She blinked up at me, her face scrunched with the confusion of someone not quite awake. “Sleepy.”
Relief flooded through me.
She looked perfectly normal—rumpled and drowsy, but entirely like herself. There was no pallor, no distress, just my little girl being exactly what she was supposed to be.
“Julia said you weren’t feeling well earlier.”
“My tummy felt funny. I threw up a lot, but it’s better now.” She nestled deeper against my leg, already drifting back toward sleep.
I looked down at her perfect, peaceful face, at the way her dark eyelashes curved against her cheeks and how her hair escaped its ponytail to curl around her face like a halo. She was so beautiful it sometimes took my breath away—this flawless little person who’d been given to my care, who called me Daddy and trusted me to keep her safe and happy.
But that trust came with a price, didn’t it?
The constant vigilance, the sleepless nights when she was sick, the way my heart stopped every time my phone buzzed during a rare evening out. God, being a parent was complicated. No, that’s not right. It’s simple. Feed, water, poop, repeat.
It just complicates everything else.
What man would willingly sign up for that? Especially a gay man who could have any guy he wanted? Hell, guys were hard enough to pin down without a kid involved. Add a child andpoof, it was like someone tossed a cloak of invisibility over your head so you would never be seen by the gay world again.
What sane person would choose to inherit the responsibility of someone else’s child, the complicated reality of dating a single father?
Jeremiah had been understanding tonight, even sweet about me having to leave early; but that was one dinner. What about when it became a pattern? When Debbie had nightmares and needed me to sleep in her bed, or when she got sick in the middle of the night and I had to cancel plans? When she had school events and recitals and soccer games that took precedence over romantic dinners?
I’d seen the way other men’s faces changed when I mentioned Debbie. The polite smile that didn’t quite reach their eyes, the sudden discovery that they weren’t quite ready for anything serious after all. The slow fade that always followed, leaving me wondering if I was destined to choose between my daughter’s happiness and my own.
Maybe I was being naive, thinking that someone like Jeremiah—young and hot and unencumbered—would want to take on the beautiful chaos that came with loving me.
I was a good guy, I knew that, but still . . .
I was just about to scoop Debbie up and carry her to bed when her eyes fluttered open again, focusing on me with sudden clarity.
“Daddy? How was your date with Willie Wee?”
I nearly choked. “With whom?”
“Willie Wee,” she said matter-of-factly, as though this was the most natural question in the world. “The mailman who brought us the Willie Wee. You went on a date with him tonight.”
My face burned.
Of course, she’d connected those dots. Leave it to a five-year-old to reduce my first romantic evening in years to its most mortifying common denominator.
“His name is Jeremiah,” I said weakly. “And it was . . . nice.”
“Did you hold hands?”
“Debbie . . .”
“Did you kiss him again? Like on the porch?”
“I think it’s time for bed, don’t you?”
But she was wide awake now, sitting up with the bright-eyed interest of someone who’d stumbled onto the most fascinating gossip of her young life.
“I like Willie Wee,” she announced. “He’s nice. And he has pretty eyes. And he bought us the shiny whisk.” She paused, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Are you gonna marry him?”
“We had one dinner, Button.”
“But are you?”
