Chapter 9
Theo
The drive home felt both too long and not nearly long enough. My hands clenched the wheel as my mind raced between two completely different tracks—parental worry and romantic disappointment, each thought interrupting the other like competing radio stations bleeding through static.
Debbie threw up. Julia said she threw up. Throwing up is bad, really bad. We might have to go to the hospital. Oh, God. She has to be all right.
I knew I was being silly. People got sick, especially kids.
She could have eaten a LEGO for all I knew—or have a stomach bug—or a million other non-life-threatening things.
Why did my pulse race like Danica Patrick’s engine?
Why did the thought of one little girl having an upset stomach send me into such a tailspin?
Jesus, no one told me parenting would be like this.
But then my brain drifted back to the way Jeremiah looked across the table, how his eyes had practically glowed when he laughed at my terrible joke about the difference between fiction and non-fiction (it was accurate, thank you, just not very funny).
That laugh had been something else entirely—warm and genuine and completely unguarded.
It had somehow crawled right into my chest and rolled around like a contented cat, leaving me all fuzzy and tickly and impossibly warm.
Focus, Theo. Your daughter is sick.
Right. Debbie.
She seemed perfectly fine when I left, bouncing around the living room with Julia like she had springs in her shoes.
God, the way he smiled every time he looked at me, like I was the only person in the restaurant, like I was worth looking at.
What was happening to me? I couldn’t focus on one burning issue before the other burst into flames in my mind. I was losing it at sixty miles per hour.
Shit, I missed my exit.
I shook my head, trying to dislodge the memory of Jeremiah’s face in the warm light of the restaurant.
This was not the time to be replaying our dinner like some lovesick teenager.
Debbie needed me to be a responsible parent, not a man whose brain had apparently been hijacked by rock-hard nipples and sparkling eyes.
The evening had been going so well, too.
We talked about books and work and Debbie’s latest artistic creations.
Jeremiah listened with genuine interest when I explained my ongoing battle with the school board over library funding, and he made me laugh until my sides ached with stories about his more colorful delivery customers—and the lack of clothing with which a few greeted him at the door.
The spell had been broken instantly when my phone chimed.
I apologized profusely, explained about the babysitter’s message, and watched Jeremiah’s face shift from disappointment to understanding.
“Go take care of your little Button,” he’d said, already signaling for the check.
And that had made me want to kiss him all over again—right there in the middle of the restaurant.
I pulled into my driveway and sat for a heartbeat, trying to shift my brain fully into dad mode. Whatever was happening between Jeremiah and me could wait. Debbie came first. Always.
The house was quiet when I let myself in, but I could hear the low murmur of the television in the living room.
I found them on the couch—Debbie curled up in a small ball with her head resting on Julia’s lap, fast asleep.
Julia was watching what appeared to be one of those reality shows where women in ridiculous outfits screamed at each other over champagne flutes and imaginary slights.
I rolled my eyes internally. Okay, not so internally. My sockets ached after that roll.
Of all the things she could be watching while babysitting my daughter . . .
But the criticism died in my throat as I looked at Debbie’s peaceful face. Whatever Julia’s taste in entertainment, she’d clearly taken good care of my little girl.
I dropped to my knees beside the couch, my hand instinctively reaching out to stroke Debbie’s forehead. She felt cool to the touch, no fever, her breathing steady and even.
“How is she?” I whispered.
Julia looked down from the television, popping her gum with practiced indifference. “She’s fine. I’ve thrown up worse after a kegger. It wasn’t a big deal.”
I blinked rapidly, unsure how to unpack all that.
“What happened exactly? What did she eat? When did she throw up? Was there a fever? Did she complain about her stomach? How long did it last? Did she drink water? She’ll need water. She’s probably dehydrated.”
The questions tumbled out in a rush of parental panic.
“Chill, Mr. J.” Julia’s voice held the patience of an exhausted double-shift nurse in the ICU.
“She had some crackers and apple juice around seven, then like ten minutes later she said she felt weird. She threw up once in the bathroom—got it all in the toilet like a champ—and then said she felt better. No fever, no crying, nothing dramatic. We played a little, then she got sleepy. I think she just ate too fast.”
I studied Debbie’s face, looking for any sign of distress. “She didn’t eat anything unusual?”
“Just what you left for her. The leftover mac and cheese for dinner, some Goldfish crackers as a snack. Normal kid food.” Julia paused the television and gave me a look that was surprisingly mature for seventeen.
“Seriously, she’s fine. Kids throw up sometimes.
It’s like, part of their job description or whatever. ”
I nodded but kept my hand on Debbie’s forehead anyway.
The logical part of my brain knew Julia was right—kids did get randomly sick sometimes, and Debbie seemed perfectly peaceful now. Still, the anxious dad in my brain wasn’t ready to stand down from high alert.
“Thanks,” I said finally. “For taking care of her . . . and for calling me.”
“No problem. That’s what you pay me for.” Julia pried herself free of my sleeping baby and gathered her things, slinging her oversized purse over her shoulder. “How was your date?”
Heat crept up my neck. “It was . . . fine.”
“Just fine?” She raised an eyebrow with all the skepticism her seventeen years could muster. “You were pretty nervous when you left.”
“It was good,” I amended. “We had a nice time.”
“Uh-huh. And you came home early because . . . ?”
“Because my daughter was sick.”
Julia’s expression softened, turning almost thoughtful. “You know, most dads would’ve just called later to check in and stayed for dessert.”
I looked down at Debbie, her small hand curled trustingly against my arm. “I’m not most dads. I’m all . . .” My throat tightened. “I’m all she has left.”
“You’re a good dude, Mr. J.,” Julia said with something that might have been approval as she turned toward the door. “See you next Friday?”
I nodded, pulling away from Debbie to walk her to the door, watching until she was safely in her car and backing out of the driveway. When I turned back to the living room, I found Debbie’s eyes fluttering open.
“Daddy?” Her voice was small and groggy.
I quickly took Julia’s place on the couch, letting Debbie’s head settle on my lap. “Hey, Button. How are you feeling?”
She blinked up at me, her face scrunched with the confusion of someone not quite awake. “Sleepy.”
Relief flooded through me.
She looked perfectly normal—rumpled and drowsy, but entirely like herself. There was no pallor, no distress, just my little girl being exactly what she was supposed to be.
“Julia said you weren’t feeling well earlier.”
“My tummy felt funny. I threw up a lot, but it’s better now.” She nestled deeper against my leg, already drifting back toward sleep.
I looked down at her perfect, peaceful face, at the way her dark eyelashes curved against her cheeks and how her hair escaped its ponytail to curl around her face like a halo.
She was so beautiful it sometimes took my breath away—this flawless little person who’d been given to my care, who called me Daddy and trusted me to keep her safe and happy.
But that trust came with a price, didn’t it?
The constant vigilance, the sleepless nights when she was sick, the way my heart stopped every time my phone buzzed during a rare evening out. God, being a parent was complicated. No, that’s not right. It’s simple. Feed, water, poop, repeat.
It just complicates everything else.
What man would willingly sign up for that?
Especially a gay man who could have any guy he wanted?
Hell, guys were hard enough to pin down without a kid involved.
Add a child and poof, it was like someone tossed a cloak of invisibility over your head so you would never be seen by the gay world again.
What sane person would choose to inherit the responsibility of someone else’s child, the complicated reality of dating a single father?
Jeremiah had been understanding tonight, even sweet about me having to leave early; but that was one dinner.
What about when it became a pattern? When Debbie had nightmares and needed me to sleep in her bed, or when she got sick in the middle of the night and I had to cancel plans?
When she had school events and recitals and soccer games that took precedence over romantic dinners?
I’d seen the way other men’s faces changed when I mentioned Debbie.
The polite smile that didn’t quite reach their eyes, the sudden discovery that they weren’t quite ready for anything serious after all.
The slow fade that always followed, leaving me wondering if I was destined to choose between my daughter’s happiness and my own.
Maybe I was being naive, thinking that someone like Jeremiah—young and hot and unencumbered—would want to take on the beautiful chaos that came with loving me.
I was a good guy, I knew that, but still . . .
I was just about to scoop Debbie up and carry her to bed when her eyes fluttered open again, focusing on me with sudden clarity.
“Daddy? How was your date with Willie Wee?”
I nearly choked. “With whom?”
“Willie Wee,” she said matter-of-factly, as though this was the most natural question in the world. “The mailman who brought us the Willie Wee. You went on a date with him tonight.”
My face burned.
Of course, she’d connected those dots. Leave it to a five-year-old to reduce my first romantic evening in years to its most mortifying common denominator.
“His name is Jeremiah,” I said weakly. “And it was . . . nice.”
“Did you hold hands?”
“Debbie . . .”
“Did you kiss him again? Like on the porch?”
“I think it’s time for bed, don’t you?”
But she was wide awake now, sitting up with the bright-eyed interest of someone who’d stumbled onto the most fascinating gossip of her young life.
“I like Willie Wee,” she announced. “He’s nice. And he has pretty eyes. And he bought us the shiny whisk.” She paused, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Are you gonna marry him?”
“We had one dinner, Button.”
“But are you?”
I looked down at her expectant face, at the complete trust and acceptance there, and felt my heart do something complicated in my chest.
“Sweetie, we barely know each other. How about I say ‘yes’ to another dinner and we go from there?”
She smiled, satisfied with this answer, and curled back up against my lap.
“Good,” she said sleepily. “I want someone to help you make pancakes. You always burn them.”