Zion changed the name to The Grief Guys.
If the guys would quit screwing around with the name of the chat every five minutes, this wouldn’t have happened. The Good Guys and The Grief Guys… how was I to tell the difference in my post-orgasm haze?
That’s not even the worst part.
The first thing I thought about when I woke up this morning wasn’t Daisy. Or Bea. It was Claire.
And that scares the shit out of me.
At the sound of my daughter’s squeaky voice, I throw on a pair of joggers and a camp shirt and open my bedroom door.
As I step into the hall, music and laughter wash over me. Bea is sitting on the counter in the way-too-small footed pajamas she refuses to part with, legs swinging in time to the Kidz Bop tunes playing through the Bluetooth speaker, her wide smile rimmed in chocolate. Claire hits a high note—or rather, her voice cracks fantastically—and Bea cackles.
Claire cannot sing.
Why is that so endearing?
I clear my throat, making my presence known. “Morning.”
Claire startles and whips around, whisk in hand, splattering pancake batter across my shirt.
I bite back a laugh. I’m beginning to think she spooks easily.
“Oops.” She giggles. She sets the whisk in the mixing bowl, then pulls a towel off the bar and wipes at my shirt.
Every brush sends an electric shock through me as she removes the batter along my abdomen. As she works lower, she freezes, her hand hovering in front of my crotch, only now realizing there is also batter on my pants.
“I, uh—I’ve got it.” I take the towel from her and flip on the faucet. Once I’ve dampened the corner, I dab at the mess. “All better.” I grin when it wipes off quickly.
Bea laughs, but Claire is openly gaping at the wet spot on my pants. “Daddy,” my little girl chirps, “it looks like you peed your pants.”
Well, isn’t this day off to a great start?
Scoffing, I ruffle her messy bedhead, then wipe the chocolate lipstick off her face. “Good morning to you too, Dolly.”
“You’re just in time.” Claire sets a stack of fluffy pancakes on the kitchen island like it’s the most natural thing in the world to cook breakfast for my daughter and me on a Saturday morning.
She studies me, her smile fading, and says, “Crap. I hope this is okay. I’ve seen Bea eat pancakes at the cafeteria, so I thought it would be okay. But maybe I should have asked you first? I’m sorry.”
“No, no. It’s totally fine,” I assure her. I don’t often let my daughter have chocolate first thing in the morning, but it’s summertime. I’m not going to make a big fuss out of it. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
When I say “all this,” I actually take in the kitchen for the first time, realizing how messy it is. The counters are littered with measuring cups with caked-on batter, melted chocolate chips, flour, and drops of orange juice.
“Don’tworry,” Claire says, “we’ll clean it all up. Right, Dolly?”
“Right.” Without warning, Bea launches herself off the counter and into my arms.
Fortunately, my dad-like reflexes kick in and I catch her. Unfortunately, the sleeves of my shirt are now smudged with chocolate. Looks like I’ll need to change after all.
But not until after breakfast. Bea is a notorious spiller. When she was first learning to feed herself, my mom joked thatIshould be the one to wear a bib because I’d end up with more food on my clothes than Bea would in her belly.
I prepare two coffees, then mix chocolate syrup into a cup of milk and heat it up to a child-friendly temperature for Bea. She thinks she’s hot stuff drinking “coffee” with the grown-ups.
As breakfast is wrapping up, my phone rings. I hate being attached to the device like this, but the camp is busy and I have obligations. Jack and Natalie have been sharing the load this summer so far, but I’m usually the first line of contact.
“Sorry,” I announce to the girls. “I’ve gotta take this.” Hoping it’ll be brief, I answer it at the table. “Brenner, hi. What’s up?”
“We have a situation, boss.”
