But she had already launched herself into the mix, grabbing both our hands and jumping up and down as Kelly Clarkson returned to the stage for yet another fan favorite. The three of us careened around the kitchen in a tangle of arms and laughter, Debbie singing at the top of her lungs in a voice that was approximately seventy percent enthusiasm and thirty percent actual melody. None of her words matched the lyrics, which made everything that much funnier.
We all belted out lyrics together, and I realized that this—this ridiculous, chaotic, perfectly imperfect moment—wasexactlywhat happiness felt like.
When the song ended, we collapsed against the kitchen island, all breathing hard and grinning like maniacs.
“That,” Debbie announced, “was the best dance party ever.”
“Agreed,” Julia said, wiping tears from her eyes. “Though next time, we need to work on your choreography, Mr. J. It needs more . . . structure.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
“What smells so good?” Debbie asked, suddenly distracted by the kitchen aromas.
“Daddy’s making a fancy dinner for Willie Wee,” I said, then immediately regretted revealing that information in front of Julia.
“Ooooh,” Julia drawled, her grin turning wicked. “A fancy dinner for Willie Wee. Is that what we’re calling it?”
“It’s just dinner,” I protested weakly.
“Uh-huh. That’s why you’re stress-cooking gourmet food and having dance parties in your kitchen prior to seeing someone with a nickname usually reserved for female enjoyment.”
“He’s not a . . . female enjoyer,” Debbie said, planting both fists on her hips. “He’s a delivery man with ginormous muscles and the best whisk in the South.”
Julia doubled over wheezing.
“Best whisk . . . in the South . . . I bet he does!”
“Ladies,” I said, attempting my best dad warning tone, only to earn giggles from both of the girls. I blew out a sigh and waved my wooden spoon about the kitchen. “I always cook like this.”
“Mr. J, I’ve seen you cook. Kraft mac and cheese does not require apricot glaze or interpretive dance.”
Debbie had wandered over to peek at the pork, standing on her tiptoes to see onto the top of the stove. “It looks really fancy, Daddy, like restaurant food.”
“Thank you, Button. At least someone appreciates my culinary efforts.”
“Oh, I appreciate them,” Julia said with a smirk. “I just think it’s cute that you’re going to all this trouble to impress your boyfriend.”
“He’s not my—” I started, then stopped.
Was he my boyfriend? Were we at that stage? What exactly were we?
“Daddy’s got a boyfriend. Daddy’s got a boyfriend,” Debbie chanted, marching around the kitchen like a tiny conquering hero.
“He’stotallyyour boyfriend,” Julia said, reading my expression with teenage omniscience. “And he’s lucky to have someone who dances around the kitchen making him gourmet dinners.”
She gathered up Debbie’s bag and headed for the door. “Come on, Little Bug, Chloe’s waiting for us. This is going to be the best sleepover ever.” She paused a heartbeat, then settled her raptor’s gaze on me. “Second best, if I read the room correctly.”
“Julia—”
“Do I have to go?” Debbie asked, looking longingly at the fancy food. “I want to have dinner with Willie Wee, too.”
“Next time,” I promised, kissing the top of her head. “You’re going to have so much fun with Chloe and all your friends.”
“Will you tell him I said hi? And that I hope he likes your fancy cooking?”
“You bet. I’ll tell him.” I kneeled to kiss her forehead and straighten the pink bow in her hair.
She was growing up so fast.
