Chapter 14
Gavin
SOURDOUGH DADDY
Lily has been singing the “Let It Go” reprise for the past hour, and the words have lodged themselves somewhere deep in my skull like a splinter.
“Brush your teeth, bear,” I call over my shoulder as I wipe down the counter. “With toothpaste this time, please.”
From the hallway, I get a muffled, “I always use toothpaste!” followed by the sound of the stool scraping across the bathroom tile.
I don’t bother arguing. I’ve learned there’s a difference between “always” and “sometimes” in seven-year-old language, and picking that fight would only delay bedtime.
The kitchen reeks of tomato sauce and garlic. I’m too tired to care that the sink’s still full of waterlogged dishes I’ll have to rewash tomorrow. The house is dim except for the under-cabinet lights, casting the kind of warm, homey glow that makes everything look cleaner than it actually is.
I check the clock again. Eight fifteen. Bedtime came and went fifteen minutes ago, but Lily’s still in the bathroom, humming to herself like she’s in her own personal concert.
I lean against the counter, rubbing the back of my neck. My shirt smells like dinner and is stained with it too, and my shoulders ache—a reminder I overextended myself moving barrels around after Scottie and I got back from Wallula Lake.
This is the part of the night I both love and dread: the winding down. The slowing. The long list of tasks that need to get done before I can call it a night.
A minute later, Lily races out of the bathroom in pink pajamas covered in tiny white bows. “Dad, look!” She opens her mouth wide, teeth glistening with leftover bubbles of toothpaste.
I crouch down to her level, and she huffs her breath in my face for proof. “Minty fresh.”
She grins, triumphant. “I did the timer for a whole two minutes.”
I raise an eyebrow. “The real timer or the one in your head?”
Her grin falters for half a second, then reforms. “Both.”
“Uh-huh.” I chuckle, straightening. “Go grab a book, and I’ll meet you in your room.”
She sprints down the hall, socked feet sliding across the hardwood.
I give the counter one last half-hearted wipe, then flick off the kitchen light.
In Lily’s room, she’s already climbed under the covers, a paperback spread across her knees. The way the covers frame her makes her look impossibly young and heartbreakingly grown.
“Whatcha reading tonight?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.
“Magic Tree House,” she says, eyes bright. “The one where they go to the moon.”
“Good choice.” I step inside and sit on the edge of her bed, tugging the blanket over her toes. “How many chapters are we doing?”
“One.”
“Two,” I counter automatically.
She giggles. “One and a half?”
I sigh dramatically. “Fine. One and a half.”
She snuggles deeper into the pillow, satisfied, and starts to read aloud. Halfway through the second chapter, her eyelids start to droop, and her voice slows down.
When the words finally trail off, she blinks up at me, sleepy but still alert enough to ask, “Dad? When are Grandma and Grandpa coming again?”
I set the book aside. “Friday morning. Remember? They’re picking you up early for your trip.”
She sits up a little, her hair a tangled halo against the pillow. “Disneyland,” she hisses, excitement bubbling under her breath.
“Yep.” I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Disneyland. You’re going to have the best time.”
“I know.” Her answer is full of confidence.
I smile. “I wanted to talk to you about a couple of things before you go, okay?”
She looks suddenly serious, like she’s bracing for bad news. “Am I in trouble?”
“Not even a little.” I chuckle softly. “I just want you to remember to be on your best behavior for Grandma and Grandpa. That means listening, helping, and—most importantly—no tricking them into spoiling you and buying every treat you see.”
She gasps, hand to her chest. “That happened one time.”
“And one time was plenty.” I try to keep my face straight. “Also, if you get nervous or homesick or anything at all, you can call me, okay? Anytime.”
“I won’t be nervous,” she says simply, as if the idea is absurd. “I’m not a baby.”
“I know you’re not.” I try to smile, but it feels uneven. “Still, I want you to know you can always call me. Or text me from Grandma’s phone.”
She yawns, settling back into her pillow. “Can I call you even if I’m not scared? Just to tell you stuff?”
“Of course.” My throat tightens. “You can always tell me stuff. You never have to have a reason.”
Her eyelids flutter closed, and I sit there for a while, watching her breathe—the rise and fall of her chest.
There are moments—small, quiet ones like this—where I feel like I’ve done something right. And then there are others where I realize how quickly she’s growing away from me.
When she was little, she’d cling to my shirt when I dropped her off with my mom before work, crying like the world was ending.
Now she waves before the car even stops at school drop-off, already scanning for her friends.
She used to beg for one more bedtime story, one more song.
Now she’s the one reminding me she’s too old for all that.
And the truth is, I want her to be brave. Independent. Secure. I just didn’t think it would happen this fast.
I lean forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I love you, bear.”
“Love you too,” she mumbles, already half asleep.
I stay there longer than I need to, until her breathing evens out. Then I slip from the room, pulling the door almost closed behind me.
Moving through the motions, I get to work cleaning up—stacking dishes, folding a blanket, gathering stray crayons from the coffee table.
By the time I shower and change, it’s close to nine. I sit on the edge of my bed, scrolling through my phone without seeing anything. I think about Lily’s trip—the way her face will light up.
I should feel nothing but relief knowing she’s in good hands. But all I can think about is how little she’ll need me for those two weeks. How she’s already learning to live whole days that don’t revolve around me.
That’s what you want, I remind myself. You want her to feel safe everywhere. You want her to build her own world.
Still, there’s a sting to it—the kind that comes with realizing you’ve done your job well enough to start being left behind.
I grab the laundry basket from the corner and start folding—tiny T-shirts, mismatched socks, a pair of shorts with grass stains that will never come out.
Afterward, I wander into the kitchen for a glass of wine—a new recipe I’m testing before we bottle it for consumers.
I catch my reflection in the window above the sink—tired eyes, a beard in need of a trim, a man who looks older than he feels.
There’s a knock at the door.
I glance at the clock—9:23. Too late for my parents to drop by.
The knock comes again, softer this time.
I cross the living room, flip on the porch light, and pull open the door.
Scottie is standing there.
Her hair is wet and draped down her white T-shirt, face bare of makeup and revealing her freckles, long legs on display in cotton shorts. She’s standing in front of me like it’s perfectly normal to be here, but the uncertainty in her eyes says she knows it isn’t.
“Hey,” she says softly, like she’s not sure if she’s welcome or not.
For a second, I just stare at her, trying to decide if I’m imagining her or not. Then I open the door a little wider.
“Hey,” I say back as I step aside. “You want to come in?”
She hesitates for a second before nodding.
“Thanks.” Slipping past me, her arms are wrapped around her.
Her T-shirt is damp at the shoulders, darkened where her hair is still wet and doing very little to hide her pointed nipples beneath the fabric.
It takes everything in me to keep my eyes where a gentleman should.
“Sorry for showing up so late. I wasn’t thinking—well, I was, but not clearly. ”
“It’s fine.” I close the door behind her. “Lily is out cold. You could set off fireworks in the living room and she wouldn’t move.”
That earns a small laugh, but her fingers keep twisting the hem of her shirt. “I, um…was wondering if I could stay in the pool house tonight? Just for the night. I’ll be gone in the morning.”
“You don’t have to ask,” I tell her. “Of course. I’ve only been offering it every chance I get.”
She exhales, a quiet release of tension, then glances toward the hallway. “I was at my parents’, and they had people over. It felt easier to get out of their way.” She looks down, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I wasn’t sure where else to go.”
I nod, giving her space to keep talking if she wants. She doesn’t.
She could’ve gone anywhere else, but she came here. I try not to think too hard about what that means.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask, holding up my glass. “Wine?”
Her eyes flick to it, and she smiles faintly. “Sure. Let me check something first.”
She digs into her purse, pulling out her phone and an insulin pen. “Just checking my number—need to see how much to bolus.”
“I have other options—water, tea, something with less sugar?”
She gives me a grateful smile. “Wine is perfect. I’ll adjust if I need to.”
Trusting her word, I move to pour her a glass, glancing over as she dials in her dose.
As I hand it over, our fingers brush, and for a second the kitchen feels smaller than it is.
“I’m supposed to wait fifteen minutes for the insulin to kick in,” she says, releasing a sigh.
“But honestly? My patience is nonexistent tonight.” She takes a sip, eyes closing briefly. “This is really good. What is it?”
“A little something I’ve been working on. It’s a test blend from last year’s cab and merlot lots. I’ve been adjusting the acid levels and seeing how it opens up.”
She takes another long sip, and I can’t help but watch as her throat works down the swallow. Her low hum of appreciation settles in my chest.
A small droplet of red lingers on the corner of her lips.
There’s a strong urge to lick it, to claim her mouth, to kiss her for no other reason than because I want to.
Not for an audience, not for the stupid charade I put us in, but because I’ve been wanting to kiss her for years—and I’m mad at myself that the first time we actually did, it wasn’t real.
She wipes it away with the pad of her thumb, unaware of the effect it has on me. “Well, not that I’m an expert or anything, but I think it’ll be a huge hit.”
I take a slow breath and look away, pretending to check the bottle. “Glad you like it,” I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be.
She tilts her head, studying me for a second. “You don’t take compliments well, do you?”
“Sorry.” I clear my throat, trying to mask the real reason I’m barely holding it together. “I’m very critical of my own work.”
She nods slowly, turning the glass between her palms. “Now that, I can understand. I’m by far my own harshest critic. No one can hurt your feelings if you hurt them first.”
“Something like that.”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your night,” she says after a moment. “I know you’ve got Lily and everything.”
“You didn’t,” I say. “We just finished bedtime. It’s the quiet part of the evening—unless someone shows up on my porch.”
“Guess I ruined that.”
“Not really.” I take another sip of wine. “It’s nice to have company.”
She looks down at her glass, the corner of her mouth curving. “That’s good, but I don’t think I’m very good company tonight.”
“You will be after half that glass.”
She laughs, the sound soft and tired.
We stand there for a beat—the low light, the faint buzz of the kitchen, the silence stretching between us but not in a bad way. Then she breathes out. “Thank you, Gavin. For letting me stay.”
“Anytime,” I tell her. “Let me unlock it for you so you can get settled in for the night.”
I set my glass down, but she doesn’t move right away. Her eyes drift toward the corner of the counter. “Uh, what’s that?”
I follow her gaze to the jar sitting near the stove—a bubbly, beige mass capped with cheesecloth.
“It’s a sourdough starter.”
She squints. “I think there’s something in there. It just moved.”
“She does that sometimes. The wild yeast feeds on the carbohydrates in the flour and releases carbon dioxide, which creates gas pockets—sort of like how—” I stop when I catch the look on her face, halfway between amusement and disbelief. “Sorry. I went full nerd, didn’t I?”
Her lips twitch. “She? It’s a girl?”
I smirk, rinsing my glass. “Her name is Cindoughrella.”
Her eyes widen. “Cindoughrella? As in the princess?”
“Lily’s idea,” I say. “We maintain it together. Gives her a little sense of responsibility.”
Her mouth softens. “Here I was, about to tease you, but then you go and say something like that.”
I grin, watching the color rise in her cheeks. “Come on, before I tell you about her feeding schedule and really ruin the mood.”
“Oh, the mood’s already ruined, sourdough daddy.” She grins, biting her lip. “Though I gotta admit, watching you nerd out over sourdough might just be the best part of my night.”
I shake my head, fighting a laugh as I gesture toward the back door. “I thought we talked about not using that nickname.”
She trails after me, clearly pleased with herself. “Daddy and sourdough daddy are not the same thing.”
“That’s not how that works.” I glance back at her over my shoulder. “Promise me you’ll never call me that again.”
“No promises.” Her smile is wicked.
I groan, more amused than I want to admit. “Can’t wait for my family to hear that one.”