Sweet Baby Jesus, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen that much flesh standing only a few feet away. I found myself wondering what it would be like to see that smile again, maybe while Debbie played in the yard and we could actually finish a conversation without interruption. But reality crashed down like cold water.
What was I even thinking?
Men who looked like Jeremiah—all broad shoulders and easy confidence—they didn’t go for scrawny nerds who spent their days organizing bookshelves and weekends building blanket forts. Jeremiah probably dated personal trainers or construction workers, people who could match his energy and strength. Hell, he could date any man he wanted—or woman. My gaydar had sounded its happy little trumpets at his arrival, but it was about as accurate as Siri’s autocorrect feature after a night of digital drinking.
Jeremiah was probably into millionaire stock brokers who spent every waking moment bodybuilding and gulping protein shakes, not anxious single fathers who lived month to month on a school salary and got winded climbing a flight of stairs.
Wait.
That wasn’t fair, was it?
I straightened slightly, my inner voice rallying in defense.
I was smart—reallysmart—with two degrees, I could discuss literature and history for hours, could solve problems that left other people scratching their heads. I was organized, reliable, the kind of person others came to when they needed something done right.
And with kids?
I was amazing with kids. And not just with Debbie, but all my students loved me. I had patience, creativity, knew how to make learning fun.
I was a catch, damn it. A real catch.
Any reasonable person could see that. Still, doubts crept in like shadows at dusk, stronger than my momentary confidence.
Hell, Jeremiah could probably bench press me without breaking a sweat. Or break me without using a bench . . . and I was basically a toothpick with teeth and glasses.
Okay, that made more sense in my head.
I wasn’t even good at self-loathing. Fuck me.
My reflection caught in the kitchen window—my thin frame, unmanageable hair, the same bottle-bottom glasses I’d worn since college. I wasn’t athletic. I wasn’t confident. I was just . . . not enough. Never had been, really.
I mentally shooed the thoughts away like persistent flies.
This was my life—Debbie and me, making pancakes on Sunday mornings, building a quiet existence in our little house. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours, and it was beautiful. I loved her more than life. What parent could ask for more than the unfettered adoration of their child? I didn’t need some hunk of man flesh to affirm my worth—or the life I’d built. I was strong in ways most men would never understand.
Yeah, that.
Aside from allthat, I’d probably never see Jeremiah again. At least, not in any meaningful way. Dropping off boxes on my porch didn’t exactly count as date material. There was no sense sulking over the man-that-wasn’t when I never really had a shot to begin with. I was being silly and needed to refocus on what was right in front of me, what mattered most.
Men be damned.
“Daddy, is the handsome mailman gonna come back?” Debbie asked suddenly, swinging her legs hard enough to kick thecounter and rattle my mixing bowl. “I hope he does. He was really nice, and had pretty eyes like the sky. Maybe next time he can bring a pony instead of just a Willie Wee. Do you think ponies fit in mail trucks?”
I opened my mouth to say . . . well . . . something—
“DADDY! THE PANCAKE!”
Debbie’s shriek jolted me back to reality. I looked down to find the first pancake had transformed into something resembling charcoal, as black as the chocolate chips that dotted its surface.
“Well, shit . . . I mean shoot,” I muttered, quickly flipping the ruined pancake onto a plate.
“You said a bad word,” Debbie observed in the matter-of-fact tone only children could master.
“Sorry, baby. Sometimes pancakes make Daddy forget his manners.” I scraped the burned remnants into the trash and reached for more batter. “Looks like we’re starting over.”
Starting over.
Wasn’t that the story of my life?
