The past two days in Dylan’s home have been idyllic. Waves set a soothing rhythm outside, and sun filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a golden hue over Chloe and Dylan. They’re on the rug, where Chloe is clutching a bottle of neon pink nail polish. I didn’t think it was a good idea for her to have an open bottle of polish, but when I painted her nails earlier, she wanted Dylan to match, and he insisted she get her wish. He sits cross-legged in front of her, his broad shoulders hunched forward as he holds out his fingers for her to paint his nails.
He’s wearing board shorts and a faded T-shirt…in December. That will never cease to amaze me. My mom texted that we got six inches of snow this morning, and we’re here with the patio door open, enjoying the beautiful weather.
There’s an easy smile on Dylan’s face that makes it impossible to look away. And my little girl is in her element. My mom and I dote on her, but Chloe’s never experienced what I’m starting to believe is the Dylan effect. It’s quiteamazing to watch. He listens and observes and has this gift of drawing people out, even two-and-a-half-year-old little girls…and their typically closed-up, reserved moms.
He shifts his long legs.
“Ope.” Chloe giggles, using the paper towel I gave her to try to wipe up the pink smear. It just makes it worse. “I mess up.”
Dylan wiggles his fingers, making her squeal.
For the past forty-eight hours, Dylan has let Chloe turn him into her personal plaything. We’ve gone on walks down the beach, read countless books, eaten ice cream at all the nearby places, stuck our feet in the ocean, and then all stood in the outdoor shower, rinsing off before climbing into the hot tub...once Dylan had lowered the temperature for Chloe.
“What do you think of taking those plastic shovels and buckets out today and seeing what we can build?” Dylan asks, glancing at me first. “We could put that little hat over her ears.”
Last night we went into a shop down the street because he thought maybe they’d have the perfect hat for Chloe. He was frustrated that he wasn’t carrying one in his shop and immediately found a vendor he liked and placed an order. His thoughtfulness just keeps blowing my mind.
“That sounds great,” I say. “What do you think, Chloe? Should we go build a sandcastle on the beach?”
“Yes!” She jumps up, and I hurry over to grab the nail polish before it spills.
We get ready and walk out to the stretch of beach behind his house, armed with plastic buckets and shovels.
“What are we building?” he asks, once we’ve spread out a huge blanket and laid out all the toys.
“A cassa and Abu!” Chloe says.
“Cassa,” Dylan repeats.
“Castle,” I whisper.
“Ah. On it.” He kneels in the sand without hesitation, his muscles flexing as he follows her every command.
“Okay, princess, how high should the castle be? Chloe-high?”
“Chloe-high!” she says, jumping up and down.
I gather shells to put on top of the castle and for the walkway that leads to the little monkey on the side. Dylan puts a strip of napkin on a stick and plants it next to the castle.
“Behold, Castle Chloe! Defended by the mightiest knight in all of Malibu.”
She claps her hands, while I tease, “I never knew knights had pink nails.”
He smirks and flexes his fingers, showing off his nails, which look like a hot mess. “Neither did I, honestly, but it’s a pretty good look on me.”
“Yeah, it is.” I smile back.
My heart can hardly take all this warmth. It scares me too, because someone like Dylan is what I’ve always wanted. It’s too soon to even know if this is how he always is. But even seeing it for a few days, knowing that someone like him could exist…
A man who could show up for my daughter too—is that even possible? Someone who plays, who makes her feel like the center of the universe. Growing up, my father was a shadow. He’d come around, and I’d blink and he was gone. Distant, critical, his emotions locked away like a vault.
Sandcastles in the sand with pink nails? Never.
Rules and expectations, leaving me craving affection? Always.
And then I went and chose Christian, who turned out to be cut from the same cloth—charming at first, but ultimatelyemotionally stunted. He hasn’t even called to check on her since I picked her up. I can’t believe I gave my daughter another dose of those genes, that legacy of absence. I want to think my love is enough, but she also has Christian’s DNA. I can only hope that she won’t grow up feeling the lack of affection, and that I can teach her to be kind and loving and loyal.
Dylan, with his easy patience and genuine delight, makes me hope for things that I haven’t let myself hope for before.
