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Conversations like this make my throat close up. I’m nervous about saying the wrong thing, especially when it can affect my daughter’s entire future. Also, is she praising me for wanting my kid to go to a good school? The idea makes me want to squirm. Everyone ought to want that. I’m only lucky enough that I can finally afford it.

Thanks to many long years of selling my ass.

“I agree,” I manage, cringing at the almost question mark sound at the end of the sentence.

Ms. Baker only smiles wider, though. “Good. I can see Ella’s a brilliant child, and one benefit of a place like the Bardsden school is that we can ensure she gets a basic core education while also tailoring the subjects she’s advanced in to meet her level.”

“That sounds like exactly what she needs.” That’s what the counselor at her other school said, anyway.

“Well good. Then we’re on the same page.”

I sure hope so. The way this woman’s leaning forward exposes a good deal of her cleavage. It’s awfully distracting.

More distracting is my sudden memory of Mike, from a couple of years ago, back when things between us first got…interesting. He’d been in my room, all dressed up for some artsy event for one of his clients. His fancy-dress shirt was unbuttoned midway, with a gold teardrop necklace hanging right between his sculpted pecs like a beacon, all that smooth dark skin of his glowing under the lamplight.

If I try to pinpoint the moment when he went from being my friend, Ella’s uncle and the guy who let me know I was never alone even when he probably wanted to punch me to someone who revved my engine more than anybody, I often think back to that night in my room. Among other things, it was the night I realized I’m a fan of cleavage in all genders.

Or maybe I just like everything on Mike, because it’s Mike. The week we moved into the dorms together I latched onto his seemingly easy confidence and intelligence, following him around like a baby duck in the hopes of absorbing his ways. Was the attraction always there and I couldn’t see it for what it was?

Ms. Baker reaches into one of her desk drawers and pulls out a slick-looking folder. “Here’s our application packet. We’ll need some indicator that you do in fact have the means to pay the tuition. I know it’s crass to discuss money, but it’s important that we reserve our resources for the students who will be here long term.”

Something about the way she’s got her eyebrows hiked up high tells me she’s not entirely sure I can manage that part. To be fair, I’m not sure how many guys my age could.

“Wouldn’t my check clearing be proof enough?”

Even I know I can’t exactly tell them “Don’t worry, I’ve been taking dicks like a champ for years, so thanks to that I’ve got a decent amount in savings. Since I don’t yet have any other job, I’m hoping maybe I can do what I’ve seen all these rich guys do and simply throw money at the problem.”

Her laugh is unnatural. Kinda forced? Nothing like my daughter’s joyful popcorn laugh, or Mike’s deep rumble. The latter never fails to cause a shiver down the back of my neck.

Ms. Baker also tosses her hair over her shoulder a little too enthusiastically. “Oh, Mr. Ness, you’re too funny. Your…partner? Must think so as well. Will he be able to be at your application interview? The school is open to diverse family dynamics, of course, but we like to see a stable home life as it contributes to the success of the child.”

Right. That. “Uh. Yes. I’m sure he’ll want to be here.” Since Prince said he could probably come, I went ahead and told them I had a male fiancé.

I do hate lying, but I ‌also do it all the time. So.

“Great. Let’s get something on the books. What works for you?”

“How about y’all let me know what’s available, and I’ll make a point of being here.” I used to make my accent go away when I talked to clients and whatnot, because they seemed to make fun of it an awful lot. But I’ve also found at certain times it seems to get me a little extra sway. This seems like one of them.

Sure enough, she laughs again. More of a giggle, really. “Oh, you’re precious. I’ve got you in the calendar for Thursday after next at eight in the morning. Sound good?”

Oof. I hate having to be places that early. Most days it’s all I can do to have Ella out of bed and dressed by then.

“Sounds perfect, ma’am.”

“Oh, please call me Belinda.” More giggling, and a little hand flip. Not sure what to make of that body language. I’d almost guess she was flirting with me, but surely not when I already told her I had a fake fiancé, right? And she’s got a ring on her finger.

Not that I can dwell on it too long. The lady leads me back out into a hall, where we make small talk about the recent cold front (apparently she had to cover the tomatoes in her garden), until the nice lady who led Ella away brings her back. My baby girl is bright eyed with excitement, waving a piece of paper covered in glitter.

“Daddy! They have so many art supplies. Even those little stick-on gems! See?”

The paper she shows me is barely holding together under the weight of what must be an entire bottle of glue.

“That’s great, princess. Did you have fun?”

Her big nod nearly hurts my heart. “So fun. Do you really think I could go to school here?”

“We’re gonna try, sweetheart.”