“Promise you won’t make fun of me?”
“I’ll only make fun of you if you wear a pair of jorts out in public.”
“What are—never mind. You know I don’t buy into religious stuff, and I’m not sure what higher power or god might be out there. It sounds stupid, but it feels like the universe is telling me Ihaveto do this shoot. As much as I’m dragging my feet, my gut says it's important. A pivotal moment in my life I can’t miss out on. I’ve only experienced a sensation like this one other time, and I think I’d be stupid to ignore it.”
“And when was that?”
“When I met your mother.”
Maven’s eyes widen in surprise.
In these moments of quiet contemplation and consideration, my daughter looks so much like me. Her face is a mirror image of my own, down to the slope of her nose and the line of her jaw. Hazel eyes that show every glimmer of emotion, cursedly readable, and matching forehead wrinkles when we’re thinking too hard.
The other components of what make her unique—her stature, mannerisms and lack of filter—come from Katie, my ex-wife. The woman I fell in love with in a large, loud lecture hall, the smell of freshly sharpened pencils and dry-erase markers hanging in the air. We met in Trigonometry. I was in the class because of a screwup with my high school transcripts. She was there because, for a fleeting moment, she aspired to be a math teacher. I made a terrible joke about tangents and co-signs. She burst out laughing. My cheeks turned red, and we were married at twenty-three.
Our family looks different now from a half decade ago when we would spend weekends at museums and weeknights gathered around the table for a communal dinner. We’re no longer whole, broken into autonomous parts after an amicable divorce and Katie’s remarriage, but Maven’s still my greatest gift. Even when she’s giving me shit and ribbing me, a constant amusement for her, there’s an indescribable proudness in knowing she’smine. As a parent, there’s no greater joy than looking at your offspring and seeing the love and devotion you’ve instilled in them reflected tenfold.
“Anyway,” I continue and gesture at the clothing. I’ve emptied every drawer from my dresser and yanked every shirt off its hanger. “That’s enough philosophy for one night. What looks best?”
“You’renotwearing a Ramones T-shirt in pictures that are going to end up on the internet,” Maven says, horrified. She shoves me out of the way. The faded cotton top with a hole in the armpit gets tossed on my nightstand, covering the lampshade and darkening the room.
“I love that shirt.”
“It’s uncool.” Another item of clothing—a black V-neck this time—is next to be sacrificed. “Don’t you sleep in this? Come on, Dad. I swear if you tell me you own a pair of white New Balances, I’m going to stay at Mom’s for a week.”
I bark out a laugh at her fierce mockery. “I don'tsleepin it. It’s casual wear. Keep making fun of the guy who pays your allowance, and see where it gets you.”
“Your best friend is a literal millionaire and he buys me stuff all the time.” Mae taps her cheek, deep in thought. She points at the gray sweater I’ve been considering for the better part of an hour. It matches the clouds on a snowy day, or a dull nickel found on the sidewalk. Heads up, of course, a rush of good luck awarded to its discoverer.
I need all the fucking luck I can get.
“That one. It’ll bring out your eyes.” Her chin lifts toward a pair of jeans next. They’re fairly new, never worn and impossibly stiff. “Those, too.”
“Shoes?”
“Black boots and your nice jacket.”
I exhale a grateful sigh and pull her into a tight hug. “Thanks, kiddo. I’m going to ignore the paid labor and pretend you helped out of the kindness of your heart.”
“I did. I promise. Love you, Dad.” Mae grins. “So this photo shoot is with a woman, hm?”
“Oh, Christ. Not this again.”
I know exactly where this conversation is headed. Maven is a self-proclaimed romantic, and I have the 2005 film adaptation ofPride and Prejudiceto thank for her affinity with love stories. The movie has become an obsession, and she constantly asks if there’s anyoneneworspecialin my life. When a woman looks my way at a swim meet, honing in on my button up and tie, Maven concocts a narrative in her head, saying maybethat oneis my soulmate.
I don’t have the heart to tell her I think soulmates are a load of shit. The idea that there’s another person out there made specifically for me? I’m cynical. A surefire nonbeliever, and I’m not buying into it.
“Do you know who she is?”
“Nope.”
“What if you two meet, hit it off, and fall in love?”
“Not happening. It’s not a date. It’s a business transaction on behalf of someone else.”
“No wonder you’re single. You refer to women as a business transaction.”
“I mean, I’m not looking at this as a romantic encounter. I’m doing it to help a friend.”
