Shelby has finished chewing and opens her mouth to speak. “Mom. It’s more weird that you don’t have a boyfriend. That you’ve never had a boyfriend. For Pete’s sake, it’s about time. When have I ever given a crap about what some other kids say?”
“She takes after you,” Quinn says.
“More than she likes to admit,” I reply, squeezing her around the shoulders until she protests with a groan. “Okay, okay.”
“You still haven’t told me why you’re back so early.”
Shelby shrugs and helps herself to a lemon bar. “Brendan was there.”
“Oh.” That’s all I need to know.
“I can go if you two need to talk about mother-daughter things,” Quinn interjects.
Both of us look at him and say at the same time, “No. Stay.”
“Jinx, buy me a Coke,” I say to her.
Shelby rolls her eyes playfully at my immaturity and moves on. “It’s fine,” she says about her encounter with her father. “He’s asking for visitation and he wants me to start calling him Dad.”
I smooth down a lock of her hair. She has such an innocence about her and I don’t want her to ever lose that. She gives everyone the benefit of the doubt.
“What do you want, honey?”
She lifts one shoulder. “I don’t know. People change. I’m fine if he wants to hang out but I’m not ready to call him Dad and I’m definitely not getting into softball like he wants.”
“Softball? What in the world? You’re going to be field hockey captain someday!”
She reminds me, “Well, baseball and softball were his thing in high school. He’s not pushing too hard, just mentioned it in passing. He didn’t say he wanted me to try out or anything; he was just reminiscing and asking a lot of questions about the program.”
I have to bite my lip to keep from cursing that man out. I know what this is. He’s trying to live vicariously through his daughter, who he never bothered to help me raise. He’s trying to relive his childhood.
It’s too much pressure to be in more than one sport at that school, and that will be doubled now that her father is hanging around. I can only imagine him at practices, claiming her as his daughter, pretending he knows all, pretending she’s a chip off the old block. But my rational mind wins out in the end and all I say is, “I’m sure you can make the right decision for yourself.”
It’s true. I do believe that; she’s the most rational thinking teenager I’ve ever met. And more rational than most adults, now that I think of it.
“Sorry if I came home and interrupted your date,” she says, turning pink and shifting her eyes from me to Quinn and back to me.
Quinn looks proud of himself. I feel mortified for a second and then change the subject. “Actually, I’m glad you’re home. I had a big bake sale come up all of a sudden and I need your help. With three of us we can knock out a bunch of items tonight and then tomorrow after school. How does that sound to you all?”
“I’ll make the coffee,” says Quinn.
“I’ll get an apron,” Shelby chirps.
For the next two evenings, the three of us knock out both dessert pies and savory pies, sweet breads, a mountain of cookies, brownies, blondies, cakes, tarts, and pastries.
Shelby is almost as good as I am at decorating, and Quinn needs only a little bit of direction with basic frosting.
It’s difficult to keep everyone on task because, to my delight, Quinn and Shelby get along so well.
When it’s all said and done on Wednesday night, Quinn waves us away from the kitchen to go relax in the den so he can clean up.
“Actually, let me,” I say. “I have a system. Besides, you’ve been teaching all day.”
“Mom. Let it go. When was the last time a man offered to help you with anything? Let him do it,” Shelby urges, winking at Quinn.
I finally take both of their advice. Shelby and I fall asleep on the sofa around midnight. When I wake up, I hear the utility room door opening and closing.
I walk through and see Quinn getting into his car.