 16-year-old daughter?” she asked. Her know-it-all tone made me grind my teeth as I tried to look past her to see if Nina was ready.
“No, Remy, it’s not more important than Nina,” I sighed. “It’s a commitment I made to the guys I play ball with, and I was following through on it.”
“Unlike you do with other things…” she muttered under her breath, but still loud enough for me to hear what she’d said.
“Remy, I’m not going to fight with you tonight,” I said wearily. “I’m tired, and I just want to get Nina and go home and shower.”
“Why? Do you have a hot date or something?” she sneered. “I don’t know why you’d pick Nina up on a Saturday night if you already have other plans.”
“Yes, Remy, I have a hot date planned,” I said, knowing I was baiting her, but unable to stop myself from doing it. That was one of our biggest problems; she’d accuse me of something I hadn’t done, and I’d take responsibility for doing it in a way that taunted her for accusing me. We were on a collision course with divorce from the day we got married.
“Who is she, Blake? Someone from the department?” Remy demanded. “Who is your hot date?”
“Hey, Punkin!” I called, as Nina emerged from behind her mother carrying a purple backpack and dragging a rolling suitcase that looked like it was filled with enough stuff for a month-long trip.
“Dad, don’t call me that,” Nina said, rolling her eyes almost all the way into the back of her head. I often forgot that she was a teenager now, and not the sweet little girl I’d carried around on my shoulders or helped bait a hook on summer fishing trips out at the Cambridge Reservoir.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize we were in teenager land today,” I said, grabbing her bags and quickly kissing her head before she ducked away and climbed up into the passenger seat of my truck.
�
�Who is your hot date, Blake?” Remy persisted.
“My hot date is a pizza and the most recent episode of The Walking Dead,” I said with a shit-eating grin on my face, knowing that it would piss Remy off. “I hope you’re satisfied.”
“You’re such a smart-ass, Blake,” Remy shot back, as I waved goodbye and gunned the truck’s engine just to piss her neighbors off.
I drove back toward home, stopping to pick up the two large pizzas I’d ordered on my way to pick Nina up. She didn’t say much as we drove, and that worried me.
“You okay, kiddo?” I asked, trying to play it cool and not dig too hard or too deep and cause her to clam up. Navigating the landscape of a teenage girl from the inside was a whole new world for me, and I’d learned from experience that it was better not to wield a heavy hand or ask too many questions.
“Yeah, fine,” she said unenthusiastically, as she stared out the window.
“How’s school?”
“It’s fine,” she said unenthusiastically.
“Did your old man do something wrong besides calling you by the hated nickname?” I asked. “If I did, I’m sure I could apologize and then do penance.”
“Dad, don’t be ridiculous,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You didn’t do anything. I just don’t feel like talking.”
“Well, can you at least tell me what’s going on in school so that your mother can’t accuse me of being uninformed and uninterested?” I asked, feeling less guilty than I normally did about playing the “Mom’s bad” card tonight. Remy was a good mother, but even after the divorce, she remained a pain in my ass.
“I don’t know; my grades aren’t great, but I’m working on getting them up before the end of the term,” she said, looking over at me apprehensively. “I’m doing okay in Chemistry, but Trig and History are giving me a hard time.”
“Do I need to hire a tutor to help you?” I asked.
