“She’s tall,” Brody comments before looking at me, and my gaze goes down to the mitt in my hand. As if I wasn’t just staring at him, wondering a million thoughts and letting a million more slip by.
“She’s a little under average but then again, so am I,” I admit to him and remember those early days when she was so low on the charts and gaining weight was difficult. I bite my tongue, trying to find the right balance and wanting to keep things light. All the while, my throat is tight with emotions.
“Well, taller than I thought a three-year-old would be,” he answers easily, still staying back in the kitchen and watching her.
There’s a constant soft expression on his face and a spark in his eyes that signals awe.
“What does she like?”
He’s just a friend asking, I tell myself. Just a friend. I don’t know why it feels like the weight of the world is hanging on the end of whatever answer I’ll give him. I’ve never wanted a soul to approve of my daughter. If someone doesn’t love her, they can rot for all I care. She’s everything that’s good and pure in this world and if they don’t want her smiles, it’s their loss.
But I want him to like her. I want him to know how perfect she is. Even through the tantrums and ever-changing phases that kept me up all hours of the night when she was a baby, she’s perfect.
Turning my back to him so he can’t see my nervous expression, I open the cabinet and reach for the nicer plates on the highest shelf. I have to stand on my tippy-toes. It’s not fine china like my grandmother used to have. They are a pretty shade of blue, though, and they match the tablecloth I set. Even though I’m fully aware it’ll have to be washed tonight and potentially end up stained depending on whether or not Bridget’s place mat will remain on the table.
“What she likes changes every month. Sometimes it’s bugs and pillow forts.” I smile remembering how her face scrunched up last month learning about how a caterpillar really turns into a butterfly. Apparently cocoons are gross. “The next month it’s soccer and bath bombs.”
“Does she like sailing?” he questions as I set the plates down on the counter, listening to them clatter. He still hasn’t moved. He suggests, “I could take you guys out.”
“We’ve been to the beach, but not out beyond that.”
“Why not?”
“We don’t have a boat,” I answer him and check on the golden-brown top layer of the pasta dish.
“Well, I do,” he states confidently, slipping his hands into the pockets on his slacks and smiling back at me. “If you wanted to do something like that.” He glances back at Bridget, and that same soft expression slips back into place. I swear my heart melts in that moment, and it’s not from the heat of the oven.
“If you think she’d like it, that is,” he adds when I don’t respond right away, and I note how easy this all is with him. He doesn’t wait for an answer as he tells me they have smaller life jackets for kids and then breaks into a story about his grandfather and the Power Rangers life jacket his grandparents got him back in the day.
“I got into trouble for taking it off while the boat was still in dock,” he says and grins at the memory.
“That’s your mom’s dad?” I ask him and he nods, then tells me all about his family. That’s something I don’t have anymore. All I have left of my mother is her watch and the memories. A family is something I could never give Bridget on my own. I’m engrossed in the story he tells without glancing at me, still watching Bridget.
I hadn’t realized exactly why he scared me until this moment. New love is dangerous and I’m so very aware I’m falling for him. If I’m honest with myself, I’ve already fallen and there’s no going back.
BRODY
“I feel like …” Griffin sets his fork down before finishing his thought and it clinks on his now empty plate. His brow is pinched as he stares down to the end of the dining room table. The sun’s set since we sat down to eat and it seems like the chandelier above the small table is shining like a spotlight on that little girl. “And maybe this is just me,” Griffin says, raising his hands in a defensive gesture.
A smirk kicks up the corners of my lips. He’s the polite one. My mother made that comment when she first met him. He’s lean, nerdy, and polite as they come. But something about the look in his eyes tells me he’s about to put his foot in his mouth. Judging by Renee’s fork halting midair and her side-eye zeroing in on him, I bet she thinks so too. “It just seems like she shouldn’t be allowed near both pasta sauce and any type of cloth whatsoever.” Griffin’s gaze is locked on the subject at hand, Bridget. She has one hand holding a chunk of pasta to her fork, and then she uses those chubby little fingers to shovel bite-size pieces of lasagna into her mouth as if finishing first is a competition.