by Emilia Finn
She rolls her lips the way I’ve been known to, pops a hip – I don’t do that – and considers. “No, I bet every other girl will have that one.”
“Exactly. That means it’s popular.”
She shakes her head and keeps walking. “I don’t want to be the same as everyone else, Daddy. That’s boring.”
Where the hell did my non-verbal baby go? And who taught this girl how to be so amazing and unique? “You’re right, Lyssy-Poo. What about Batman?”
She giggles and reaches forward to finger the black zipper. “I don’t think so. It doesn’t come with a water bottle, like the others.”
“I’ll get you a bottle separate, baby.”
She shakes her head and keeps moving. “Nah. Here!” She rushes to the end of the row and grabs the only pink backpack that bears a ballerina. “It comes with a keychain and a bottle. And it’s on sale, because nobody else wanted it.”
“But you want it?”
She flashes a magnificent grin that makes my heart swell. “This is the one I want. Definitely.”
She drops to her knees so hard that mine weep in sympathy, opens the zipper, and shoves her doll inside. Then, closing it up, she stands and swings the straps over her shoulders. “It fits!”
“It looks good on you, baby.” I hold a finger up, wait for her eyes, then twirl it so she spins. “Oh wow, it looks amazing. And the ballerina has hair just like yours. Can you see?”
She stretches her neck to get a glimpse at the back of the bag while she continues to wear it. And because I’m a good dad like that, I only stand back and laugh while she chases her tail.
“Like my hair? Really?” She grabs the handle at the top of the bag and pulls it up. Still, she can’t see the dancer, but her brain takes a moment longer to catch on. Whipping the bag off her back, she drops it to the floor and sits on her butt to study it. “Wow.” She runs her hand over the ballerina that just so happens to be made of glitter. Purple tutu, black slippers, hair that hangs loose, rather than in a bun. “I love her, Daddy.”
“Then it’s all yours. Do you wanna wear it out of the store?”
She nods, but her eyes and fingers remain on the dancer. “Can I wear it all the time?”
I snort, and take her hand to pull her to her feet. “Sure thing. That’s such a good bag, baby. Great choice. She comes with a water bottle already, which means now we just have to find a lunchbox. Are you ready?”
Like she has fireworks up her butt, she turns on a dime and bolts to another part of the store. “I know where they are, Daddy! I seen them before.”
“Saw.” I follow behind her, slower, and meander through the rows of random shit – craft supplies, books, magazines, pens in a billion colors. “Baby? Did you hear me? You saw them.”
“I saw– Oh, hey. Daddy, I saw Miss Brooke!”
“Hey, Lyssa.” My stomach tugs at the melodic voice, invisible on the other side of the shelving that separates us. “Cool bag,” she continues. “Are you buying that for school?”
“Uh huh! It comes with a water bottle.”
“No way!”
I emerge around the shelves to find Lyss on her knees again, her bag unzipped and her doll half hanging onto the floor as she fishes for the water bottle. Brooke stands with her back to me, her long legs on display as she wears cutoff shorts that aren’t a hell of a lot bigger than Lyss’. They don’t look trashy, though. Goddammit, they look good. And it bothers me that I can’t hate on her in this September heat for wearing shorts that show enough leg to make my mouth water. A floaty, see-through shirt hangs around her shoulders and down to almost touch the hem of her shorts, and beneath that is a white tank. Just plain white, molded around her body and accentuating hips that have made me reconsider this grand plan to move into the Roller estate this past week.
Brooklyn Kincaid is… well, for starters, she’s the daughter of the man I consider a legend. She has zero interest in the fight world – Evie told me so the first time we met – and she looks so much like her mom that I’m going to get myself killed when Bobby catches me staring a moment too long.
But beyond all of that, she’s also too young for me. I’m not old by any standards, almost twenty-four, but I have a six-year-old, and that changes things. Brooklyn, while I’ve never asked, sits somewhere around twenty-one. That means she was fifteen or so when my daughter was conceived. It means she’s a baby. It means I have more chance of not dying if I stare at her mom instead of at her.
My resolve is strong, my decision made, but then she glances over her shoulder, her smoky eyes lock onto mine, and fuck, but she’s pretty.
“Oh, hey, Miles.” She turns to reveal that floaty top open in the front, the white tank that shows off a flat stomach, a silver chain – different to the one she wore in her mom and dad’s kitchen – that dangles between her breasts and hangs right down to her belly. Her shorts have the distressed fraying on the front of her thighs – that trend where rich folks buy jeans, only to take them home and tear them up on purpose – and as I let my gaze travel all the way down legs that I swear start at her armpits, I find bright-pink nail-polished toes strapped inside tan wedge sandals that give her an extra two inches.
Goddammit.
This is not how things were supposed to be when Bobby Kincaid asked me at last year’s tournament to hang around for a minute. He had an offer for me, something he wanted to discuss.
It sure as hell wasn’t his daughter.
“Hey.” I clear my throat and, in my mind, apply boils all over her face. I replace that dimple with a pulsing, garish boil that leaks green goop and drips over her thick bottom lip. “What… uh… hey.”
“You guys are shopping for school?” She looks down to Lyss as she packs her bag and zips it back up. “Finding everything you need?”
I nod and offer my hand for Lyss – which she doesn’t take.
Rejection never hurt so much.
“We’re looking for lunchboxes now, Miss Brooke. I got the ballerina bag, so I’m gonna look for a ballerina lunchbox.”
“That sounds like a wonderful idea.” Brooke turns to the wall of lunchboxes, considers, then points at a yellow Emma Wiggle cooler bag. “I suppose you pack her lunch for her?” She peeks at me in that way she has somehow perfected, even at her age. Dazzling eyes, winking dimple that definitely isn’t a leaking boil. “Because of her allergies?”
I stay exactly where I am – six feet away and with my hands down by my sides. “Yeah. It’s easier to pack her food myself than to worry about what the school might offer. Or some other overly-helpful kid wanting to share their snacks.”
“You know not to take other people’s food?” Brooke studies Lyss. “What if someone offers a delicious chocolate cupcake, and promises it’s okay?”
Lyss’ smile grows sly and knowing as she shakes her head. “I say no thank you. Then when I tell Daddy, he replaces that snack with something else just as yummy, but safe.”
Beautiful, and just as sly, Brooke looks to me. “Very clever.” Then her eyes go back to Lyss. “Are you allowed to have ice cream? Have you visited Miss Dixie’s since you’ve been in town?”
“I have the sorbet.” The excitement of seeing Brooke wears off as Lyss goes back to perusing the shelves. “The strawberry is yummy. Oh, Daddy.” She whips a purple unicorn lunchbox from the shelves and turns to me. “Unicorns!”
“You said you don’t even like unicorns.” I step forward and accept the plastic container when she offers it. I pull the lid open, glance inside at the little compartments, and mentally plan all of the things I’ll be sending to school with her. “This is a good one, baby. Good choice.”
“Oh wait.” She dashes along the row and picks another off the shelf.
“Are you enjoying our town so far?” Brooke murmurs to me in a soft voice. “You’ve been exploring?”
“We have – been exploring, that is.” I clear my throat and hold the unicorn plastic like it might save my life. “The estate is surrounded by the forest, so we’
ve gone for a walk each day, ventured a little further each time. We don’t go too far, because I’m a little scared of getting lost.”
She snickers and tucks that long hair behind her ear. “If you go east, you’ll pass the fort my uncle made when he was a kid. We grew up playing in it, and sometimes even now, you’ll find someone hanging out in there if they need a minute to decompress in the quiet. If you keep heading in that direction, you’ll stumble upon the hospital, and then the freeway. If you head north, you’ll find town. Go a little northeast, and you’ll happen across Ben and Evie’s house. It’s massive, white, and comes with a distinct plantation-from-the-South flavor. It’s very pretty,” she adds on a whimsical sigh.
Catching herself, she grins and blinds me with her smile. “Basically, head in any direction, and you’ll find civilization eventually. Not much out there to be afraid of.”
“You grew up in those woods?”
She nods and reaches out to study a lunchbox bearing a cute feather design. “My parents were already living on the estate when I was born. I’ve never lived anywhere else. And since Bean and Smalls – uh…” She pauses as a beautiful pink tinge colors her cheeks. “Lucy, the dancer? In my world, we call her Bean, and Evie is Smalls – they were a little older than me, and they’d already started exploring. I only had to grab on and keep up as they raced through the trees.”
She replaces the feather lunchbox and runs her hands over another with colorful circles. “The forest is a wonderful place to grow up. It’s so quiet, but so loud at the same time. It’s an amazing place to sit and let your imagination run. I mean, do you ever just walk through the trees and listen to the voices on the breeze?”
“Er…” I laugh. “No, I can’t say I do. You hear voices?”
She chuckles and moves along the aisle, another step closer to Lyss. “That makes me sound certifiable. They’re not actual voices,” she clarifies, “I’m not crazy. I like to be creative. I’m not a fighter like everyone else, I like to do my own thing, so those voices I hear are my creativity running through the woods. It’s… inspiration.”
“What do you—”
“Daddy, I want this one!” Lyssa races along the aisle and throws herself between me and Brooke. We still stand a few feet apart, but now Lyss breaks the current that I swear burns through the air that separates us. “It’s the same. See, Daddy?”
I look down to find a lunch bag that matches her backpack exactly. Glitter dancer, a keychain that hangs off the zipper.
“See?” she presses.
“That one?” I watch on as Brooke stands tall over my baby and peeks at her discovery. “It matches.”
“It was the only one, Daddy! I’m gonna be the only kid with one.”
Or she’ll be one of hundreds, because everyone already bought them out.
“You sure will, baby. It’s perfect. We should go and pay.”
“Okay!” Lyss turns and races for the front counter.
I look up and hesitate. “Well… I’d better–”
“I’ll let you go.” Brooke takes a step back and shows off that dimple that digs into her cheek. Blue eyes shine through the charcoal stuff she smudges around them, then her hand comes to her hip, drawing my eyes down to a dozen bangles that clatter together. “I’ll see you around the estate.”
“Ah… okay. Sure.”
“Bye, Alyssa. It was good to see you.”
“Bye, Miss Kincaid!” She’s already gone, out of sight, though she shouts across the store, “Daddy, can we get sorbet after this?”
Miles
Routine
“Baby!” I stop at the bottom of our staircase, its extravagance a direct contrast to the concrete set we had at our old apartment, and stare toward the empty landing. “Move your booty, Alyssa May, or you can walk to school on your own.”
That’s a bold-faced lie if I ever told one.
“I’m coming, Daddy!”
A heavy thump hits the floor above, but I only have a single second to worry that my girl smacked her head before she comes racing into the hall and skids to a stop at the top of the stairs. In a rush or not, contradiction on my own words, we both know she needs to take the stairs slowly or she’ll be in trouble.
In white tights with sparkling, light-up sandals, a pink tutu-type skirt over that, and a soft yellow shirt with a – yup, a dancer – in pirouette on the front, she holds onto the stair banister with her right hand, and in her left, she squeezes a stuffed otter Lorna bought her during an aquarium visit.
My girl likes to spread her love equally between her stuffed collection, but as she reaches the bottom step with a sly grin, I shake my head and extend a hand. “You know you can’t take him to school, babe.”
“Just one time, Daddy? Please?”
“No, I’m sorry.” I take the stuffed toy and nod toward the kitchen. “Go grab your bag, please. Get it on, then we’re starting our new adventure.”
“Fine.”
With a petulant sigh, she walks around me and heads to the kitchen, and when she’s gone, I wind my arm back and throw the toy to the top of the stairs until it hits the back wall and bounces to the floor.
“Did you pack my lunch, Daddy?”
“Yep.” I turn and race into the kitchen to find her sitting at the counter with her lunch bag open, and its contents spread over the marble top. “Babe! I just packed that. Don’t pull it all out.”
“I’m just looking, Daddy.”
She takes out a juice box with a glinting grin. Juice is like treasure to her, since she so rarely gets it. She picks up a small container with chicken breast, another with a simple salad, and places them back into the cooler bag with the ice brick we froze all night. She takes out a muffin we made yesterday – we food-prepped for the whole week – and a banana after that.
“This is yummy, Daddy. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, baby. Finish packing it up so we can go.” As soon as she zips the little bag closed and stuffs it into the larger school bag, I take the pack from her and hold it out so she can wind her arms through the straps. “Now, what happens if someone offers you a snack from their bag? What do you do?”
“I say no thank you.”
“What do you do if someone is eating PB&J or something like that?”
“I leave the room they’re in. If they’re in the cafeteria, I’ll go sit outside.”
“And if that happens, go find Miss Britt and tell her, because kids are gross, and the PB&J kid probably didn’t wash his hands.”
Giggling, she kicks her legs out as I lower her to the ground and set her on her feet. “I’ll be careful, Daddy.”
“If you get lost?”
“I’ll ask a teacher to help me find my classroom. Or if I see Charlie, I’ll ask him.”
“In that order, okay? Miss Britt, Miss Laine, and then if Charlie is close, ask him. What do you do if someone asks for your food?”
“I tell them no, because that’s all I have and there’s not enough to share.”
“And if someone dips their greedy, filthy hands into your lunchbox before you can tell them no?”
She grins and probably imagines whacking that hypothetical kid. “I walk away, go find Miss Britt. She’ll help me find a new lunch.”
“And she’ll call me,” I finish. “I’ll be two minutes away all day long, okay? No matter what, that’s as far as I’ll be, so if you need me, you find a teacher and they’ll call me. Don’t go near the fence, either.” The thought of someone reaching over and taking my baby wreaks havoc on my emotions as we move toward the front door. “Is that everything?”
Lyss giggles and takes my hand as we stop at the door. “That’s it, Daddy. Lunch, water, hat.” She lifts a foot, and wiggles as she balances. “And I have my lucky shoes.”
“You’re going to do amazing, baby.”
Whenever she asks to be picked up these days, more often than not, I tell her no and to use her legs. She needs to be independent, I tell her. To be strong. But now she’s readying to
go to school, I turn and snatch her up with one hand, while I use the other to open the door to reveal the heat that is already pulsing down from the sun.
This is our first true time alone her whole life. Before moving here, Lorna was up in our space most days, pushing her presence on us even when we didn’t want it. Now, this house is all ours. Every room, every space, every bathroom counter, and every thing in the fridge, it’s just ours.
Soon, when I drop her off at school, I’ll be truly alone for the first time in six years. Longer, even, since before Lyss, Karla and I were inseparable. This is the start of something brand new for us both, and though it’s kind of every dream I’ve dreamed for half a decade, now that I have it, I’m almost freezing up from fear. Indecision. Change is hard, and I’m the grownup in this scenario.
“I hope you have an incredible day, babe.” I pull her in close until I can bury my face in her chocolate hair. “It’s going to be amazing, I know it is.”
I load Lyss up into my now emptied and cleaned car, buckle her in, place the dancer bag on the floor beneath her feet, and then climb into the driver’s seat. I place the keys into the ignition and breathe out a heady breath.
It feels like I’m standing at the top of a tall tree; Lyss is my baby bird, and I’m simply going to drop her and hope she flies.
“Let’s go, Daddy. I don’t want to be late on my first day.”
“Are you nervous?”
I’m a monster for asking her that. I should be encouraging her, quelling her fears, reinforcing that everything will be fine, and yet, I’m the one having a near panic attack as her EpiPens sit in my pocket almost feeling like literal hot pokers against my leg.
Lyss doesn’t carry a pen of her own – she won’t until she’s a little older – and since I won’t be with her for the next six hours, I have to trust that the school is smart enough, fast enough, to get those I supplied them with, and to do the right thing. To save my baby from damage done by a child that doesn’t know better.
