Chapter Six Ozzy

Chapter Six

Ozzy

The following morning, the foot of my bed dips, rousing me from a good dream about flying. Three weeks before the car accident, I got my pilot’s license. And now I may never use it.

“It’s Saturday, pumpkin. Do you want to crawl into bed and go back to sleep with me?” I mumble, rolling to my side and pulling the covers over my shoulders.

“Not really,” Amos says.

I quickly lift onto my elbows, blinking hard to see in the dark.

He stands, then opens my room-darkening shades, and I squint as the light burns my retinas.

“We have to talk,” he mumbles, but it sounds more like a grumble.

I reach for my watch on the nightstand. It’s not quite seven. So much for sleeping in this morning. With a deep sigh, I swing my legs off the side of the bed and stretch before twisting my back from side to side. “What do we need to talk about?”

“Have you had the talk with Lola?”

“The talk?” I stand and stretch some more.

“The sex talk.”

I step into a pair of jeans and wait for something real to wake me up. There’s no way Amos is in my room, this early on a Saturday, asking me about the sex talk.

“If not, today might be a good time to bring it up,” he says.

Shit. I’m not waking up. This must be real. It’s the 2.0 version of “What are your intentions with my daughter?” Men joke and brag about sex; we don’t talk about it.

“Not gonna lie, Amos. I was planning on doing yard work today. So, sadly, I’ll need you to elaborate on why I should talk about sex with Lola.” I give him my dead eyes after pulling on a T-shirt.

Amos adjusts his Texas-size belt buckle. He’s always in Wrangler jeans with a big-ass belt buckle and a western button-down. “There was an incident last night,” he says. “Lola forgot to take a glass of water to sit by her bed. So she woke up a little after midnight and came upstairs.”

I don’t like where this is going.

He glances behind him and closes the door. “I was watching TV.”

“Porn?”

He clears his throat. “Sexually explicit.”

“Porn?”

Amos frowns and nods several times. “I’m not sure she saw much. She was rubbing her eyes when she stepped into the living room and said, ‘Hi, Pa.’ I immediately turned off the TV.” Again, he adjusts his belt buckle and sniffs, as if throwing back his shoulders and acting all manly will make this less awkward.

Staring at the gray carpet, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Were you just watching it? Or were you participating ?”

“I was under a blanket.”

He was participating. Fuck my life.

“I asked her what she needed, and she said a glass of water. So she got it and headed back downstairs with nothing more than a good night. I don’t think she saw anything. But in case she did, I thought I should mention it.”

My hand falls to my side as my whole body deflates. “This is yours, Amos. Your actions. Yours to clean up. I don’t have an issue talking to her about sex,” I say, even though that’s not entirely true. “But pornography is not a conversation I’m ready to have with my ten-year-old daughter.”

“What am I supposed to say to her?” he asks, narrowing his eyes until every line on his old face collapses into a deep wrinkle.

I hold my hands out to the side. “I don’t know. This is your lesson to learn, not mine. As a rule, we shouldn’t do things in this house that we’re unwilling to explain to the resident child. There’s a reason bedrooms and bathrooms have locks on the doors. I guess you can start with the sex talk that usually involves two people falling in love. Now, how you get from that to an old man on the sofa jerking off under a blanket to two strangers on television having sex ... well, that’s a complicated bridge to build.”

Before opening the door, I slap a hand on his shoulder, giving him a firm squeeze (which I have never done nor ever imagined having the upper hand to do). “Good luck.” I stop short of saying “buddy” because Amos has a locked gun chest in his bedroom. I only have a crossbow because Brynn never wanted guns in the house with a child, despite her father having an armory on the property where she grew up.

“Tia doesn’t know. And if Lola doesn’t say anything, I won’t broach the subject. I just wanted to give you a heads-up in case she mentions it to you,” Amos says with a dismissive headshake while following me upstairs.

I pause midway for a moment. “Thanks. I guess.”

“How was your evening?” Tia asks the second I step into the kitchen, which smells of burnt toast. “Did you get caught in the rain?” She takes her toast to the kitchen table.

“I did,” I say, reaching for the coffeepot.

“I heard you come in a little before ten, so I assumed you spent the evening in wet clothes.”

“I did.” I face her, leaning against the counter while sipping my coffee.

Amos slides around the corner and heads to his bedroom. Coward.

Tia scrutinizes me over her jeweled reading glasses while scraping the butter knife along her toast. “You wouldn’t have to ride your bike everywhere if you’d show that girl a little tough love.”

I pause the mug at my lips. “You mean restrain her and make her ride in a car? We’ve talked about this ad nauseam. It has a high chance of backfiring.”

“It’s ridiculous that she’s okay with riding her bike near streets filled with cars, but she won’t get into a car. Have you explained that to her?”

“No. Because if she refuses to ride a bike or let me ride one, I’m screwed.”

Tia scoffs, removing her readers and letting them dangle from the chain around her neck. “Do you hear yourself? Since when do parents need permission from their children to do things?”

“Do you hear yourself ? Did you raise a child who lost a parent in a horrific car accident? Did you raise a child who spent a month in the hospital recovering from near-fatal injuries? Did you raise a child who looked in the mirror and cried when they saw their face because they didn’t think they’d ever be pretty? Did you raise a child who had panic attacks just at the sight of a car in the garage? I need you to stop judging me for how I’m navigating this journey that you have never taken. I know I’m not going to do everything right, but I’m heeding the advice of experts who have experience with childhood trauma. It’s the best I can do. And I believe it’s what Brynn would want me to do for Lola.”

Tia bites into her toast, squinting at me while she slowly chews. This is where she expects me to apologize for challenging her, but I won’t do it today. As grateful as I am for her help with Lola, I won’t sell my soul and bow down to her reign.

“How long?” she asks.

“For what?”

“How long will you ride a bike and let her fears dictate your lives?”

“I don’t know. When she gets into a vehicle, I’ll check my calendar and let you know how long it took.”

“You sold your car. Don’t you think it’s time to buy a new one? At least take that first step. Don’t you find it odd that she’ll let me and Amos drive?”

“Don’t take this too personally, but I don’t think she feels like you’re her whole world.”

Tia frowns.

“And I didn’t sell my car. Diego took it to his place.”

Her expression softens. “Well, it’s good to hear you didn’t completely give up on her recovery.”

“Dad? The toilet won’t stop running,” Lola calls.

I glance at the microwave clock. She’s up earlier than usual for a Saturday. “I love her more than life, so I’ll never give up on her,” I say before leaving Tia (and her high horse) to check out the plumbing situation downstairs.

When I turn the corner into the bathroom at the bottom of the stairs, the toilet is not running or clogged, and there’s no toilet paper in it. “Lola?”

“Psst! In here,” she calls from her room, head poking out the cracked open door.

“What are you doing?”

“Shh!” She presses a finger to her pursed lips.

When I close her bedroom door behind me, she jumps onto her bed, pulling her knees into her chest so that her purple nightshirt covers her whole body.

“I needed water in the middle of the night,” she says before popping her lips several times.

Shit. Here we go.

“So I went upstairs, and Pa was watching TV.” Her lips corkscrew, and she averts her gaze for a few seconds. “Dad.” She presses her hand to her chest like a drama queen. “There were two girls and a guy naked on television, then Pa quickly turned it off. But I know what I saw.”

Two girls and a guy. He couldn’t stick to vanilla porn. How am I supposed to have a talk about the birds and the bees with a bee and two birds?

“Before I talk about sex with you, maybe I should ask how much you already know.”

“I know about sex.” She rolls her eyes.

Do I quiz her to make sure? Do I ask where she learned it?

With a slow nod, I map out this conversation when I should be punting it to Amos. “Well, sex is how babies are made—”

“Dad! Duh.”

“You didn’t let me finish.” I cross my arms over my chest. “People—adults— married adults sometimes have sex because they love each other, and it’s a way to bond.” I uncross my arms and lace my fingers behind my head. This is not what I had planned for today. “And it can feel good,” I continue. “However, some people also enjoy watching it, like how I used to play football, but now I just watch it.”

Dear god. Did I just make sex a spectator sport in my daughter’s eyes?

“What I mean is—”

“So Pa doesn’t have sex anymore, he just watches it?”

Make it stop!

“Sometimes. Not very often. And only when he’s alone and needs to”—I rub my forehead—“relax.”

When this train wreck of a conversation ends, I need to clear shelf space for my Worst Dad of the Year trophy. She’s ten. I’m sure there are books on this, but what should I say? I’ll get back to you.

“Okay,” Lola says with a shrug.

Okay? That’s it? We’re done?

“Are you going to help me do yard work today?” I ask, grasping for any change in subject.

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

She frowns.

“Do you want me to heat a breakfast burrito for you?”

“Dad, I think doughnuts go with yard work.”

“Nice try. What if pizza for dinner goes with yard work?”

“Cinnamon breadsticks for dessert?”

“That can be arranged.”

“Fine. I’ll help.”

“Attagirl.” I shut her door and head upstairs to kill Amos.

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