I don’t argue.1
I take another sip and set my beer on the wooden porch next to a couple ducks and an adorable snoozing German Shepherd. Pleased as punch, Jonah hands over the instrument and pick, and I sit back. He takes the other chair, waiting patiently for me to tune. Mandolins are temperamental and require constant tuning, but Jonah looks like he could listen to me pluck the same open string a million times.
When I’m satisfied, it’s his turn, and he’s done in less than ten seconds. He tilts his head. “Lead the way, Renée.”
I have no hesitation and I have no fear. I don’t overanalyze the song choice or worry if my voice can handle it. The music finds me, and Jonah strums along trustingly the whole time.
My girls come and go, running between the barn and porch, listening to us play and putting in requests. I haven’t the faintest idea how to play some of their songs, but Jonah sets up his laptop with the sheet music—most likely because he can’t say no to these girls.
For hours we play side-by-side and take turns listeningto each other explain our lives, our histories, and hope through music. It’s an easy Sunday—golden and sweet—the kind that inspires poets and dreamers.
The afternoon hums around us and time blurs. At some point, the kids set off down the main trail of Jonah’s property with one of the goats running alongside them. Girls will be girls.
I set my mandolin aside, fingers buzzing from hours strumming. Jonah leans back, eyes half-closed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. That’s when Delta barrels up the porch stairs, clutching a pair of kitchen scissors like a prize.
“Jonah, can I cut your hair?” she asks, breathless.
He’s already untying his bun. “Sure.”
“Whoa, whoa, hold your fire.” I reach for the shears she clearly took from our kitchen as Lo joins us, also out of breath. They both look at me like I’m about to crush their plans and a sharp ache forms in my heart. I don’t blame them. Only a couple months ago I would have pulled the emergency brake on a situation like this.
It’s a good thing Cool Mom is here instead.
“These aren’t the right kind of scissors,” I whisper, like we’re hatching a top-secret plan. “Come on!”
The three of us race for the house while Jonah fluffs his hair. “Good scissors are in the top drawer next to the fridge,” he casually calls out.
We reappear with the good scissors and a hair brush I swiped from the bathroom. Judging by the hair woven into the bristles, he definitely shares it with King.
The girls take turns brushing his ridiculously long hair, and he teases them the whole time. Dramatically yelping and groaning, drag after drag. Then I watch as Delta grabs the shears in her hand and sticks out her tongue to better concentrate. She hesitates over the bottom three inches, then suddenly jerks her hand four inches higher and cuts.
My heart stops, and I’m too afraid to blink in case I miss something even worse.
Jonah can’t see what’s happening, but I know he canfeelhow high she’s cutting. Yet he’s completely unphased. Lo raptly watches her sister chop the rest off in an uneven layer and then taps Jonah on the shoulder.
“You wanna turn?” he asks her.
She bobs her head.
“Go for it, Shortcake.”
I send Cool Mom on a smoke break and hold up one finger. “Okay,” I wince. “But only a little bit, Lo. Just—” I point to a particularly uneven part. “How about this bit right... here?”
Thankfully Loretta has never been as much of a risk taker as her sister, and she snips off a satisfying section.
Jonah shakes his hair out. “Am I finally beautiful?” I hand him my phone with the front camera open and he gasps. “I love it,” he exclaims, flipping his new shoulder-length hair.
The girls dissolve into a puddle of giggles and are snatched up in his arms. His hair cut is objectively awful, and the more I study it, the more it makes me laugh. Eventually I find myself wheezing and holding my sides in pain. Dogs and ducks and goats flock to the chaos, eager to protect my daughters from their father.
That last thought buzzes through my mind well into the evening. I meanttheir fatheras inJonah is the animals’ father. That’s what I meant, but I can’t stop myself from considering the other way that sentence could be considered.
Their father.
For dinner, Jonah orders pizza from Mike’s Deli and Tractor Repair, the only place in town that will deliver to our street. The pizza is hot garbage, always has been, but somehow it’s never tasted better.
We help Jonah feed and medicate all his feathered andfur babies before the pair of us head out on the trail. The girls are somewhere, doing their best to avoid going home for bath time, and I don’t blame them. I don’t want this day to end either. But when the sun begins her sleepy descent, we both know it’s time.
The trailhead opens to his backyard and he places a hand on my shoulder for a gentle squeeze. “Let me go put everyone in their stalls for the night,” he says. “And then I’ll walk you home.”
