I roll my eyes. “It's not exactly what I went to college for.” I glance at Claire. She's paging through a book. “It was a desperate time, and I graduated college with an infant. I started as an assistant. Then I took my Series 7 and 63, and here I am.” I put my hands in the air, palmsup.
Isaac steps closer. The heat I felt when I went to his apartment starts up, like a push-to-start burner. “I love how you handled everything. How you took care of our girl. How you worked sohard.”
I don't know how to work in any way but hard. I'm not a soft person. I don't wallow. Shit got tough, but I handled it. I hardly think that makes mespecial.
“It's what a decent human being would do. It's what we're hard-wired to do—care for our young. Most of us,anyway.”
Isaac catches my hand and squeezes. “Most of us.” He steps back, and my hand falls from his grip. “See you Monday morning. At your dad's house. Eight-fifteen.”
“Eight-fifteen,” I echo, watching him walkaway.
“Mommy, let’s go.” Claire's impatient voice sounds from thebackseat.
I climb in and drive home, my mindfull.
How can I possibly say yes to Isaac? What about my dad? We have a rhythm. A routine. On Friday nights, I make tacos and he cleans up the kitchen. I fold all his laundry. He reads extra bedtime stories to Claire. He's not just my dad anymore. He's myfriend.
Isaac's invitation plagues me all night, gnawing at my stomach and stealing my appetite. At dinner I attempt to eat but end up pushing the food around on my plate. My dad asks about our zoo trip, I give a perfunctory answer, and he scrutinizes me but stays quiet. By the time I lay down to sleep, my brain isexhausted.
I haven't decided one way or the other. All I know is that I have to do what's right for Claire. I'm just not sure what thatis.
She called me Daddy.
Daddy.
My little girl called meDaddy.
Her tiny voice, thrilled at the idea of having me take her to school, so excited she called me Daddy. A second time, according to Aubrey. I knew right then they should come live with me. Screw thetiming.
We barely know each other. Aubrey’s right. Maybe we'll drive each other crazy. Maybe Aubrey is a slob. Maybe she leaves dishes on the counter. MaybeIleave dishes on the counter. Maybe all three of us will leave our damn dishes on the damn counter. Whatever. None of thatmatters.
Aubrey just needs time. She's a rational person, a person who evaluates risk for a living. She didn't understand why I was amused yesterday. How could something like that not be funny? Safety First Aubrey literally determines the riskiness of a business for a living. It's the perfect job forher.
I'm so stoked to take Claire to school that I woke up at five a.m., eyes popping wide open. Energy flowed through me like a river. I went to the gym and punched a bag until my arms burned. Unless there's an emergency, which could easily happen, I don't have a scheduled surgery for two more days. Enough time for me to eat some bananas and keep my arms from getting toosore.
It's only seven, but I'm dressed and ready. I wonder what Aubrey's doing right now?What’s the morning routine? Claire's an independent child—I recognized that right away. So much like her mother. But with her broken arm, she needshelp.
I look around at my place, picturing Claire here, needing me to make breakfast, tie her shoes, get her to pre-school.
I grab my bag, pat my pockets to check for my wallet and phone, and leave. I don't think Aubrey will mind if I'm early. Extra hands,right?
* * *
Aubrey minds.She's trying not to look annoyed, but her eyebrows keep pulling together. She answered the door with wet hair, one of those towels that looks like a turban in her hand. She's wearing light gray pajamas pants and a white tanktop.
“You're early,” she says tightly, smoothing back her hair with her free hand. The moisture makes it glisten. It has that messy look, the fresh from the showertangles.
I clear my throat. It's hard to collect my wandering thoughts, but I do. “I thought maybe you'd like help getting Claire ready forschool.”
She opens her mouth, pauses, then closes it. I can guess what she was going to say. Something likeI've been doing it on my own and I can keep doing it on my own.A comment like that would be part of Aubrey'sarmor.
“Sure.” She walks ahead of me, using the small towel in her hand to squeeze water from her hair and catching it with the other end. “Claire’s eating her breakfast.” We walk into the kitchen, where Claire sits in a chair that dwarfs her. When she sees me, she hops down, nearly falls, rights herself, and runs tome.
“Daddy's here!” she yells, hugging my knees. Through the thin fabric of my scrubs I feel her cast digging into the back of myleg.
“Hey, little lady.” I swoop her up into my arms and brush back a curtain of long brown hair that has fallen into her face. “How are you this morning?” Sparing a quick glance at her mother tell’s me Aubrey’s still not used to Claire calling me Daddy. Honestly, neither am I, but that doesn’t mean I don’t loveit.
“Mommy made me pancakes this morning. With jelly. Strawberry jelly. Because I don't like syrup.” She sticks out her tongue foreffect.
