“Asher?” Mom calls.
“We’re in the back,” I yell out, hauling myself upright.
“There’s the birthday girl,” Mom sings. She scurries into the room, bypassing me and hugging her only grandchild.
“Mimi, you’re going to mess up my nails,” Bea whines even as she leans into her grandmother’s embrace.
Dad wraps an arm around my shoulder. “You doing okay, son? I know it’s a hard?—”
“I’m fine,” I cut him off before Bea hears. I don’t have time to think about that. It’s been five years, and I have a party to throw.
“C’mon, Bea.” I clap. “Let’s clean up. Time to go.”
“But I have to finish the patty.”
“The what?”
“Pink, blue, pink, blue.” She names the alternating colors, pointing to them as she goes, smudging the polish. “See? The patty.”
Mom laughs. “I think you meanpattern. When did you learn about patterns anyway?”
Bea shrugs. “Uncle Ezra taught me. He’s a teacher.”
“Mmm,” I hum, reaching for the lid of the polish. “We can paint nails later. It’s time to go.”
“But Daddy,” she protests, her dark blond pigtails taunting me with their cuteness.
“I said no.”
“Oh, Asher, what’s the harm?” Mom cuts in, standing now.
I lift my arm and check my watch. “I don’t want to be late.”
I tower over my mom, but when she sets a hand on my shoulder, I feel like a little boy again. “Your daughter only turns five once. The party can wait.”
A long breath escapes me, my body deflating.
Nothing like Jewish Mom Guilt on a Sunday morning.
Dad’s brow pinches, a sure sign that he’s on his wife’s side.
When I peer down, my daughter’s hazel eyes shine like gold—just like her mother’s used to—and I’m overwhelmed by how fleeting time can be.
Sighing, I squat again, ignoring the cracks in my knees. “May I help you?”
“Nice digits, dude.”
I ball up my hand at my side, hiding my light blue-and-pink fingernails. “Just wait till you have a daughter, Mr. Man Bun. I’ll be sure to gift you a day at the spa as a congratulations.”
The teasing smile on Ezra’s face drops. Shit. Did I take it too far? Maybe he and my sister haven’t discussed kids yet. Though, if I know him as well as I think I do, that man wants babies.
Clearing my throat, I survey the area around us. “Where’s Millie?”
Ezra points toward the picnic tables, chuckling. “Staying as far away fromthose”—he drags his arm around and points at the stables—“as possible.”
“She’s a good sport for coming.”
“You know her fear of horses couldn’t keep her from missing Bea’s birthday.” He claps my back.
