When We Met: A Small Town Single Dad Romance

by Shey Stahl

  Table of Contents

  When We Met

  Copyrights

  Quote

  Dedication

  Inspiration Playlist

  Chapter 1 – You Can’t Make This Shit Up

  Chapter 2 – Small-Town Drama

  Chapter 3 – Girl Problems

  Chapter 4 – Goodbye California

  Chapter 5 – Spaghetti Night

  Chapter 6 – Lost

  Chapter 7 – Roadkill

  Chapter 8 – Fucked

  Chapter 9 – Don’t open the door

  Chapter 10 – The middle of nowhere

  Chapter 11 – New in Town

  Chapter 12 – Would it be so bad?

  Chapter 13 – Have another

  Chapter 14 – Cock Blocked

  Chapter 15 – Country boys

  Chapter 16 – Pancakes and Poppy

  Chapter 17 – Cast a spell

  Chapter 18 – I’m officially going to hell

  Chapter 19 – Meet the Gradys

  Chapter 20 – My kids lie for me

  Chapter 21 – I’m in deep

  Chapter 22 – Fuck you, FedEx.

  Chapter 23 – Ride a cowboy

  Chapter 24 – Stay

  Chapter 25 - In-laws

  Chapter 26 – Hard to resist

  Chapter 27 – What the fuck am I doing?

  Chapter 28 – Didn’t see that coming

  Chapter 29 – Lies

  Chapter 30 – The Christmas I never had

  Chapter 31 – Where this leaves us

  Chapter 32 – Christmas Morning

  Chapter 33 – Leaving

  Chapter 34 – Gone

  Chapter 35 – Wrong direction

  Chapter 36 – Sign here

  Chapter 37 – Who’s there?

  Chapter 38 – A new beginning

  Chapter 39 – When We Met

  Chapter 40 – Another Grady

  Chapter 41 – Half the Man

  Chapter 42 – Country life

  Books by Shey Stahl

  Acknowledgments

  Meet the Author

  Copyright © 2021 by Shey Stahl

  When We Met

  Printed in the United States of America

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of Shey Stahl.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, sponsors, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editing provided by Becky Johnson, Hot Tree Editing

  Cover Image provided by Pexel

  Cover Design provided by Sommer Stein © Creative Pear Designs

  Interior Formatting by Shey Stahl

  Never underestimate the power of making her pancakes on Sunday morning.

  —j.m. Storm

  Thanks for always being excited to read the next book.

  “Whiskey’d My Way” – Morgan Wallen

  “Cover Me Up” – Morgan Wallen

  “I Hope You’re Happy Now” – Carly Pearce and Lee Price

  “You Should Probably Leave” – Chris Stapleton

  “Somebody’s Problem” – Morgan Wallen

  “Tequila Does” – Miranda Lambert

  “Till There’s Nothing Left” – Cam

  “Quittin’ Time” – Morgan Wallen

  “Half a Song” – Cody Johnson

  Or maybe you can. I’ve never been good at telling a story, but here it goes.

  BARRON

  “Daddy!”

  I couldn’t wait for my kids to say “Daddy.” Now it comes with a “what the fuck now?” thought every time. If you’re a parent, you get it. If not, and you’re thinking of becoming a parent, someday you’re gonna get what I’m saying.

  Running my hand over my face, I roll over in bed for the third time tonight. “Jesus Christ,” I mumble unintelligently, stumbling from my very comfortable bed I’ve yet to sleep soundly in the last three years. At what age do kids sleep through the night? I’m fucking serious here. I’m honestly asking because mine are three and five, and I don’t think I’ve slept soundly since they were born.

  Welcome to being a dad.

  Boys, listen up. I’m gonna give you a piece of free advice here. Think about these things before you have sex. If you value your sleep, stick to your goddamn hand. At least it’s loyal.

  That’s not an exaggeration from a whiny man with a cold, which I have, thinking it’s the end of the world. This is done by a twenty-four-year-old single dad who works both a ranch and a repair shop and averages four hours of sleep a night. To add to the warning, among my superhero abilities, I can recite every line to most Taylor Swift songs (sadly, I’ve learned to enjoy her music), watch Hotel Transylvania at least once a week, and put together a pretty decent ponytail while my three-year-old screams bloody murder because “I’m killing her.”

  “Daddy!” Another scream shrieks through the house.

  Groaning, I run my hands over my face and swing my legs around over the bed. “I’m coming!” I pull on a pair of sweatpants and lift my sore body from my bed. My feet hit the cold wood floors that creak when I stand. I stare down, giving the bed a longing look before I reach for the door handle.

  If you’re thinking, awe, his daughter is having a bad dream and needs him. Ha. I wish. Just wait. Around the corner from my bedroom in our very small home is my daughter’s room. I have two kids. And because apparently, God has a sense of humor, they are both girls. In case you’re doing the math on this one, that equals screwed. Lucky for me, I have guns. And I plan to use them on any boy who asks them to “meet me in the barn.”

  Believe me. I’m overprotective, hard-headed, and think meat and potatoes should be dinner every night. I also hate vegetables. Of any kind. In case you’re wondering.

  None of that matters because it’s the middle of the night, and I don’t want to be up. I want to be sleeping. Sadly, that’s probably not happening the rest of the night. And I’ll tell you why. It starts when I walk into the room next to mine.

  Amongst a blanket fort, an overly thick rug I think was made from horsehair, sadly, Sevyn, the one screaming for me, is wearing a look of utter fear. “Help me!”

  Sev, she’s the youngest and the most mischievous. She can tell you to fuck off with a bunch of her brows, and the next, she’s warming your heart with bright eyes and a cute pout. She’s also impulsive, sneaky, messy, spills everything, and is obsessed with Halloween and all things creepy. I don’t mean she wants to dress up like a princess and go door to door to get candy. What I mean is there’s a chance she might be the devil with blonde curls, and I fear she’s going to be the weird kid who wears black lipstick and heavy eyeliner you’re afraid to talk to. Have you seen that movie The Craft? I think my kid is one of those troubled teenagers trapped in a three-year-old’s body.

  Because of her obsession with all things spooky, you would think not much could shake her. Unfortunately for me, that’s not completely true. Spiders? Sev loves them. Thinks they’re pets. Snakes? Chases them and wants to be friends. Anything that crawls, flies, slithers, or wiggles, she’s cool with.
<
br />   What she hates?

  Being trapped. She’s incredibly claustrophobic. Being swaddled as an infant, straight-up torture chamber for this kid. She’d cry harder. Which brings me to the scene inside her room.

  I move the blanket covering the ceiling light to the side. “What’s wrong?”

  When she spots me in the soft pink glow of their twinkle lights hanging on the ceiling under the blanket, her eyes frantic. Never mind the fire hazard here. Kids don’t think about that shit, and when your girls want a blanket nailed to the ceiling, you do it. Why? Because they will drive you insane until you do it. Also, there’s a good chance I’m a pushover.

  Sev cries harder, tears rolling down her bright red cheeks. “Help!”

  “Shhh. You’re gonna wake your sister.” Pressing my fingers to her lips, I try to untangle her from the mass of blankets she’s somehow twisted herself into as she squirms. “You’re fine. Why are you crying?”

  “I gots to pee!” she yells. Sevyn Rae Grady… she’s dramatic. You can probably tell that by looking at this kid full of pissed-off energy. Everything is a big deal. And she’s 100 percent my clone. Spitting image from looks to personality.

  I try to untangle her, but she’s wrapped up like a damn burrito. “How’d you get like this?”

  She jabs an angry finger at the top bunk and then kicks it for good measure. “Sissy.”

  I grab her leg softly, shaking my head. “Stop that.”

  My girls, they do not get along. Girl fights? They happen daily here. I have a brother, Morgan. I don’t remember fighting with him like Camdyn and Sevyn fight. They’re vindictive, catty and everything pisses them off. They’re also unforgiving. Sev could have done something to piss Camdyn off two months ago, and she’ll remember it for the next year.

  If Morgan pissed me off when I was little, I peed on his bed. And when Morgan was pissed at me, he punched me. Done deal.

  Girls? So much drama. Maybe it’s because they’re close in age, I have no idea. More than likely it’s because you could not have two more opposite girls. Where Sev is the devil hiding behind curls, and sweet when you least expect it, Camdyn is the angel with horns under her halo.

  I don’t know a damn thing about girls. I was raised by a cowboy who had no time for drama. He taught us you get up before the sun rises, tie your boots tight, and push it to the limit. If your hands aren’t bleeding, you aren’t working hard enough.

  Sev stares at my face when I untangle her, blinking slowly. “You not know what it’s like to be trapped.”

  I stare at her, blinking slowly like she did. “Oh, but I do.”

  She has no idea what I’m talking about. Smiling, I haul her over the top of me. With little feet scrambling, Sev runs to the bathroom. I’m thankful she’s potty trained because I’m over the diaper days. I hated them.

  “Did you flush the toilet?” I ask, helping her up into the bed.

  “No.” Of course not. Back in the bed, she sniffs, rubbing her nose. “I can’t breathe.”

  Rolling my eyes, I tuck her back in, only to have her toss the blanket off again like it’s a personal insult. “Breathe through your mouth, Sev.”

  “I can’t,” she cries again. This drama queen spends a lot of time crying. “My body not work like that.” She sniffs dramatically to prove her point. “I breathe wif my nose.”

  The sad part is she honestly believes this. She also thinks she has two throats. One for eating, one for talking. I haven’t corrected her yet.

  She holds my hand in hers. “Sleep, Daddy.”

  There’s that cute pout I was telling you about.

  I sigh because that translates to me sleeping with her, which I do about three nights a week. Never, ever let them sleep in your bed. You’ll never get them out of it. Did that for a year, and I decided they’d taken over every other part of my life, I needed one place I had to myself. My bed. And let me tell you, there hasn’t been a girl in that room in a long time.

  You know those parents who say—and I was one of them—that said “oh, I can’t wait until my baby can do more things. They’ll be more independent.” Keep fucking dreaming. It will never happen. Sure, they’re independent in the sense that they sit up without falling over and you don’t have to wipe their ass quite as much, but when they want something, they will pull out that cute pout and make you feel like if you don’t give in, your heart will break in two. Toddlers are the ultimate con artists, and the art of manipulation is a quality they possess.

  My advice to anyone thinking of having kids?

  Wear a condom.

  You are welcome. Best damn advice you’ve ever gotten, huh?

  Don’t believe me? Look at my six-foot frame squeezed into the bottom bunk with a poster of Marilyn Manson taped to the top bunk staring down at me. Yep, you heard me right. Marilyn fucking Manson.

  “Go to sleep,” I tell Sev when she starts trying to sing in my ear.

  “I can’t,” she whispers, her voice a growl. We call it her monster voice, and it’s about as creepy as the poster. “I’m not tired.” Rolling over, she flops half her body on mine. I can feel her eyes on me before the question pops out. “Where did I come from?”

  Not this again. I turn my head from the poster to Sev. “We’ve been over this,” I whisper. “From your mom’s tummy.” I shift in the bed, noticing it’s damp. “Is your sippy cup in the bed again?” Those damn cups say leakproof, but they lie. “Your bed is wet.”

  Ignoring my question, she asks again, “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  She sighs as if this is exhausting to her. Welcome to my world, kid. “Why I in her tummy?”

  “Because you were.” I run my fingertips over her cheeks, my eyes heavy.

  She blinks, bright-eyed. “Why?”

  “You’re making me question why I helped you out of your blanket burrito.”

  She sighs, rubbing her stuffed up nose. “I haves water?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  As you can tell, “why” is her favorite word. Groaning, I let out an exaggerated sigh. “Because. You’ll pee the bed.”

  She smiles, sneaky and kinda creepy. “Too late.”

  There I sit, staring at Marilyn Manson, trapped in a pee bed next to a toddler, wondering if I have the strength to get up and change her sheets.

  You’re probably wondering how this all happened. I’m not referring to the poster, although that’s a question for another day, but the “single dad with two kids” thing. Where’s the mom?

  That’s a long story. I don’t know if I can even put it into words that will make sense, but I’ll try.

  She left.

  Not what you were looking for? Fair enough. I suppose I can expand. I’ve got time, right?

  You’ve heard this story before, more than likely. If not, you’ve been living under a rock, but I’ll give you the short version.

  Football star, homecoming queen.

  Still not enough? Okay, I’ll continue. He fucking loves her. Falls head over goddamn heels. And they fuck. A lot. She gets pregnant behind the bleachers of the stadium. He forgoes the scholarship he had to play college ball, and she gives birth to a baby girl that fall. The boy? The one who thought his life was over with two pink lines? He falls madly in love with being a dad.

  And the girl in this story? She was never “small town” and wanted out of North Texas.

  No, this isn’t the start of a country song, though I’m sure somewhere it is.

  Because this story, the one of a boy who swore to give that girl he absolutely fucking adored everything she ever wanted, well, he works two jobs and still can’t give her what she wants. It doesn’t end happily ever after. It ends with her ring on the nightstand and my heart in the trash beside it.

  Loving each other doesn’t mean a happy marriage. Hating each other doesn’t mean divorce. Liking one another doesn’t mean respect.

  See where I’m going with that?

  Yeah, me neither. It’s the middle of the night
. I can’t think straight. But I can show you how it played out in twenty sentences or less.

  I’m pregnant.

  Marry Me.

  Are we too young?

  We can make it.

  I do.

  I’m so in love with you.

  I’ll give you the world.

  Why do you work so much?

  I do it for you.

  Are you happy?

  I’m pregnant again.

  I love you.

  I’m unhappy.

  I’m trying.

  Loving me shouldn’t be this hard.

  It’s not. I just don’t love you anymore.

  We can work it out.

  I’m leaving.

  The end.

  She chose to leave, to fall out of love with me. Ready for the brutal part? I let her, and when she left the ring on the nightstand, I did nothing to stop her because there are some heartaches that you’ll never get over. Like girls who give back diamond rings.

  I try to get comfortable on the bed with my feet hanging off the edge and a stuffed animal practically up my ass. I think about Tara, my wife. The one who thought we weren’t enough. The one who Camdyn has her smile and Sev has her temper.

  So you might wonder how’d I get over her?

  Well, after drinking more than I needed to, I went off-the-rails crazy, and rock bottom became a hell I visited often. There for a while, I couldn’t even force myself out of bed. What got me through it? It wasn’t the whiskey I thought could take the pain away and it wasn’t my brother telling me Elvis was right: fools fall in love. It wasn’t even my dad telling me she wasn’t worth it. It was the newborn and one-year-old she left me with. No one in the world would love them more than I do.

  Beside me, Sev’s asleep, and I’m still staring at that damn poster. I pull out my cell phone and check the time. Four in the morning. Might as well get up.

  Prying myself from the bed, I make my way into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Outside, a ribbon of navy blue lines the horizon. With a million memories in my head, I think about Tara again and the last words I said to her.

  A heat-soaked summer night, wind kicking up, her hand rested on my cheek, and my knees found the dirt. “I love you. Isn’t that enough?” I said some other things, lost my temper, sighed a lot, probably yelled. The list goes on.