“You got yourself a deal.” She extends her little pink glove toward me, and I can’t resist. When she reaches out, I grab her, pulling her toward me and, in the process, knocking her off-balance and catching her in a big embrace. I start to tickle her, and her laughter echoes and melts a little of my frozen heart. In my periphery, I see two women walking around the block, and one places her hand to her heart as the other woman waves at me.
“Hey, Manny, let us know if you need help with anything!”
The other woman chimes in on the conversation. “Yeah, any day or any night, Manny.” The first woman hits her on the arm, and they both giggle as they power walk a little faster. They must see my face harden with disgust. They have no shame doing that around my little girl, and if they didn’t get the picture before, then maybe the look I send their way will convey it.
They walk around this corner on the weekends and obviously are not here for the exercise. They are thoroughly done up with makeup to walk the block. I can’t help but cringe at the thought of welcoming one of them into my home. No woman is allowed here except for my daughter, mother, and the one responsible for my sour expressions most days when I’m not feeling sorry for myself. The only woman I was devoted to, and look where that got me. If she wasn’t allowed supervised visitation rights, then maybe not even her.
I try not to talk about it, despite my mom trying to get me into counseling because my marriage failed, making me, in turn, feel like a failure. I’ve learned that sometimes you can’t fix what’s broken, and I am utterly in a thousand pieces of brokenness. If it wasn’t for my daughter, I wouldn’t ever say her name. She has a fuck ton of baggage, and I was her devoted bellhop. I hate that it came to this, but she needs help, and I hope for her sake and our daughters that she gets her shit together.
I’m just about to grab my car keys when the phone rings.Jefa. The name flashes across the screen. I laugh at this because it is a nickname my father gave her long ago. It means “boss lady” in Spanish, and that’s what she is. The boss. It’s been a running joke in our home for as long as I can remember. I raise the phone to Catalina just as she is about to grab the doorknob.
“¡Espérate, mijita!” I lift my finger, indicating it should only take a minute, but she knows her grandma.
She sees it and groans, “It’s never a minute, Papá.” She harrumphs, plopping herself onto the couch as I hit answer on the phone.
“Bueno, Mamá.” I don’t have to wait long before she begins her onslaught of questions.
“Manny, have you made a posting yet?” That is the most important one, and I know I need to, but the thought of having someone else—a stranger—watch my daughter is too much to bear. “Honey, you know you need help.” I nod even though she can’t see me. I bring my hand to the bridge of my nose, drop it, and look up at the ceiling. I glance at my daughter, who is intently watching me. I am sure she can hear the conversation; her nose scrunchedup. I don’t want this conversation with her now, especially if it is within Catalina’s hearing range.
“Mom, I promise to get a post at the rec center this week.” She begins speaking to me in rapid-fire Spanish, and I can tell she is trying to stress the importance of my recent move. I moved here because my job has more work in this area, and I wanted a fresh start for my daughter. I tried to remove her from the toxic atmosphere her mother provided, where our families reside in the Merrimack Valley in Massachusetts. My dad has had a business there for years, but this area in the New Hampshire lakes region has experienced significant development since the pandemic, and most of my clients and work are now located in this region. It seemed like a logical choice to move her, but I don’t have the support from my parents that I did back home. I only need childcare for the summer months. Catalina will be in school and the after-school program until I get out of work. Next summer, she will be old enough for the recreational program that the town’s Parks and Recreation Department sponsors for school-aged children up to sixth grade. I’m golden if I can just get through these two months.
I hate to interrupt my mom, but Catalina glares at me, and my stomach grumbles so loudly that it could have been interpreted as an earthquake. A giggle erupts from the couch, and I spare a glance at her. She is covering her mouth to fight off the onslaught of laughter that is undoubtedly at my expense.
I mouth an “I know” to my daughter and continue with the necessary interruption. “Hey, Mom, I will have to call you back when I get home.” I don’t give pause because that will allow her a moment to interrupt and continue, and I’ll be here for another fifteen minutes. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to my mom, but I need to have this conversation away from prying ears. My little girl is wise beyond her years, and I hate that her mother is responsible for that, and not in a good way. “We were just about to head out for some pancakes,” I add quickly. “I just put my keys in my hand, and your granddaughter is famished.” That is the only thing to break the conversation. Hearing her granddaughter is hungry gets my mom going.
“Oh, my sweet baby. Please take her to get something to eat,Manny. I hate seeing her hungry.”
Having heard that, Catalina jumps off the couch eagerly, shouting, “Bye, Grandma!” as she throws open the door, runs to the truck, and climbs in.
“Okay, Mom. Gotta go. She’s already in the truck. Yes, I will post that. You’re still coming to help me this week, right?” After I get the answer I need and before she can go into something else I don’t want to discuss, I politely say goodbye, hang up, and close the door behind me, meeting Catalina in the truck. I hit the button to start the truck’s ignition. My Bluetooth connects, and I hit play. “Master of Puppets” by Metallica plays, and Catalina starts headbanging. I look over at her briefly before checking both ways at the intersection, and she is in full-on heavy metal mode. I suppress the laugh at the dichotomy of her with her glittery outfit, which she picked out after cleaning up from planting flowers this morning, with the headbanging motions in beat and the music blaring through my truck’s speakers. I love it and can’t help but smile against my better judgment. She is the only thing that can break me from my resting dick face.
I ease into the tight parallel parking on the street across from Planet Pancakes, which has become our new favorite diner—the whole area has a small-town vibe that is very welcoming. Many are seasonal workers in the lake area, but the majority are locals who have lived in the town for decades or have had family homes in the area for generations. I chose a home in a neighborhood close to town, rather than a more rural area. I thought it would be a nice place for Catalina to ride her bike or go to the park. We are close to many amenities in town, and it was essential for Catalina to be close to school, where the bus picks her up right in front of the house. It is also within walking distance, which may be helpful if she continues to participate in sports and needs to get home. I did a lot of research when I bought the charming little three-bedroom cape on the corner.
As Catalina closes the door, I am already there to help her, and we walk hand in hand to the diner. I glance at her, and she tells me how happy she is. I know I made the right choice in moving her here. Catalina opens the door, and I grabthe top of it to hold it open as we walk inside. It is packed, and there are a couple of booths by the window available.
“Hey there, how are you guys doing?” I hear the gravelly voice over the indie rock music playing in the background. This place is eclectic at its finest. From the trippy decor to the wild color scheme, I fell in love with it and the owner, who is quickly becoming a friend. Catalina throws her body into Odette, hugging the lithe-framed woman in an embrace. What can I say? My girl is a hugger.
“Odette!” she exclaims while Odette laughs gruffly, pulling my daughter in for a matching hug. Catalina lets go, looking up at the tall woman who almost rivals my height. “I was telling Papá for hours to bring me in for some pancakes, but he took for-evah,” she says dramatically in her New England accent. Odette looks at me, patting her drama down on the back.
“Well, luckily, he brought you just in time because now you don’t have to wait,” she says, pointing at the booths I was looking at as we walked in.
“Business is good.” I jut my chin outward.
Odette nods. “Baby, it’s always busy in the summertime. The locals frequent this place, but the seasonal renters or lake house owners are all here every day in the summer, but you won’t see me complaining.” She waggles her finger at me. I see people watching our exchange and fighting to return the glances my way. I’ve heard the talk about the hot, divorced, single dad who moved into town, and I’m over it. I won’t have them talking about me badly and my daughter hearing it, so I don’t engage or date them.
Odette, a very perceptive woman, turns and grabs my daughter’s hand. “Okay, baby, let me show you guys to your seat.”
CHAPTER SIX
Ibolt upright in bed to the sound of my phone ringing. “Who? What?” I scan the room, momentarily forgetting where I am. Then I plop back down, grabbing a nearby pillow that I hold over my face, shielding it from the glaring light that threatens to pierce my retinas from my sudden intrusion of wakefulness.
The ringing stops. “Thank God.” I breathe a sigh of relief, my words smothered as I turn around. Just as I sink back into my pillow, the phone begins ringing again. “Good Lord, why? Why this early?” I look over at my alarm clock to check the time. Yep, it’s still early morning. Disoriented, I rise from my bed and walk toward the source of this morning’s auditory assault, rubbing my temples and cursing at the crick in my neck from falling asleep at that weird angle. I attempt to massage the pain that isshooting down into my shoulder, but I know I can’t avoid this call. I also know who is calling without looking at the screen. Taking a moment to appreciate the picturesque lake view from my bedroom window, I answer, shouting, “Sorry!” before she can say anything. “I’m so sorry, Savannah.”
I don’t have to wait long for the verbal tongue-lashing that ensues. I place the call on speaker, heading to the bathroom. “Have—worried—I was?” The call cuts in and out, so I only hear half of her sentence as the call switches over, but her tone is clear.
“Sorry. What?” I cringe at having her repeat herself.
She emphasizes each word, making the single sentence sprawl out over several seconds. “Do you have any idea how worried I was?” Savannah’s voice explodes through the speaker, this time loud and clear.
