And that had made me want to kiss him all over again—right there in the middle of the restaurant.
I pulled into my driveway and sat for a heartbeat, trying to shift my brain fully into dad mode. Whatever was happening between Jeremiah and me could wait. Debbie came first. Always.
The house was quiet when I let myself in, but I could hear the low murmur of the television in the living room. I found them on the couch—Debbie curled up in a small ball with her head resting on Julia’s lap, fast asleep. Julia was watching what appeared to be one of those reality shows where women in ridiculous outfits screamed at each other over champagne flutes and imaginary slights.
I rolled my eyes internally. Okay, not so internally. My sockets ached after that roll.
Of all the things she could be watching while babysitting my daughter . . .
But the criticism died in my throat as I looked at Debbie’s peaceful face. Whatever Julia’s taste in entertainment, she’d clearly taken good care of my little girl.
I dropped to my knees beside the couch, my hand instinctively reaching out to stroke Debbie’s forehead. She felt cool to the touch, no fever, her breathing steady and even.
“How is she?” I whispered.
Julia looked down from the television, popping her gum with practiced indifference. “She’s fine. I’ve thrown up worse after a kegger. It wasn’t a big deal.”
I blinked rapidly, unsure how to unpack all that.
“What happened exactly? What did she eat? When did she throw up? Was there a fever? Did she complain about her stomach? How long did it last? Did she drink water? She’ll need water. She’s probably dehydrated.”
The questions tumbled out in a rush of parental panic.
“Chill, Mr. J.” Julia’s voice held the patience of an exhausted double-shift nurse in the ICU. “She had some crackers and apple juice around seven, then like ten minutes later she said she felt weird. She threw up once in the bathroom—got it all in the toilet like a champ—and then said she felt better. No fever, no crying, nothing dramatic. We played a little, then she got sleepy. I think she just ate too fast.”
I studied Debbie’s face, looking for any sign of distress. “She didn’t eat anything unusual?”
“Just what you left for her. The leftover mac and cheese for dinner, some Goldfish crackers as a snack. Normal kid food.” Julia paused the television and gave me a look that was surprisingly mature for seventeen. “Seriously, she’s fine. Kids throw up sometimes. It’s like, part of their job description or whatever.”
I nodded but kept my hand on Debbie’s forehead anyway.
The logical part of my brain knew Julia was right—kids did get randomly sick sometimes, and Debbie seemed perfectly peaceful now. Still, the anxious dad in my brain wasn’t ready to stand down from high alert.
“Thanks,” I said finally. “For taking care of her . . . and for calling me.”
“No problem. That’s what you pay me for.” Julia pried herself free of my sleeping baby and gathered her things, slinging her oversized purse over her shoulder. “How was your date?”
Heat crept up my neck. “It was . . . fine.”
“Just fine?” She raised an eyebrow with all the skepticism her seventeen years could muster. “You were pretty nervous when you left.”
“It was good,” I amended. “We had a nice time.”
“Uh-huh. And you came home early because . . . ?”
“Because my daughter was sick.”
Julia’s expression softened, turning almost thoughtful. “You know, most dads would’ve just called later to check in and stayed for dessert.”
I looked down at Debbie, her small hand curled trustingly against my arm. “I’m not most dads. I’m all . . .” My throat tightened. “I’m all she has left.”
“You’re a good dude, Mr. J.,” Julia said with something that might have been approval as she turned toward the door. “See you next Friday?”
I nodded, pulling away from Debbie to walk her to the door, watching until she was safely in her car and backing out of the driveway. When I turned back to the living room, I found Debbie’s eyes fluttering open.
“Daddy?” Her voice was small and groggy.
I quickly took Julia’s place on the couch, letting Debbie’s head settle on my lap. “Hey, Button. How are you feeling?”
