Chapter 2
two
. . .
Cage
“Why can’t we just keep Maxine since she’s been here so much anyway, and she loves us like we’re her own family? Right, Daddy?”
This kid, man.
If Gracie weren’t completely attached to this animal, I swear I’d give the Langleys a piece of my fucking mind.
They’d been pawning this pig off on me for weeks now.
First, it was a vacation. Now, Joe Langley was having some medical issues, and his wife, Martha, had come in crying yesterday, asking if I could keep Maxine for a few weeks.
Again.
I had this goddamn pig at my house more than they did because they had constant ailments.
Cry me a fucking river.
Why in the world an elderly couple decided to take on a seventy-pound pig as a house pet was beyond me.
But, of course, Martha following me around my veterinary office crying was not good for business, so I’d agreed to take Maxine for a few more weeks.
And my kid… my adorably big-hearted, cute-as-a-fucking-button-with-a-heart-of-gold little girl was in love with the little porker.
“Well, adopting a pig, one who lives in the home, is a big responsibility. We didn’t sign up for that, the Langleys did. We are just helping them out right now.”
Parenting meant that I had to take the high road more often than I would normally prefer.
“But we signed up for Bob Picklepants to live with us, didn’t we?”
Bob mother fucking Picklepants.
How the hell I got talked into naming my dog that ridiculous name is still beyond me.
I swear this little girl was my kryptonite. Her chocolate-brown eyes and long curls bouncing around her, made her impossible to say no to.
And I’d never had a problem saying no to people.
I didn’t wrestle with guilt or an overabundance of empathy. If I didn’t want to do something, I didn’t fucking do it.
Unless Gracie was involved.
“Correct. We did agree to make Bob part of the family.” I set her plate down, and she smiled and rubbed her hands together when she looked at the spaghetti and garlic bread on her plate. I was happy to see that she’d finished the carrots and snap peas I’d given her while I was cooking.
I was that guy now… I got excited when my kid ate her vegetables.
I was living with an asthmatic mutt named Bob Picklepants, who snored so loud he woke me up most nights, a horny pig named Maxine, who humped my leg every chance she got, and the world’s cutest kindergartener on the planet.
“I think Bob Picklepants really loves Maxine, Daddy.”
Bob Picklepants did not give two shits about Maxine.
My daughter was just a perpetually glass-half-full type of kid.
Bob barely acknowledged Maxine’s presence because he was a lazy bastard who only cared about belly rubs and dog treats.
Gracie thought they were playing some kind of game when he ignored our unwanted houseguest.
They weren’t playing a game, and my household was a real shit show lately. But Gracie thrived in the madness, so what the fuck did that say about my parenting style?
Bob wheezed from the couch, where he lay on his back because the dude was a pampered prince. Maxine was napping in her playpen, and I was grateful for the peaceful dinner with my daughter.
Gracie swirled her noodles around the fork and popped them into her mouth.
“Mmmm, you are the best cooker, Daddy. Piper said she loves to eat at our house.”
Piper was Gracie’s best friend, and her parents, Colton and Farah, were friends of mine.
I happened to know for a fact that Farah prepared three-course meals for her family most nights because Colton mentioned it often.
But apparently, five-year-old kids didn’t care for things like baby hens and chicken dijon.
They wanted plain ole spaghetti and tacos and grilled cheese, which was easy enough for me to pull off.
“How was school today? Did you have your spelling test?”
“Yep. I got a hundred percent. But Preston spelled a bad word for lemon. Mrs. Clifton sent him to the office for some time to think about what he did.”
“How did he spell lemon?” I asked because I was all caught up on the kindergarten drama lately.
My days consisted of crazy animal antics and hearing what that little shit, Preston, did at school, which had become one of my favorite things.
The kid just looked like trouble. I’d drop Gracie off in the morning, though I preferred to walk her in if there was time.
Preston always walked up and squared his shoulders at me, like we had some kind of beef.
I knew trouble when I saw it. Hell, I had four siblings.
I could spot a little hellion a mile away.
Gracie set her fork down and looked over both shoulders, as if this were the biggest secret she’d ever shared.
“He spelled lemons,” she paused and cleared her throat, “B. U. T. T. That spells butt, Daddy. Like the butt you’re sitting on. Or the butt we use in the bathroom.”
I wiped my mouth with my napkin to hide my smile beneath it. She was so damn cute the way she took everything so seriously.
“Well, he certainly didn’t sound that word out, did he?”
“He did not. Butt does not start with an L, right, Daddy? Lemon starts with an L. L. E. M. O. N.”
Atta girl.
My little scholar.
“Correct. I think Preston likes to get attention.”
“Well, you say Uncle Finny likes attention, but he doesn’t spell butt for a lemon.” She had a slight southern accent when she spoke, which my family found hilarious, seeing as we lived on the West Coast. But she’d always had this little twang, and I fucking loved it.
Loved everything about this kid.
I barked out a laugh. “I’m sure Uncle Finny and Uncle Hughey have both gotten into their fair share of trouble.”
I let her finish telling me what everyone who sat at her table today ate for lunch, and my chest squeezed when she talked about the mothers of every kid in her class making their lunches.
I was doing this parenting thing solo, and I dreaded the day that Gracie realized she’d been shortchanged by getting me as her sole parent.
My only hope was that my parents and my siblings being so involved in her life would make up for the fact that she’d been dealt a shit hand with just having one grumpy dad and no mother.
But damn, if I didn’t try to make up for it by loving her fiercely.
“All right. Let’s clean up, and then it’s bath time, story time, and bedtime.” I cleared our plates, and she pulled her little step stool to the counter and watched as I loaded the dishwasher, just like she did every night.
“Daddy, why do you have hair in your nose? I can see it up there.” She was leaning over the sink, looking straight up my nostrils.
“Because I’m big and strong, and that requires hair in all sorts of places.”
She giggled. “I don’t want hair in my nose.”
I leaned over and, with the pad of my thumb, raised the tip of her nose to inspect it. “I don’t know. I think it’s going to be extra hairy like your daddy’s nose.”
More laughter. It didn’t take much to amuse her. She continued to tell me all the details about her day.
Tedious shit that I absolutely lived for.
It always surprised me because I would have never in a million years guessed that I’d be a single dad with a little girl, doing this on my own. Yet there had never been a single day since the moment this little girl was placed in my arms that I hadn’t been fucking thankful for her.
I scooped her up and carried her to the bathroom.
Bath time was her favorite. There were bubbles and ducks and sponges and watering cans and a huge mess to clean up after, but it was her thing, so I went along with it.
If the simplest joy in her day was soaking in warm water with a shit ton of toys while telling me the reason that she had 1350 favorite crayon colors—halle-fucking-lujah.
I could make that dream a reality every day until she was too old for me to sit in the bathroom with her.
We went through the routine… I dried her off and pulled her nightgown over her head. She brushed her hair and then her teeth, and I was exhausted by the time I tucked her in and finished reading the final book on her list tonight.
Thankfully, she was worn out, and I kissed her forehead and made my way out to the family room to check on the high-maintenance animals.
I took the laziest dog on the planet out to the backyard and watched as he squatted to pee because Bob was too fucking lazy to lift his goddamn leg and pee like a normal male dog.
Then I put Maxine out in the yard where she could spend the next few hours until we went to bed, and I turned on a college basketball game.
My phone vibrated, and I looked down to see a text from Hugh. It hadn’t come in on the ongoing family group chat that my siblings were always blowing up. This was a solo text from him.
Hugh
Hey, brother. I stopped by to check on things at Garrity’s, and Presley Duncan is here. She’s having a damn good time. She was very friendly to me, so I thought it might be a good time for you to come bump into her. Break the ice, you know?
I knew she’d show up after hearing that her dad had a stroke. I hadn’t seen her in years. As far as I knew, she never came back here, as her family had multiple homes in different parts of the country, and I was fairly certain she made every effort to avoid me since we’d ended things.
And she lived in New York with her husband. The dude who’d recently gone viral for impregnating his much younger assistant. He was a famous fucking music producer who, apparently, couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.
Have you forgotten that I have a child I’m responsible for?
Hugh
Have you forgotten that I have a wife who happens to love you and is on her way to your house right now?
Come on, brother. I know you want to see her.
This way, you won’t have an audience because everyone is too drunk to notice tonight, and it won’t be awkward.
Rip off the bandage. You have a history. You shouldn’t avoid her.
I’ve never avoided her. She avoids me.