by Isabel Jolie
I duck into the kitchen and grind coffee beans. Kara. What the fuck am I doing? Delilah’s twenty-six. She’s not a kid, but so much of her carefree persona reminds me of an undergrad. She bounces and radiates giddy energy as if she exudes her own inner light. Kara would love her. She’d be a moth to the flame.
I run through my options while waiting for the coffee to brew. I want to see Delilah again, but Kara is my priority. My little girl is my life. My everything. The reason I haven’t thought about dating. Or fun. I need to ask Delilah what she wants. I’m not just a single guy. I’m a single dad.
I’m staring at the coffee pot, waiting for it to fill, when an arm circles my waist and soft lips touch the base of my neck. I twist in her arms and wrap mine around her. As I hold her, a sense of peace fills me. I wouldn’t say I’ve been unhappy or lonely before now. But, somehow, a missing piece to my life puzzle slid into place. I’ve known her for less than forty-eight hours. It’s borderline insanity, but didn’t someone tell me things happen faster on the relationship front for single parents? I like having her here.
I press a kiss to her forehead and pour us both coffee. I happen to have soymilk in my fridge, thanks to Mom. Dee’s wearing the flannel shirt I wore yesterday, and from what I can tell, nothing else. Ah, crap. Look at me. I’ve already given her a nickname. Her blonde hair’s all kind of messed up from our night. Without make-up, her eyebrows are much lighter, in a way that frames the aqua color of her irises and her golden skin tone. Her natural beauty shines through when she’s put together, but I think I love this undone morning version of her more than anything I’ve seen so far.
She peers up at me, and a bit bashfully, says, “I used your toothbrush. I hope that’s okay.” Her nose wrinkles as she confesses.
Hell, yeah, that’s okay. In answer, I give her a long, slow, deep kiss. By the time we break away, my lightweight pajama pants do a poor job of hiding the beast she’s awoken. She smirks with an oh-I-know-what-you’re-up-to expression as I guide her to the sofa
Delilah curls up beside me as I grab the throw lying on the back of the sofa, a Disney princess furry blanket my mom gave Kara years ago. It’s ugly as sin, but it’s super soft, hence its permanent inclusion in our den. Well, that and the fact Kara is largely responsible for the decor in the apartment. And she’s four.
And she’ll be home this evening. I toy with Delilah’s fingers, contemplating my options, and determine I have no choice but to talk. Communicate. “So, I really like you.” Light blue eyes, lighter than the sky outside, stare at me over the rim of her coffee mug. I pause, waiting for the mug to drop lower so I can see her whole face and better judge her reaction.
When she lowers the mug, she murmurs, “I really like you too.”
I exhale. First part, done. “I’m not exactly sure how the whole dating thing works now. From what I understand, I should probably date you while dating others and take it slow and see how we evolve, but I have a daughter.” Her fingers weave through mine. “It’s why I haven’t dated.”
As a vet, I understand when a physical action is meant to comfort. I often place a hand on a client’s shoulder. Her action causes me to pause and appreciate her innate kindness.
I inhale and attempt to slow my speech so my fears don’t seep through my words. “I want to see you again, but Kara lives with me.” My gaze roams the ceiling until I pinpoint what I need to say. “She’s a big part of my life. If I’m not at work, she’s usually with me.” I wrap a piece of her hair around my index finger and admire the smooth lines of her clavicle, unsure where I’m going with this. I do want to see her again. I’m nowhere close to having my fill of her. But the reality is that I have such a small amount of free time in general.
She sucks in her bottom lip, and I’d give anything to hear the thoughts running through her gorgeous blonde head right now.
A pop sounds as she releases her pink, swollen bottom lip. “Mason, I’d love to meet your daughter. I can tell she’s an artist.” She bites her thumbnail. Then, softly, almost to herself, she adds, “A kindred soul.”
Her words knock air out of my chest. I didn’t mean to imply I’d introduce her to my daughter.
Sensing my hesitation, she continues. “Why don’t you introduce me as a friend? She’s four. That’s all she needs to know, anyway, right?”
“I suppose.” What we did last night was way out of the ballpark of friend territory, but she’s right. There’s no reason to dissect adult relationships for my pre-K kid.
She smiles her giant, radiating smile. “And it’s the truth, right? We’re friends, and I’d love to be her friend.”
Her phone vibrates on the wooden floor where it’s been plugged in all night below the window. She ignores the sound and loops her hands behind my neck and pulls me down to her for a soft, comforting kiss. I massage down her smooth skin to cup her naked ass and squeeze. I glance at the clock. Thirty minutes before I need to be out the door. “Any chance you’re available for dinner tonight after work? Kara will be home. But if it’s too much—”
“Tonight?” She pushes away from me, and her question hangs in the air. I follow her into my bedroom. What’s wrong with me? She must think I’m crazy. I should know better. Wait a few days to call. Or a week. Then make plans. But those are games, and I’ve never been much for games.
She pulls on her clothes, moving her hands in the air, her lips moving every now and then as if she’s having a conversation with herself. I’ve pushed too far, jumped in too quickly. It’s something I do. Or did. “Forget about tonight. I’ll give you a call. We can figure something out.”
She trails a finger through my chest hair then stands on tiptoes to press her soft lips to mine and makes me second guess the last twenty-four hours when she quips, “Tell you what. Let me consult the Magic 8-Ball.”
Chapter 7
Delilah
As I step out onto Pierrepont Street for the second time in one day, my phone vibrates. I keep the thing on vibrate during the day at work, and then more often than not forget to turn it off. When I flip it over, I see the name Melinda Daniels. Mom. I click to decline the call and stride with purpose to the door. I’ve declined a lot of calls—she’s going to slip into hysterics soon, so I shoot off a quick text telling her I’ll call back tomorrow, then press the button for 8D.
In my office earlier today, I consulted mystical, magical Magic 8-Ball. Anna gives me crap for consulting the fates, but she lacks faith. I let the die roll through the dark waters after vigorous shakes. The answers I received, in order, were Signs Point to Yes, Reply Hazy, Try Again, and Outlook Good. Clear guidance to return to his apartment this evening.
The buzzer sounds, and I step into the marble foyer. I bounce from foot to foot in the elevator, humming the tune to a random Shin’s song called New Slang. The phrase life-changing pops in my head as the elevator doors open. Mason stands in the hall, to the side of the elevator, and a young girl peeks out from behind his legs. She’s barefoot and wearing a silk pajama dress designed to imitate Cinderella’s gown. Wet, brown hair grazes her shoulders, and she twists back and forth, one arm firmly wrapped around her daddy’s thigh.
I bend down to her height and hold out my hand. She stares at it. I’m a moron, trying to shake hands with a kid. I drop it and give her my biggest, warmest smile while looking into her doe-like brown eyes. “Hi. I’m Delilah. I love your gown. It’s beautiful.”
A glow spreads over her aura as she grins so big I can see dark gaps from the teeth she’s sacrificed to the tooth fairy.
“It’s Cinderella.”
“I love it.” I smile and shift forward onto my knees. “Are you Kara?”
She nods and peers down to the floor. Then, as if she’s come to a decision, she lifts her head and steps away from her daddy. “Wanna come inside? We made dinner.”
“You did? I’d love to come inside!” I’ve spent tons of time around kids. First, at summer camp, helping out with the younger girls. Then as a camp counselor, working with all
the campers. Plus, my mom’s cousins live nearby, and they’re all younger than me. This should be easy, but this uber happy cheery voice of mine comes across a bit like I’m one of the lollipop kids from The Wizard of Oz.
As I push off my knees to rise, Mason offers his hand to help me up. His touch calms the fluttering inside. I’ve known him less than three days, yet a déjà vu sensation surrounds me, as if I’ve seen my hand in his a thousand times. It’s only the two of us in the hall. He holds the door cracked open, ensuring us both privacy and that we aren’t about to get locked out in the hall, and presses a soft kiss to my lips. A thrill courses through me.
His breath tickles my ear when he leans to share, “My mom’s here too. She was dropping Kara off, but she’ll be leaving soon.”
There’s a hint of concern in his tone. I get it. Meeting both his daughter and his mom in one day is a lot. But I can do this. He’s introducing me to his daughter as a friend, for crying out loud. It’s not like I’m dreaming of forever, but our new little thing rocks amazingly good vibes. I do my best to beam positivity up at him and let him know I’m more than okay and excited to meet the other woman in his life.
As I step through the door, a tall, attractive woman with dark hair and familiar emerald eyes, the exact color of Mason’s, loops the strap of a beaten-up leather handbag over her shoulder. She smiles at me and extends her hand. “Hi. I’m Cindy, Mason’s mom.”
She has a warm handshake, and every part of me joneses to pull her in for a hug. At first, I hesitate, then I jolt forward and wrap my arms around her. She laughs for a second, a bit surprised. I’m not. We southerners often embrace, but I’ve gathered not all New Yorkers are as into skin to skin contact greetings.
She recovers and pats my back. Then she addresses Mason. “So, what are your plans with Amber?” She’s frowning, and her arms are crossed. It’s as if I walked in in the middle of a conversation she has no intention of dropping. I step back to give them space. Kara’s on the sofa, oblivious to the conversation around her, watching a cartoon.
“I’ll let you know.” He sounds like he’s attempting to appease or comfort her.
If that’s the case, he misses his mark. Her lips are tucked in so tightly, little lines run above and below her lips.
“Okay.” She doesn’t sound okay with whatever they’re talking about.
It’s a private conversation, and, yes, I am listening in. Who is Amber?
When she steps back, she pats my upper arm and offers, “It’s nice to meet you, Delilah.” Then she adds, “Hope you all have a nice dinner.”
Mason’s deep voice resonates from behind me. “Mom, you don’t have to leave. You can stay and eat with us.”
“Oh, no. I’ve got to get home and unpack. Get ready for the rest of the week. Returning on a Monday has me feeling behind schedule.” She walks in front of the sofa, bends down to Kara’s height, and holds her arms out. “Give Ama a hug.”
Kara falls forward into her arms and wraps her grandmother in a super tight squeeze. Then she sits back on the sofa, attention glued to the television. “Love you, Ama.” I smirk, thinking to myself that what she’s not saying is, Get out of the way so I can see my cartoon.
Cindy drops a kiss to the top of her head then makes her way to the door. She waves farewell to me as she offers a polite, “Hope to see you again.”
Mason gives her a hug then opens the door for her. She flattens her palm on Mason’s chest and says in a low voice she might think I can’t hear, “Please, think of Kara.”
Mason mumbles something before kissing her on the forehead and closing the door behind her.
Kara pounces on the sofa like a kangaroo. The screen on the TV is still. Her show must have ended. “Daddy! Let’s see if it’s ready.” Then to me, she announces with glee, “We’re having spaghetti and meatballs. My pick.”
I grin. “Perfect.”
From behind me, I hear Mason add, “I hope you don’t mind.”
I wave him off as I grab Kara’s hand and bounce with her into the kitchen to assist with dinner preparations.
The three of us set the table and carry the food from the kitchen as if we’re repeating a daily activity, like a seamless team. Kara counts out three napkins and three forks and directs me to the heavy plates she’s not allowed to carry because they are so big. As she and I set the table, Mason enters with a steaming mountain of pasta covered with red marinara sauce and meatballs.
Kara sprints to the kitchen and comes back with the breadbasket. She beams up at me. “Garlic bread.” Her eyes light up as if she’s offering the best food on the planet.
As Kara rattles on about the sandcastles she saw at the beach and the live sand dollar she’d saved by returning it to the ocean, Mason’s eyes catch mine. Sometimes he winks, sometimes he reaches out and plays with my fingers. At times, his fingers wander up and down my thigh. Our legs touch the entire dinner. He’s not particularly great at the stealth business, but Kara’s oblivious, so it doesn’t really matter.
A mixture of happiness and peacefulness swirl through me. Borderline bliss. The table doesn’t have decorations. No candles or flowers. My table growing up would have been adorned with both. The napkins would have been cloth. We would have had a lot more utensils on the table. But every little thing, from the frayed rectangular placemats to the freshly scrubbed chubby cheeks beaming back at me from across the table, smack me as perfect. If anything, my mind reels and goes a tad fuzzy from the perfection of it all. It’s a moment in time when I find myself taking a mental photo so I’ll never forget it. I want to bottle this emotion and place it on my memory shelf to never be forgotten.
“Do you wanna color?” Kara asks me at the end of dinner. When I tell her I’d love to, she squeals and runs to get crayons and a coloring book and crawls into my lap. She rips out a page for me to color my own picture, but within minutes, she and I are both working on her black and white image of the prince bending to slip the glass slipper onto Cinderella’s dainty foot. Kara informs me she will do the princess, but she really doesn’t like coloring in the prince, so, “You wanna do him?”
I am diligently coloring in black boots when Kara wails, “I messed it up.” She’s one of those kids. It’s gotta be perfect. I lift a blank piece of construction paper from the table and sketch the outline of her princess.
She looks at me with awe. “You can do that?”
Such a cutie pie. “Yep. Want me to teach you how?”
She nods vigorously.
“I’ll hunt down some learning to draw books. They make them for different levels. How does that sound? I’ll find a good one, and we’ll do it together.”
Mason clears the table and cleans the kitchen while she and I color between the lines. When he finishes, he steps up behind the sofa, a dish towel between his hands, and announces, “Squirt, it’s time.”
“Noooooo,” Kara wails, squirming in my lap and leaning back into me as if I can save her from Daddy’s rules.
Such a cute little stinker. Every kid pushes off bath and bedtime. Or at least, I did.
He grins, and the amount of love shining through when he looks at his daughter brings on a wave of emotion. He looks at Kara the same way my dad used to look at me. His steps alter, and he lumbers over, monster style, until he scoops a squealing, giggly girl off my lap and twirls her through the air, spinning around and throwing her up in the air. Peals of laughter fill the room along with squeals of “Daddy!”
He carries her to her bedroom, throwing her in the air every step or two. How in the world is that child going to go to sleep after being thrown around like a ball? As they disappear into her bedroom, I lean back in my chair and pick up my phone. A text from Mom flashes on the screen.
Melinda: Did you meet someone?
I roll my eyes. I’ve been living in Manhattan for four years now. All four of those years, I’ve been hounded by the question, “Did you meet someone?” Her entire prayer group prays I will not fall in love in New York and will return home so
on. I rub my finger over the rounded corner of my phone. My finger hovers over my mail icon, and I tap it.
The email from one of my dad’s business partners sits below a new email from Anthropologie. I swipe to remove the junk then open the business email. I reread it. He wants to schedule a meeting. He would prefer an in-person meeting, but if not, he’d like to schedule a conference call. I stare at the to and cc fields for the tenth time. My father is not included.
Mason’s head pops out from the doorway. “Your presence is requested, if you don’t mind.”
I drop the phone on the coffee table and jump up. “Absolutely.”
Mason lies down on one side of the narrow bed, and I snuggle next to Kara on the other side. A stack of books sits on the end of the bed. Mason reads through them all, animating his voice to match characters. Kara giggles for each and every female voice and monster voice. By the time he’s flipping through a well-worn copy of Goodnight Moon, Kara’s eyelids are half closed, and Mason’s voice has lowered to a barely audible level. By the time he’s breathing the words, “goodnight moon,” she’s off in dreamland.
He bends over her, places a kiss on her forehead, then her cheek, and tucks the covers in all around her. Everything about Kara’s bedtime routine reminds me of mine growing up, and I’m filled with a desire to call my parents to tell them how much I love them. I have no business dodging Mom’s calls.
Mason wraps his hand around mine, glancing over his shoulder one more time to take in his sleeping daughter, then flicks off the light as he pulls the door closed.
When we reach the sofa, he lifts me onto his lap. He brushes my hair off my shoulder before bringing me in for a long, slow, kiss. He tastes like garlic and mint. He squeezes my ass, and I kiss his neck.
