CORBIN
I should feel bad that my daughter sees herself as my manager. But I don’t. She took it upon herself, just like she’s taking it upon herself right now to review our calendars as we walk from her middle school toward The Embarcadero.
“Let’s see,” she says, studying her phone as we wait at a light. The bay glitters on the other side of the waterfront, with shadows from the Bay Bridge shimmering across the calm waters. “There’s an afternoon practice today. I’ll work on my homework with Jessica and Violet at the arena. But I also took the liberty of making a punch list for everything you need to accomplish over the next five weeks.”
I stifle a smile as I reach for her hand when the crosswalk light changes. The Cozy Valley Middle School was an option, but the STEM program at this school in the city is unbeatable, and Charlotte’s already decided she wants to be a veterinarian. She’s eager to take as many science classes as possible. Since she’s a few blocks from the arena, that also means it’s “bring your daughter to work day” pretty often, and you won’t see me complaining.
“Okay, what’s on this list?” I ask, hoisting her backpack higher on my shoulder as we walk along the waterfront, the salty air floating past us as we near the Ferry Building.
She sticks her tongue out in concentration, scrolling through some app on her phone that I don’t even recognize. She stops at a color-coded schedule labeledTimeline. Bars stretch across the screen, but they blur together, mostly looking like blue and mustard to me.
“Oh, wait, let me switch.” She changes the bars to patterns instead of colors, like diagonal stripes and cross-hatches. It’s thoughtful, the way she’s figured out tips so that I can see things better, but I don’t want her to feel like she has to take care of me. It’s my job to look out for her.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say. “I can read the words on each bar. See? Painting, display cases, menus?—”
“You can read, Dad. Well done.” Charlotte shoots me a look. “But I can change them to make it easier for you. So why wouldn’t I?”
A kernel of guilt wiggles through me that she’s done this on her own. Sure, I’m organized, so on the one hand, it’s like father, like daughter. But is she growing up too fast? It’s one thing for her to use her chip-off-the-old-block organizational skills to manage her homework; it’s another to use them to manage me. And evidently, the bakery.
“You made a timeline for the bakery?” I ask as I get a good look at her screen.
She gives me a stare that I translate asObviously. “How else would you know what you need to do and when you need to do it? I keep our calendar. It’s good training for me. Organization is important for any scientist.”
She’s not wrong, and I suppose I don’t need to feel guilty. Independence is a good thing, right? Right.
“Okay, hit me,” I say as we pass the Ferry Building. I force my gaze away from it and my thoughts away from last week’s white-hot kiss there with my best friend’s sister. The woman who has now—it’s still a little surreal—become my new business partner.
I’m still wrapping my head around how she went from being my friend’s little sister to a woman I impulsively kissed one afternoon, contemplated dating during the brief span of a hockey game, then somehow went into business with the very next day.
I haven’t seen Mabel since Sunday. I was out of town for a quick road trip—won one, lost one—but we have texted, sometimes even intentionally. Maybe when I see her tomorrow to go over the plans and the name and the menu, I’ll have forgotten how she felt in my arms.
I kick the thoughts from my mind and focus on my kid, who reviews the schedule as we walk past the statue of a giant, fearsome fox outside our arena.
“And then the garage doors will be installed,” she says.
The sound of sneakers slapping against stone grows louder. Miller jogs up beside us, barreling right into the conversation like he belongs there—that’s the goalie’s style. He’s a Golden Retriever off the ice, a Pit Bull on it. “You getting a new garage? Please tell me we’re gonna put a home theater in it, with a big screen and a popcorn machine.” He grins at Charlotte, giving a hopeful thumbs-up. He’s like a big kid himself.
She scrunches her brow, no doubt picturing the suggestion. “That’s not a bad idea. Maybe we should do our garage too, Dad? A movie theater would be fun for my documentaries.”
Miller chuckles. “Of course that’s what you want to watch.”
I ruffle Charlotte’s hair. “And we like that.”
“I know. Trust me, I wish Hayden wanted to watch, I dunno, science docs,” Miller adds, a note of longing in his voice as he talks about the teenage brother he’s been raising.
As we near the main doors to the arena, Charlotte turns to my teammate, waggling her phone. “You can tell Hayden to text me if he needs any help organizing his sessions with his band.”
Miller gives her adon’t go therelook. “You arenotgonna encourage my little brother to spend even more timeshreddinghis guitar.”
“Come on,” I say to Miller, smacking his arm. “What’s the big deal? He’s in high school.”
“And I need him to focus on homework, not being a rock star in his mind.” Miller turns to Charlotte and rubs his hands. “So, is it a movie theater? I might come over and catch up on some thrillers.”
“By all means, make yourself at home,” I say dryly, though of course Miller needs no encouragement on that front. He’s like Seven. Sometimes he appears on my doorstep at mealtime. Or snack time. Or movie time.
Charlotte laughs, shaking her head. “No, the garage is for the bakery my dad is opening.”
It’s as if someone muted the soundtrack of our day. Miller jerks his gaze to me, eyes wide and full of questions. “Well, this just got real interesting.”
