Page 70 of Freefall

Just me and my daughter.

Daughter.

I may have shouted out the word to Principal Jackass the other day, but I’m still not used to it. I blow out a breath, rolling the tension from my shoulders, and knock.

Daisy answers the door before Harper can, launching herself into my legs like we’ve known each other for years instead of weeks.

“Hey, Daisy girl.”

She grins up at me. “Mommy says I’m not in trouble anymore.”

I glance toward the empty hallway. “That’s good to hear.”

Harper appears behind her, blonde hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. She’s wearing a black dress that hugs her curves, balancing on one foot as she slips into a pair of black heels.

I blink, and she catches me staring.

“What?”

“You look…” She glances up at me through dark lashes. She’s wearing makeup—mascara and blush with a thin sweep of gloss on her lips. Her eyes are evergreen and sparkling. I clear my throat. “I didn’t know you owned heels.”

“My aunt gave them to me,” she says, steadying herself against the wall, and for a split second I’m back in that parking lot, watching her walk an imaginary tightrope across painted lines.

“She already ate dinner,” Harper says. “She can have dessert, but don’t let her convince you she needs more than two cookies.”

“I heard that!” Daisy calls from the living room, where she’s now coloring at the coffee table.

Harper ignores her. “Bedtime is eight. There’s a list of emergency numbers on the fridge and…”

“Harper.” She pauses with one hand on the doorknob, looking at me over her shoulder. “I’ve got her.”

She relaxes, walking back to the living room to kiss the top of Daisy’s head. Then she gives me one last smile before disappearing out the front door.

“Okay, I’m ready,” Daisy calls out an hour later. I look up from the lemons spread across the kitchen counter.

“For what?”

Daisy holds up a wooden spoon. “The muggling.”

I stare at her for a beat before I realize what she means. “Muddling,” I correct her.

“Right, that,” she says. “The recipe says we have to muddle the strawberries and lemons together with the sugar.”

“Go for it.”

She gets this conspiratorial look in her eyes and smashes the spoon into the bowl's contents.

We spend the next ten minutes squeezing and mixing until we have something that closely resembles strawberry lemonade. I pour us each a glass, and Daisy’s entire face lights up with her first sip.

“Mmmm.” She thrusts the second glass toward me. “You have to try it.”

I take a small sip. It’s somehow both too sweet and too sour, but I drink the whole glass down. Daisy looks on with a toothy grin, and I wonder how many times she’s made lemonade with Harper. When did they first start? Was she three or four? Did Harper show her how to squeeze the lemons into the pitcher? Did Daisy make a face when she tasted the sour concoction for the first time? I’ve missed so much, and now that I’m finally here, I don’t want even the smallest moment to go unnoticed. While Daisy’s busy licking sugar off the wooden spoon, I pull out my phone and snap a picture.

No sooner do I send it off to Harper than Daisy announces it’s time for yoga. She’s already hauling out two yoga mats before I can finish cleaning up the sugar and lemon juice stuck to the counter.

“Nate!” she calls from the living room. “I’m ready.”

She plants her feet on one of the purple mats and points to the other one. “You can use Mommy’s”