Chapter 15 Miller - What’s My Age Again?
There was “before I heard my daughter’s first cry” and there was “after.” I was standing in the after, thinking about how the before felt like the faintest, far away place.
The world shook that day. My world was completely rocked to its core.
I remember the light from the sunrise was just starting to peek through the blinds in the hospital room, signaling the start of a new day and my new beginning.
I was holding these medical grade scissors with shaky hands. I was half listening to the doctors and nurses in the room coach me on how to cut this insane looking blue cord that was connected to the newborn I couldn’t take my eyes off of.
So it’s fitting that once again, exactly six years to the day later, a new marker is placed on the timeline of my life.
There was “before I knew what it was like to kiss Gwendolyn Bozelli,” and then there was “after.”
Don’t ask me about the before, it doesn’t exist to me now.
What do exist are the same rays of light I remember so vividly from the day Penelope was born just starting to dance on the hardwood floors, coming through Penelope’s bedroom window that overlooks Main Street.
The rising sun is sending bursts of light, much brighter than the ones from the day Penelope was born, glittering as the streamers in my daughter’s doorway gently sway.
But that doesn’t make sense because then that would mean it’s at least 7:00 a.m., and surely Gwen and I didn’t fall asleep on the couch, and there’s no way—
“Daddy!” Penelope calls from her bed.
There’s absolutely no way I would be that irresponsible. Except clearly, I am.
My newly six-year-old daughter comes barreling out of her room, throwing the strips of pink and purple up high, before I can fully process what’s unfolding.
She stops dead in her tracks when she reaches the living room.
She looks to the balloons, back at the streamers and banner, and to the island with the donuts and a gift bag.
When Penelope turns back to me, her Bluey nightgown is hanging off one shoulder, and she’s staring at me with her head tilted.
Correction, she’s not staring at me. She’s now fixated on her real life idol still passed out across my chest.
“P!” My voice doesn’t sound like my own. “You’re awake!”
I try to jostle Gwen under the blanket, hoping to stir her awake without freaking her out. Although, I’m guessing that is going to be a wasted effort because I know she’s going to freak out.
Fair. I’m kind of freaking out, too.
“Red?” Penelope asks.
I feel Gwen twitch. I look down to see her frozen in place, eyes wide. It feels like time stands still, giving us a few seconds to silently come up with a game plan.
Unfortunately, I’ve got nothing. Less than nothing. I swallow hard, silently begging for some backup here because I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.
Gwen reads my face and pulls her shit together faster than I can. She shoots up, and the blanket goes flying. She starts brushing herself off and patting her hair down.
“Well, if it isn’t the birthday girl!” Gwen shrieks.
“Did you come over to surprise me?!” Penelope yells as she dashes over, jumping right into Gwen’s arms.
“You bet I did, tiny human. Or should I say not-so-tiny human? SIX?! Six whole years old?! Happy Birthday, Penelope.” Gwen spins her around, the two of them laughing.
This is what it’s supposed to feel like.
I finally snap out of my stupor and lift off the couch, deciding the discarded blanket needs to be folded immediately. It’ll keep my hands busy while I work through how to explain this situation to my kid.
It feels like such a sleazy dick move to have a random woman have a sleepover in our home. Penelope had to wake up to me cuddling on the couch, blindsided. I’m not supposed to be this selfish.
I can’t be making decisions that affect the both of us without thinking it through more carefully than this. I need to be sure.
Then I feel guilty because Gwen isn’t some random woman, not to me or Penelope. And it kind of feels like P wasn’t as blindsided as I might be making her out to be. Or is that me trying to justify recklessness?
I’m twenty two three years old, and some days I feel like I don’t know shit about shit.
Fuck. I’m twenty-three years old. I don’t know how I feel about that either.
I shake my head as Gwen waltzes herself and P over to the kitchen, plopping Penelope in front of her on the island, next to the donut tower.
I follow their lead and have to abruptly stop myself from coming up behind Gwen to wrap her in my arms with P, like this is any other morning in some alternate reality.
I stick to this reality and grab the lighter from the drawer to light the candle stuck in the top donut, respectfully next to Gwen. I lean over and kiss Penelope on the cheek.
“Happy Birthday, Penelope. Best—”
“Day of my life!!! Happy Birthday, Daddy!” she finishes for me in a screech and wraps her arms around my neck.
She gives me a kiss on the cheek right back.
I’ve said the same thing to her every morning on this day since she was born.
She started saying it back to me on her fourth birthday, when it finally connected for her that it was my birthday too.
I love all of our traditions, big and small. They’re important to me. But this one’s special.
I wait until she releases me and sits back up to flick the lighter on. Gwen moves her arm in front of P as she leans toward the lit candle, an instinctual need to protect from even the smallest potential danger.
We sing happy birthday and I wonder to myself, like I do every year, what she’s wishing for as she blows out the candle.
How can I be better for my little girl? Where do I come up short? Is she happy? Does she feel safe and loved? Is the gift I got her good enough because I couldn’t afford a trip to Disney or tickets to a Taylor Swift concert?
Okay, that last one is specific to this year and something I just have to accept, but still. I want to get it all right.
I go to pull the candle out and divy up the donuts when Gwen’s hand wraps around mine to stop me. She pushes our joined hands down and doesn’t let go. Then, she reaches out her other hand and grabs the lighter from the island.
“Hold your horses there, Mr. Nobody Likes You When You’re Twenty-Three.” She relights the candle.
“Well, I’m certainly hoping you make me the exception to that rule,” I say with a laugh, twisting my wrist to intertwine my fingers with hers. She’s stunning all of the time, but she looks so pretty in the morning.
We have shit to talk through. This can’t be done in a flighty way, but accidental sleepovers and mistakes be damned, I want this. I want her to want it, too.
She shakes her head at me before looking at Penelope and nodding once. They repeat the song we just sang to Penelope, and I make another wish.
Well, it’s the same wish I made earlier. I thought doubling down might help make it come true.
“I’m not wearing this,” I call from my room.
I stare into the mirror in horror to see myself in lime green tights and an imitation snake-skin onesie.
Two giant as fuck googly eyes—I swear one of them is a lazy eye—and a floppy prop tongue are hot glued to the baseball hat sitting on my head.
It matches the damn tights. The reptilian tail sewn onto a belt these two ladies actually think I’m a sucker enough to put on is still sitting on my bed.
I have to give credit when it’s due though. For pulling this together in two weeks, this costume is impressive as hell. I haven’t seen one thing Gwen doesn’t excel at in every way. It’s insane.
When I was trying to be the cool dad giving Gwen and Penelope creative freedom to come up with our costumes, I thought surely nothing could be worse than me as Princess Anna.
I could rock a gender bent sister. That’s fun, it’s different.
I was on board and was ready to reap the rewards of seeing Gwendolyn in some variation of that sparkly ice queen dress.
I’d do anything for my kid, and I’ve quickly learned I’d do just about anything for the woman laughing maniacally outside my door.
But the cool, sly smolder guy was right fucking there.
“Oh, yes you are!” Gwen yells from the other side of the door. “You promised! You signed!”
“A sticky note is not a legally binding contract, Gwendolyn!”
“You know who would disagree?”
“Uh, you?” I guess as I finally toss the hat onto the bed and ruffle my hair back out.
“Dr. Meredith Grey and Dr. Derek Shepherd. You’re going to argue with two world-renowned surgeons?” I see the doorknob jiggle just a little. It’s not locked. She can bust in here if she wants. But the door doesn’t move.
“Fake ones? Yes.” I need to peel this monstrosity of a costume off. I’m gonna do it. They’re not gonna get me to cave. I’m a twenty-three-year-old man, an adult with a job and a kid—
I hear the click of the door opening first. Then Gwen’s head pops in, but she looks…different?
“What happened to your hair?” I ask. I probably could have worded that better but I can’t figure out what’s off about it. It looks bigger, fuller I guess. But also maybe darker?
After our half-awkward morning together, Gwen only went home to quickly shower, change, and grab everything she said she would need for trick-or-treating later.
When she got back to the cafe, after checking on Chris, who she finally hired as much-needed help, she whisked Penelope away to Margot and Sawyer’s place to get ready.
I haven’t seen either of them in hours, taking some unexpected time to myself to sort my brain out.
We haven’t had time to talk about anything, and neither of us knows where the other is at with things.
She enters the room, and I immediately forget what I just asked or why it even mattered. Don’t care what she did differently to her hair. My brain is malfunctioning or something because holymotherfuckingshit.