9. San
Chapter nine
San
Trying to decide dinner shouldn’t be this hard, yet here I am with my newfound daughter, trying to figure out what to eat.
“So, do you want to do takeout like pizza, or should I make something?”
Ruth says nothing, making me frown.
“Ruth?” I press.
A few minutes ago, we tried calling her mom at the treatment center, but Catherine wasn’t available. It took the wind out of Ruth’s sails, even if she won’t admit it. She’s trying to be cool, but I can tell she misses her mom, and I don’t blame her at all.
The best way to brighten her mood is with food. At least, that’s the way it’s always worked for me.
“Anything works,” she says nonchalantly. She doesn’t bother looking up from her textbook as she answers.
I can’t even be mad at her. She’s still out of it after the phone call. And I can’t help but be worried about her.
My lawyers told me taking her in would be a bad idea publicity-wise, but I’m slowly starting to see that I really don’t care. All I want is the well-being of my daughter. I don’t want her to be sad around me.
“Anything?” I ask, “Anything I make, you’ll eat?”
“Sure.” She doesn’t even falter in her reading.
“So, frog legs?”
Her dark eyes pop up over the top of the book. “Sure.”
“Liver?”
“I love it.”
“Caviar?”
“I love how you remind me you’re loaded.”
I smile and look away. Out of the corner of my eye, I see she’s smiling, too.
“How about… s’mores?” I ask.
“S’mores?” She lifts her head and sets down the book. “For dinner, you want me to eat something sugary?”
I shrug. “You said anything.”
“You really want to give a teenager sugar for dinner?” she asks, amused and in disbelief.
“Look, I figure you’ve had a shitty day. So why not throw out all the rules?”
“Maybe you’re getting the hang of this dad thing after all,” she says with a smile as she gets to her feet. “We’ll do dinner camp-style. Roast us some fish, and then s’mores.”
I’m starting to regret the s’mores suggestion, but at the same time, I’m basking in the fact that she’s noticing my efforts.
“Wait a second,” she says. “I remember checking the fridge and pantry. Do you have ingredients for the s’mores? ”
“Well, mind you, up till recently, I’ve been a bachelor living by himself.”
“Skip the lonely sob story. You seriously don’t have the ingredients?”
“I don’t.”
Her shoulders drop. “I’ll settle for the fish, then. Let me get my jacket.”
As she leaves the kitchen, I decide she must get the s’mores at all costs. I pull out my phone and contact the one person who would have access to sugary treats. Samantha.
“Did you miss me that much?” she says as she answers. “Calling me outside of work hours is weird.”
“I’ll make it up to you. Are you busy?” I speak in a hushed tone so Ruth doesn’t hear me.
“Yes. I was on my way to attend a big, fancy gala.”
I roll my eyes, standing in my empty kitchen. “Do you have the stuff to make s’mores?”
“Have you seen the guesthouse? I have a hot plate, a toaster oven, and a kettle in the corner.”
“So, you don’t.”
“Of course I do. I have a nephew addicted to sugar. I need to be well-stocked.”
“You actually have the ingredients? You really are prepared for everything.” I laugh. “Can I swing by and grab the ingredients?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Why would I share them with you? For free? ”
I need to think quickly. If I tell Sam that they’re for Ruth, she’ll likely help me out. Sam clearly has a soft spot for her. “I want them for Ruth,” I say.
“Oh. Well, in that case, I’ll go ahead and bring the ingredients. Ruth deserves some s’mores.”
I agree with Sam on that front. My daughter deserves all the s’mores she can get her hands on.
“You don’t have to—” I begin.
She ends the call before I can say anything else.
“You know how to start a fire, Movie Man?”
Ruth throws out the question but maintains a safe distance as I arrange the sticks and newspaper at the bottom of the fire pit. I had some fresh fish in my fridge, so it’s in a bucket defrosting. Fishing at this time of the night isn’t really a good idea. She didn’t complain about it, though. She just wanted the fish roasted over the flames.
“Movie Man?” I raise a brow. “And I do know how to start a fire.”
“Movie Man suits you. Sammie calls you Movie Boy. I don’t want to steal the nickname, hence my rendition,” she explains. “Also, I didn’t expect fire-starting to be a skill you possess.”
“You women are going to give me a complex,” I say, dusting my hands off. “You wanna light it?”
“Me?”
“Yeah. I feel like adding pyromania to your personality profile would be a good fit.”
“Cute.” She snorts. “How do I light it? ”
“You don’t know how?”
“No one’s really taught me how,” she answers. “Dad was overprotective about exposing me to things like this. So was Mom.”
Dad.
She still calls me Stan. The only time she’s ever called me Dad was on the day we first met.
Then again, for a greater portion of her life, someone else properly filled the role of fatherhood. I hate how jealous I feel over that. I have no right to feel this way when I was absent for most of her life, even though I had no idea she existed.
I hand her the lighter and paper. “Just light the paper and throw it into the fire pit. It should work. Probably.”
“Probably? I thought you were good at this. Are you lying to your adorable daughter?”
I chuckle. “My parents would take me camping and showed me how. This was my mother’s method. My dad would just put his hands into the fire pit and light it directly.”
“They live around here?” she asks as she lights the paper and slowly lowers it into the fire pit. Ruth takes a step back and admires the flame. I don’t even look at the pit, I just take in the moment of her triumph.
“My parents? Well, no,” I answer. “They have a place here, but unlike Sam’s and Lucas’s parents, they only come to visit. They mainly live in Hollywood.”
“I’d like to meet them. If that’s okay.”
“You want to meet my parents?”
Another shrug. “Yeah. Might be kind of all right. ”
I blink a few times, trying to process that she wants to meet my parents and get the grandparent experience. Then I remember my parents still don’t know that they have another grandchild.
“Okay. Yeah. I’ll find out when they’ll be here.” I don’t tell her I haven’t told them about her yet, and I suddenly feel sick that I haven’t.
“The fire’s not spreading properly,” Ruth points out.
“Oh, right. You have to blow on it gently.”
“Won’t that put it out?”
“No, you blow just gently enough to spread the flame.”
She doesn’t look at me, but she hands over the lighter and then places her palms on the bricks surrounding the pit, blowing gently. When the flames brighten, so do her eyes, and I finally feel like I’m doing something for this girl other than just being her legal guardian.
I can’t help but smile.
“I missed the fire-starting?” Sam asks, interrupting the moment.
“Sammie, I lit the fire,” Ruth announces, pointing to the flame and squealing with excitement. I find the bridge of my nose stinging as I watch her get excited over a simple flame.
Sam exchanges a knowing glance with me and gives a thumbs-up. “You did well.”
I look up and take a good look at Sam. Many years ago, she’d have messy hair, be covered in mud like the rest of us, and holding a fish she had caught in the lake, adding to the ones Lucas and I had already caught.
Now she’s holding a packet of marshmallows, crackers, and chocolate syrup and wearing an oversized, fuzzy brown fleece that reminds me of a blanket. Her hair is drawn up in a high pony, held in place with a velvet scrunchie. She’s rounded the ensemble off with plush socks, Birkenstocks, and a pair of black leggings.
This woman is frighteningly hot.
I’ve always thought Sam was cute growing up, but seeing her again, she steals my heart. And how she looks tonight… she has the full intent of stealing my ability to breathe. I can’t help thinking, I’m not worthy to look at you. And I mean it.
I don’t get the sense that she gives a single fuck about what I think of her, and I find that refreshing as hell. The longer I watch her, the tighter my chest feels. I press my palm there to ease the ache.
“I see that the little smart-mouth can build an amazing campfire,” Sam says as she ruffles Ruth’s hair affectionately. Ruth rolls her eyes but smiles shyly down at the ground.
She turns to look at me. “Is the big smart-mouth jealous?”
“Be professional, Sammie,” I say to her. A meager attempt to keep her a safe distance from me.
Sam motions for me to lower my head. I want to resist, but I can’t. I shamelessly lower my head.
“There. Good Movie Boy,” she says as she gently ruffles my hair.
“Enough.” I take a step back, trying to catch my breath. Sam and Ruth stare at me, both trying not to laugh. My cheeks turn a shade of red, and they burst into laughter.
“He’s so cute, isn’t he?” Sam says, poking my cheek with her index finger.
I force my body to move away from her touch, but fail. She spares me the torture and releases my face. Yet, it feels like she’s still touching me.