I head down to the garage for a workout, lifting weights and running on the treadmill beside my bike until I’m wrecked. When I go back inside to shower, Daisy is in the kitchen, sitting at the table in her pajamas with a glass of juice and her tablet.
“You’re up early,” I say, heading to the cabinet. “It’s Saturday. You can sleep in, you know.”
“Dad, how old did you say Poppy’s son was?” she asks.
I shrug. “Don’t remember.” I load up the coffeemaker and throw her a look. “Younger than you, I think. Why?”
She waves her hand. “I want to start babysitting next summer. Maybe Poppy’s son can be my first client.”
I wipe my sweaty forehead with the hem of my T-shirt. “Sounds like a plan,” I tell her.
“What kind of restaurant is it?” she asks. “Where are we going?”
The blue stripe of color in her hair is tangled at the top of a messy bun. She sounds so serious. She’s deep in planning mode. I pour myself a cup of black coffee, kiss her head, and sit down beside her.
“Ew, you’re so sweaty,” she frowns.
“Worked out,” I say, drinking my coffee.
“I hope you plan on cleaning up before your big date.”
I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth twitches into a smile that my extremely focused kid doesn’t notice. “It’s not a date, Dais. It’s a meal.”
“Why do adults always try to overcomplicate things?” she asks. “Like, seriously, Dad. Who asks somebody they hardly know out to dinner just as friends? You’re actuallynotfriends. So, it’s a date. A weird one with kids, but whatever. You do you, boo boo.”
I almost choke on my coffee. “You’re thirteen years old,” I say. “Shouldn’t you be playing video games or something?”
“Oh, I will,” she says. “But first, breakfast. I’m feeling omelets.”
She turns off her tablet and heads to the fridge. She pulls out all the ingredients and gets to work. The last few days have been a blur of adjusting to the new normal. Buying food was easy. I just let the kids drive the shopping cart and get what they wanted.
But seeing how grown up my girls are has been hard. In the past when they’ve slept over, we oftenstayed at the compound and ran out for breakfast to a diner or a donut shop. But I told the kids they need to live their lives like they would if they were with their mom, just with the other parent. I want the transition to feel as close to normal as I can make it. And they’ve shown me too much about what normal with Shayla was like.
The first night, Holly asked me what time I wanted her to wake me up in the morning.
“Why would you wake me up?” I asked.
She looked at me like I was stupid. “You need to take us to school, Dad. The bus won’t pick us up at your house?—”
“Our house,” I corrected and held up a hand. “I know about the bus, Hols. I’m asking why I would need my daughter to wake my ass up in the morning. I know how to set an alarm.”
Holly was silent as she thought about that. “Are you sure you’ll get up, though? I mean, if we’re late…”
I raked a hand through my hair and tried not to yank it from the roots. “Isn’t it normally the parent screaming at the kids to get up and get ready for school on time?”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t know.”
But I did. I knew exactly what that meant. Just like I got it when, on Friday night, Holly walked into my room and helped herself to my clothing hamper.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked.
“When do you do laundry?” she asked, looking apologetic.
“Whenever the hell I want to,” I say, pointing for herto set down the basket. “And I do my laundry my damn self.”
Holly nodded. “Even towels? I can throw yours in with ours.”
“Even towels.” I’d growled and taken my basket back from Holly.
