Chapter 8
Theo
Istood in front of my closet like it was a puzzle I’d never learned to solve, a Rubik’s Cube of clothing scattered across my bed in varying degrees of rejection.
A navy cardigan lay crumpled beside a pair of khakis I’d deemed “too professorial.” My lone button-down shirt—the one I wore to parent-teacher conferences—hung wrinkled on the closet door, already dismissed as “trying too hard.”
An annoying thought chirped in my head: When was the last time I’d been on an actual date?
The question made my stomach clench with a mixture of excitement and abject terror.
Three years.
It had to be at least three years.
Maybe four.
Fine. Five.
Before Debbie, back when I still had the luxury of spontaneous evening plans and clothes that weren’t perpetually dusted with Goldfish crumbs and glue that no amount of Tide could ever remove.
I blew out a sigh. What was I doing? I should just stay home, gorge myself on Chinese delivery, and drown my lack of confidence in Pino Noir. No. Cabernet—dry and bitter, like my ever-shrinking heart.
“Daddy, why are you making that face?” Debbie bounded into my room to perch on my bed. “You look like you have to poop. Don’t poop your pants. The mailman will smell it. It’ll ruin the mood.”
“I don’t have to poop,” I muttered, holding up a gray sweater and immediately discarding it. Too drab. Then her words sank in. “What do you know about ruining a mood? Where did you hear that?”
She shrugged her spindly shoulders. “The mood. You know, like for kissing and stuff.”
Stuff? My five-year-old knew about “stuff”? My gut twisted.
“Baby—”
“Holding hands. Kissing. That kind of stuff. It sounds gross, but they do those things in the movies you watch.”
Right. I did have an unnatural obsession with Lifetime. I made a mental note to block that channel, at least while she was around. She did not need to know about kissing or holding hands until she was a solid seventeen or eighteen years old.
“It’s okay, Button. Daddy’s just struggling with what to wear.”
“Ooh! I can help!” She bounced to her knees, suddenly animated. “I’m really good at picking clothes. Mrs. Rodriguez says I have an eye for fashion.”
I looked at her skeptically.
She was currently wearing a tutu over dinosaur leggings and a shirt that proclaimed, “I’m Not Short, I’m Fun Sized,” in glittery letters.
Then again, my fashion sense had abandoned me shortly after birth.
“Okay, Fizzy Bug,” I said, using another of her many nicknames that always made her giggle. “What do you think?”
She scrambled across the bed with the seriousness of a general examining a battle plan, perusing the chaos I’d created. After a moment of intense deliberation, she pointed to a dark green henley I’d forgotten I owned.
“That one. It makes your eyes look pretty, like when you read me stories and get all happy.”
Kids missed nothing. Jesus.
I picked up the shirt, surprised. It was soft, fitted but not tight, with a subtle texture that looked quite nice. How had a five-year-old spotted something I’d completely overlooked?
“And these!” She grabbed a pair of dark jeans from the pile. “Not the teacher pants. The mailman doesn’t wear teacher pants. He’s a hottie potato.”
“A . . . what?”
“A hottie potato. That’s what Mrs. Potato Head calls Mr. Potato Head.”
She said it with a straight face and such confidence that it took a moment for me to laugh. My heart somehow stretched a bit. How could I possible love this little girl one ounce more?
And . . . she had a point.
The jeans were my newest pair, the ones I usually saved for weekends when we went to the park or the grocery store. They actually fit properly instead of hanging loose like most of my wardrobe.
“Good choices, baby doll.” I ruffled her hair as I headed to the bathroom to change. “You might have a future in fashion consulting.”
“Like, duh,” she chirped as she hopped off the bed and scrambled out of my room, losing interest in whatever the adult she lived with was doing.
Ten minutes later, I emerged feeling more like myself than I had in the hour I’d spent agonizing over my closet.
The henley did make my eyes look brighter, and the jeans actually showed that I had a shape underneath all the loose cardigans I usually wore.
And my butt . . . I turned before the mirror and ran a hand over the now-tight fabric.
“Not bad for a hottie potato librarian,” I mumbled, chuckling again at the reference.
As one foot broached the doorway, Debbie appeared, her tone taking on a note that reminded me of a Sour Patch Kid. “Your hair looks funny.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Want me to fix it?”
I looked down at her, then back at my reflection. How much worse could it get?
“Sure. Go for it.”
She dragged her step stool over and climbed up beside me, her small fingers working through my hair with surprising gentleness. She smoothed down the worst of the cowlicks and somehow managed to make the whole mess look intentionally tousled instead of accidentally destroyed.
“There.” She beamed up at me. “Now you look like a daddy who’s going on a date instead of a daddy who stuck his head in the dryer.”
I laughed despite my nerves. “Thanks, Button. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
The doorbell rang, and Debbie forgot all about my hair crisis.
“Julia!” She launched herself off the step stool and raced toward the front door, leaving me to give my reflection one final, worried glance.
Julia Martinez was seventeen, all legs and attitude, with perfectly straightened hair and lip gloss that caught the light like a ruby-red disco ball when she smiled.
She went to the same high school where I worked, but somehow we’d never crossed paths until she’d answered my desperate Craigslist ad for a babysitter six months ago.
“Hey, Mr. J,” she said, popping her gum as she stepped inside. “You clean up nice. Hot date?”
Heat crept up my neck. “It’s just dinner.”
“Uh-huh. Sure it is.” She grinned, clearly not buying my attempt at casualness. “Don’t worry, we’ll be fine. Won’t we, Debbie?”
Debbie had already attached herself to Julia’s side like a tiny barnacle, bouncing with excitement. “Can we do face masks? Pleeeeeeeeeeeease? And paint our nails? And watch the princess movie with the dragon?”
“Absolutely. We’re gonna have the best girls’ night ever.” Julia ruffled Debbie’s hair, and I felt a stab of something that might have been jealousy at how quickly I’d been forgotten.
“Bedtime is eight-thirty,” I started, but Julia waved me off.
“I know the drill, Mr. J. Eight-thirty bedtime, brush teeth, read one story, leave the night-light on, and if she has a nightmare about dinosaurs, remind her that they’re extinct and can’t hurt her.”
“And if she asks for water—”
“One cup, no more, or she’ll wet the bed.” Julia was already steering Debbie toward the living room. “Go. Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Given that Julia was seventeen and had more dating experience than I did, that was a terrifyingly broad mandate.
I grabbed my keys and wallet, kissed the top of Debbie’s head, and headed for the door before I could lose my nerve.
The drive to the restaurant took exactly twelve minutes, during which I managed to work myself into a complete panic.
What if we had nothing to talk about? What if this was all some elaborate misunderstanding and Jeremiah thought we were just friends grabbing food?
What if I spilled something on my shirt or said something stupid or—
I pulled into the parking lot. My brain froze.
Jeremiah was pacing back and forth in front of the restaurant entrance like an expectant father outside the birthing room (or whatever they call it), running his hands through his blond hair and checking his phone every few seconds.
Even from a distance, nervous energy wafted off him like waves of energy pouring off the sun.
Which was oddly comforting.
At least I wasn’t the only one freaking out.
I took a steadying breath, checked my own reflection in the rearview mirror one more time, and climbed out of the car.
He spotted me immediately, his face breaking into that devastating smile that had been haunting my dreams for days. He wore dark jeans that hugged his legs and a blue button-down shirt with the top two buttons undone, giving me a tantalizing glimpse of the chest I’d been trying not to think about.
My mouth went completely dry.
“Hey,” he said as I approached. His voice had that slightly rough, stuttery quality that suggested he was just as nervous as I was.
“Hey yourself.” I stopped a few feet away, unsure of the appropriate greeting protocol. Handshake? Hug? Another surprise kiss?
We both reached out, me with an open palm, him with a fist to bump. What adults bumped fists on a date?
He must’ve realized how ridiculous that was and went for a hug instead. The result was an awkward collision of limbs that ended with my face pressed briefly against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his cologne and the faint hint of lavender soap.
He was warm and solid and smelled like safety and adventure all rolled into one. I could’ve stood there all night, and the date would’ve been utter perfection.
“Sorry,” he mumbled as we untangled ourselves. “I’m not usually this . . .”
“Awkward?” I said, immediately regretting it.
“I was going to say charming, but awkward works, too.”
I laughed, and some of the tension in my shoulders eased. “Well, you’re in good company. I think I’ve forgotten how to people. Dating is a foreign language.”
“Do what?”
“Date. Be a normal person who goes on dates with attractive men.”
The words slipped out before I could stop them, and I felt my face flame. Had I just called him attractive? Out loud?
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
But Jeremiah’s smile widened, his eyes practically sparkling in the early evening light.
“You think I’m attractive?” One brow cocked, and his mouth twisted in a mischievous grin.