by Poppy Dunne
But I’m trying to dance around it, because that’s two weeks away from Amelia. Two weeks away during a slightly contentious divorce process. I make enough money to support my daughter; it’s not about that. Suzonne’s been concerned that I’m away too much on business, either traveling or locked in my home office. She’s worried that I’m not going to be a steady figure in Amelia’s life.
The worst part is she’s got a point. I don’t want to be an absentee father like a lot of the divorced guys in my circle. You know the type. They get the kids every other weekend, take them out for ice cream and mini golf and video games, show them a good time for twenty-four to thirty-six hours, then pack them straight back to mom and stepdad to raise. Eventually, these men become a little pathetic in their own children’s eyes, like balding Willy Wonkas who live in a Glendale duplex.
I’m not going to be that kind of dad. Amelia’s going to have two parents raising her equally. I’d sell my left nut to make sure that happens.
Unfortunately, the two week trip to Japan isn’t the kind you can just tell your boss “No thanks, rather not.” So I do what any good, red-blooded stockbroker does and tap dance around the situation.
“Bert, you flatter me. I know I’m smarter, faster, and better looking than every other man or woman up for this job, but they have qualities that I lack.” I give him the easy-going, I’m-in-Sigma-Chi bullshit grin that I perfected in college. “Humility, for example. The Japanese love humility, and table manners.”
“Then learn to eat like a person and shut up about yourself once in a while. I need you over there.”
Shit, Bert’s not letting this go. He’s like Bruno on the trail today, humping that little dog. Or the little dog’s owner, that admittedly pretty hot redhead with the fast mouth.
Jesus, if that woman were my boss I wouldn’t mind staying late at the office… Except I would, because Amelia has to come first.
“Let me get back to you soon. I mean it. First, let’s blow these New York assholes out of the water,” I say, pulling back my shoulders as we hove into view of the conference room.
“These assholes are from Belgium,” Bert says conversationally.
Perfect. My admittedly flawless Schwarzenegger accent is about to come out of retirement.
3
Chelle
“Big stretches!” I stand on my tiptoes, and the three little girls in front of me do the same. I forgot how adorable ten year olds can be, especially when you get them into competitive theater games. Unfortunately, we couldn’t get too competitive—Bay of Dreams has a problem with aggression, testosterone, and meat. I’m now really glad I didn’t decide to do Terminator 2: The Musical for the kids’ school play. Too bad, because that went down like gangbusters in Arkansas. The special effects were really killer. Who knew you could get cardboard to do so many incredible things?
Right, back to the here and now. The little girls bend over with me to touch their toes. After a few rounds of improv, where we all pretended to be our favorite movie characters, they’re ready for a cooling down stretch before heading home. The final bell is about to ring.
And by bell, I mean brass gong. Confused the hell out of me when that thing went off for lunch.
“Now, do we feel all spiritually cleansed?” I ask the girls when we roll ourselves back up. As I came to learn, things like spiritual cleansings are deeply appreciated over at Bay of Dreams. I tried to laugh off having a ham sandwich for lunch when all the other teachers were deeply shocked. Said I’d been a pig in a past life and was reconnecting with my old physical self.
Guess how well that went down.
“I guess,” one of the girls, Amanda, says. She’s got the face of an angel and the playful intensity of an overworked accountant in April. I’ve made it a priority to get her to crack a smile before my time here is done.
“I feel like a Martian,” Ivy says before kicking off into a handstand. That’s what she’s been telling me all class: she’s a Martian, she comes from Mars, that Matt Damon movie was wrong because there are a ton of unicorns and Pegasus roaming the planet, and the air is really purple.
What did we do to get lucky enough to deserve children?
The final bell, er, gong, rings out, and the girls skip off to collect their shoes and yoga mats before heading out to their parents’ Teslas for a swift and silent ride home. That’s another memo I missed: electric cars are the thing to have here. My gas-guzzling car is not making me any friends.
Still, as I walk back to the administration building to collect my bags, I have to admit what an idyllic place this is. The whole school is situated on a beautiful lot near the top of the canyon, complete with rustic hiking trail and waterfall. It’s the kind of place where animated birds and big-eyed baby deer should frolic. Given the drugs some of the people who’ve used this property must have done, I’m sure that’s more realistic than I think it is.
If only I could get that invitation to stay, become a full-fledged staff member. Because, I remind myself, this is it. The last gig. I promised myself that if I hadn’t found the right kind of job by the time I turned twenty-nine, I’d get back in my car and turn back to Mom and Dad’s trailer, probably trundling through the badlands of Montana by now.
That sounds pretty dire, and it gets even worse when you find out what my parents do for a living. No, it’s not illegal. Although sometimes I think it should be…
Still, no bad juju right now. I enter the office, where the staff is all laid out facedown on the floor. No, that’s nothing to do with the incense (though it’s pretty damn thick), it’s afternoon meditation time. Looks more like a dead man’s float in no water to me, but hey. I don’t have tenure. No room to judge.
“Chelle!” Willow appears before me, a benevolently smiling blonde woman with feathers twined in her pigtails. Apparently she was an owl in a previous life. She was the only one who took my ham sandwich joke seriously. “Can I borrow a moment of your time? I’ll return it, I swear.”
Given how metaphysical it is around here, she might even be able to do that.
“Oh! Is it super urgent? I need to get home and give Archie his walk.” That’s the big downside of being out in the canyon. It’ll take me an hour to get home, easy. Willow nods in sympathy.
“Of course. It’s just about the spiritual cleansing of Amelia Munroe.”
If that doesn’t sound like a cult, I don’t know what does. But I have an idea what this is about and frown.
“Oh, she doesn’t need that. Does she? I mean, it was such a funny thing this morning, right?” I laugh, but Willow’s not joining in. Her mouth pouts into a little O. If she starts hooting, I’m outta here. Owls, you know?
“Her father’s come all the way from his office in Santa Monica. I think it’s right that you speak to him personally.”
Crap. Well, gotta keep the parents happy. Happy parents mean recommendations for me to stay and keep working with their munchkins. I follow Willow back to the office, twining my way around and between my nearly comatose colleagues. What a day.
We enter the assistant principal’s office, which has huge murals of daisies on the walls and beanbag chairs on the floor. The man I find seated in one of those chairs looks like the beanbag touched him in a secret place, and now it’s awkward between them. He shoots to his feet, happy to have an excuse not to sit on a round sack of pink pleather any longer.
When I say shoots up, I mean right to the ceiling. He’s tall. Gorgeous. And if you swapped out the pristine suit and tie he’s wearing for a sweaty T-shirt and put an unneutered bullmastiff beside him, you’d have the very picture of the Bluetooth wearing douche I ran into this morning.
Cancel that. He’s more than a picture. He’s the original artifact. When our eyes meet, I can tell he recognizes me too, because his eyebrows shoot up. It’s hard to look sexy while you’re making Roger Rabbit surprised cartoon eyes, but he manages it. Like Jason Statham in a Warner Brothers cartoon.
That thought should not turn me on as much as i
t does.
And I need to slam the brakes on being turned on at all right now, because he is a dad. If he is a dad, then that means that he is married.
Because as logic will tell you, some men are dads, and some dads are Socrates, so all men are Socrates.
There’s a reason I went into theater science, in case you were wondering.
“Hi. Chelle Richardson,” I say, giving him my hand for a firm, very collegial handshake. He takes my hand, which sends an unintentional flush through my body. Then, slowly, his eyes travel over me from head to toe, sending a much baser, much more fun flash of heat through me. Even though we’re in a school office in the middle of the day, I can feel my body, er, responding to him.
Actually, it’s just like high school again, come to think of it. Ah, the days of crushing on Ricky Johnson when he had to go to the nurse’s office for his asthma…
Wait, stop it, Chelle. There’s nothing remotely sexy about a stockbroking asshole scoping out his kid’s teacher when he’s probably married. Not cool at all, but completely in line with the way he was acting out in the canyon this morning. Like the universe is a new model Lexus and all he needs to do is get comfortable behind the wheel, start her up, and drive. All while taking advantage of the self-warming seat, obviously.
“Will is Amelia’s dad,” Willow says, obviously missing the angry eye-fucking that’s going on between me and this guy. Probably for the best.
“And a proud dog owner as well,” I say. Will quirks half his mouth up in a smile, one he’s clearly fighting. Score one for the redhead.
“Oh. How can you tell?” Willow sounds amazed.
“It’s a vibe I get.”
“Vibes. Mmm. The air’s full of them up here.” Will releases me, then sinks into a beanbag chair with such alpha male confidence that it somehow does not look ridiculous. I sit across from him, trying not to disappear into my seat. “Now. What’s Amelia done wrong? Not finish her kale chips at lunch?”
From the slightly irritated tone, I can tell this guy thinks this place is all a little bit ridiculous, and I appreciate that. I also appreciate letting my gaze fall on his left hand to find that there’s no gold ring. Maybe he’s not married.
Except he probably is, and I shouldn’t be scoping out the marriage status of students’ parents. That’s how you end up either in the unemployment line or the subject of a Lifetime movie, and not one that ends with everyone happily singing around the piano on Christmas Eve in a charming manse located in coastal Georgia. Not like I’ve made a study of those.
Right. Amelia. Let’s talk about the kid, Chelle.
“Nothing. At least, I thought it was nothing.” I shrug. “We did a little introductory game in theater class today. Something to loosen up the shy kids. There’s an art to it.”
“Really? I thought it was a science,” he says in a low, delicious tone of voice. Oh ho, yeah, he remembers me. It takes all of my considerable Northwestern theatrical training not to start drooling in front of him like Pavlov’s dog. We’ve had enough canine happenings for one day, the two of us.
“The kids get to pick out music on my iPod and dance to it as a way of helping us remember their names. Amelia’s was…adorable,” I say at last. Willow tuts. She’s balancing a beam of balsa wood on her lap, which substitutes as a desk over here at Bay of Dreams. She’s making notes in finger paint. Yes, it’s really happening.
“She chose Beyoncé’s ‘Bootylicious’ and then started waggling her spiritual end zone in the children’s faces,” Willow says gently.
Spiritual end zone is a creative vocabulary choice for a child’s posterior, I gotta say. Will gets that steely, flinty, sparky, look in his gray eyes.
“Are you telling me,” he says slowly, enunciating every word, “that you have ‘Bootylicious’ on your iPod?” He quirks an eyebrow at me, and I try not to laugh. It comes out as a splutter. Damn, I’m cool.
“We all have past indiscretions we need to atone for,” I say simply. Will steeples his fingers, looking me up and down like I’m a portfolio he’d like to do particularly bad things to.
Mmm, that’s right, sir. My market’s all bottomed out, waiting for you to come in and fix the problem.
I have no idea what I’m saying, but it sure sounds like finance.
“We need children to remember that they’re still too young to understand the fragility of the gender binary,” Willow says. She sticks her thumb in a tub of yellow paint, marking her note as very urgent. “Also, how the gender binary does not really exist, but the anarcho-communist post-biology segment of education doesn’t start until seventh grade.”
“Mmm,” Will says, obviously not paying attention to Willow. Neither am I. It’s like a wrestling match between his gaze and mine, and I hope it ends up with my gaze naked and spread eagle in front of his gaze, while still taunting his gaze about how he’ll never defeat her, never.
What the hell am I talking about? That got strangely Ayn Rand all of a sudden.
“So my daughter should try to express herself in a binary-less way,” Will finally says, ending the heated gaze contest. He gives Willow a small nod. “From now on, it’s Cat Stevens and 70s pop all day, every day.”
“If you could have her listen to Breakfast with the Beatles on Sunday, I’m sure it would do wonders for opening her inner eye.” Willow beams, pleased that we’re finally on the same page. I still think this is crazy, but I didn’t birth the kid, so I have no say.
Wait. Actually, I’m still a little annoyed by this. Hold the line.
“Your daughter doesn’t need to change,” I tell Will, feeling a tiny bit fidgety that he’s so ready to just take the hippie musical prescription and move on with his day. Probably has a squash game in ten minutes, or whatever it is rich corporate types do for fun. Rich corporate types who are probably divorced…
Not now, libido.
“She also doesn’t need access to your outdated musical tastes, perhaps.” Oh, that got chilly. Will doesn’t like anyone muscling in on his parental territory, it seems. Well, that gets my stereotypically fiery redhead temper all enflamed. Pun not intended. Mostly.
“At least she has fun in my class. She felt like she was able to express herself fully today,” I tell him proudly.
Willow’s getting doe-eyed. Apparently she doesn’t know what to do when people get a bit caustic. Maybe it’s all the red meat that does it to me.
I get up out of my beanbag easily, like the meeting’s over. Which it is. And Will rises along with me, setting that chiseled jaw and throwing back his shoulders like he is here to alpha all over this place. Well, good. Two can play it this way.
“She can express herself at home. She can dance all she wants.”
“But does she?” I squint a little. Does Amelia really feel comfortable and free to be herself with the world’s hottest and surliest dad right here? Hot being my word, that is. Not Amelia’s.
Will thinks about this, and his (perfect) lips set into a firm line. Ha. He knows I’m right.
“I’ll talk to Amelia,” he tells Willow, though he never looks away from me. “There’ll be no problems from now on.”
Willow starts babbling about how they have some reiki Amelia can try if there are still issues, but Will dismisses her—and me—with a curt nod before starting to head out.
“Tell Amelia I have all of Destiny’s Child if she’s feeling more retro,” I call after him. He stops, and gives me a searing glance, one that suggests I wouldn’t dare.
Oh, but I would, hot, surly stockbroker. For Queen Bey, I would do anything.
4
Will
I’ve never met a woman like that before in my life. Words and images are flashing through my mind, shoving into one another as I walk out of the room and try to get my thoughts in order. The nerve of some people. Red hair. Obstinate. Headstrong. Beyoncé. Dancing. Short.
Sexy.
The word flares up in my imaginary eye, and I have to throw it to the imaginary floor and stomp on it, imaginaril
y, because that’s not the way to think of a woman like that. She’s not my type, let’s be real. I’ve always loved long-legged, blonde, gamine women who charmingly forget to put a bra on before they leave the house. That’s my speed. Not loud-mouthed, caustic, incredibly sexy dammit not again.
I speed walk into the courtyard, the freaking gong sounding the end of the day. Rubbing my eyes, I focus myself. It’s fine. Suzonne’s going to start picking Amelia up again once she’s back from that stupid yoga retreat. I won’t have to deal with that woman anymore, which suits me fine. Hell, I know it’s got to make her happy.
Though she was checking me out. Obviously. I could feel it. I know these things. I have a sort of radar for those sorts of things. My antenna, as it were, is rising just thinking about—
There are many good places to start getting an erection, but an elementary school is never one of them. My brain shuts down and I cool the fuck off. Good. Collected. Centered. I take a lap around the pine trees at the school’s edge, stop by the vending machine to pick up some kimchi-flavored Chex mix, and wait ten minutes for my little princess to come running out of her classroom, her Adventure Time backpack bouncing on her shoulders and a radiant smile on her face.
“Daddy!” She slams into me, wrapping her arms so tight around my middle that I just about start choking. But hell, there’s no better way to go. Amelia’s at the age where she could be embarrassed about calling me Daddy or giving me a cheerful hug in public, and I’m grateful it hasn’t happened yet. I take her backpack and we walk to the car. People are giving my Lexus dirty, judgmental looks as we get inside. I know, it still uses fossil fuels, which means I am Satan himself. Giving a wave to all the carpooling hybrids on the street, I gun the engine and pull out.
“I had the best. Day. Ever!” Amelia punctuates the last three words by knocking back against her seat, knees up to her chest. She’s dressed in a pair of pink, zebra-striped leggings, with a yellow tee shirt and a purple hoodie with mouse ears. If there’s one thing this kid is, in every sense of the word, it’s loud. She’s already taken control of the radio and is rolling her window up and down with a speed and dexterity that borders on the incredible.
