Chapter 16
Theo
By five o’clock, I’d managed to clean the entire downstairs, reorganize Debbie’s toy chest twice, and play three rounds of “Princess Dragon Saves the Library”—a game that involved me being the evil wizard who’d stolen all the books while Debbie flew around the living room breathing imaginary fire and making sound effects more akin to a dying cat than a dragon, but who was I to correct a child’s imagination?
The house was finally presentable, which felt like a minor victory after the morning’s emotional roller coaster.
Debbie had been remarkably helpful, in her five-year-old way, mostly by staying out of whatever room I was cleaning and only occasionally requesting snacks or assistance with elaborate construction projects involving couch cushions.
The more time I had to think, the more grateful I was that it was just the two of us. I should’ve thought to make a day out of our adoption conversation, to make it into the big deal that it really was and to celebrate it with my soon-to-be-daughter-for-real.
“Daddy, can we visit Cuddles?” she asked, appearing at my elbow as I folded the last of the laundry. “I want to show her my new dance moves.”
I looked out the window toward Mrs. Chen’s house, where I could see the golden retriever lounging on her front porch like a furry queen surveying her domain.
“Sure, Button, but just for a little while. We need to think about dinner soon.”
Debbie cheered and raced toward the front door, already calling out to Cuddles as though the dog could hear her through the walls—which, in hindsight, she probably could.
Moments later, Mrs. Chen and I stood shoulder to shoulder watching Debbie demonstrate what she called her “butterfly tornado dance” while Cuddles eyed her with the patient expression of a dog who’d seen it all before.
Her transformation from vicious mail-carrier destroyer to gentle family pet never ceased to amaze me.
“She has so much energy,” Mrs. Chen observed, lowering herself onto her porch’s top step and patting the cement for me to join her.
She was a small woman in her seventies, with silver hair always pulled back in a neat bun.
Her kind, brown eyes missed nothing. “Where do children find all that energy? I swear, they must have some secret source the rest of us don’t know about. ”
“I think it’s powered by sugar and pure stubbornness.” I grunted, watching Debbie attempt to teach Cuddles to spin in circles. “Some days I wonder if I should bottle it and sell it. I’d make a fortune.”
Mrs. Chen laughed, then gave me a sideways look. “Speaking of energy, have you seen that hunky delivery man around lately? The one who gets Cuddles all riled up?”
“Jeremiah?” Heat crept up my neck as I nodded. “He delivers here sometimes.”
“Mm-hmm. Know his name, do you?” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “And does he deliver anything besides packages?”
“Mrs. Chen!”
“What? I’m old, not dead. That boy is easy on the eyes, and he looks at you like you’re the last piece of chocolate cake at a church social.”
I nearly choked. “He does not.”
“Oh, honey.” She patted my knee with the patience of someone explaining basic math to a kindergartner.
“I may be seventy-three, but my eyes work just fine. That man lights up like a Vegas billboard every time he sees you—and don’t think I didn’t notice him leaving here the other day with his shirt all torn up and a goofy grin on his face. ”
“That was Cuddles. She attacked him. Again.”
“Attacked him?” Mrs. Chen looked offended on behalf of her dog. “Cuddles is a perfect lady. She was probably just trying to get his attention so he’d notice her sweet neighbor.”
“Her what?”
“You, Theodore. Keep up.” She gave me an exasperated look. “So, are you two dating or just making googly eyes at each other across my picket fence?”
I blew out a breath that sounded as heavy as my heart felt.
“That doesn’t sound good.” Her eyes narrowed as she stretched her arms behind her and leaned back.
“We’re trying,” I said, my shoulders sagging. “We were supposed to have lunch today, actually, but my babysitter’s car broke down, and I couldn’t find anyone else on short notice, so . . .”
“Ah.” Mrs. Chen’s voice softened, and she patted my arm with understanding. “The eternal single parent dilemma.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“You know,” she said gently, “not all men run away when things get complicated.”
“Most do. Especially gay men. My people perfected the art of being flaky.”
“But not all.” She squeezed, her bony digits digging into the meat of my arm. “And from what I’ve seen, that boy doesn’t strike me as the running type. More like the ‘charge headfirst into battle’ type. He might not know which battle he was charging into, bless him, but he’d charge for dear life.”
Her cackle—the one that followed her backhanded compliment, had me grinning despite my mood. That was exactly Jeremiah, courage and heroic pride wrapped in a stunningly beautiful package—but not quite understanding what he was doing in the moment, or why.
He was strong and sexy and protective and . . . so damn sweet.
“Theo,” she said, her tone turning soft and thoughtful. “I need to tell you something.”
I turned, my brow furrowing at the sudden shift. Lines creased her face, adding a dozen years to her hard-won seven decades. My heart crawled into my throat as I waited for words I somehow knew neither of us wanted to speak or hear.
“I need to have . . . an operation.”
I began to speak, but she held up a palm, silencing me. “This is serious, Theodore, and . . . well . . . any woman my age knows things can go wrong.”
“Mrs. Chen—”
“Just let me get this out,” she snapped, then settled. “It isn’t happening for a couple of weeks, so there’s time to make plans, but I need to talk to you privately when you have a moment.”
“Of course. Whatever you need. We’ll be here for you, okay? You’re not alone.”
She was alone, and we both knew it. No children, no husband or partner, no extended family—at least not within a thousand miles. She had to be terrified, facing whatever this was without anyone to help her through it.
Before I could think of anything else to say, a commotion in the yard brought both our heads up.
Debbie, oblivious to our conversation, was attempting to climb onto Cuddles’s back like she was mounting a pony, while the patient golden retriever stood perfectly still, apparently willing to serve as a very large, very furry horse.
“Button, no!” I called out, jumping to my feet. “Don’t ride the dog!”
“But she likes it!” Debbie protested, managing to get one leg over Cuddles’s back before I reached them.
“I’m sure she does, but she’s not a horse. You could hurt her back or fall off and hurt yours,” I said, lifting Debbie off the bemused dog. “And I need to get you home and fed before you start thinking Cuddles looks like a snack.”
Mrs. Chen cackled again from the porch, the sound as genuine as ever. “Take her home, Theodore, before she decides to saddle poor Cuddles properly.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked.
“We’ll talk more later,” she said, waving us off with forced cheer. “My appointment isn’t for another couple of weeks. Plenty of time for conversations.”
We walked back across the street, Debbie chattering about how Cuddles would make the best horse in the whole world if only she had a dog-sized saddle.
Once inside, I kicked off my shoes and padded into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and staring at its pathetic contents with growing despair.
I’d put off grocery shopping all week, telling myself I’d get to it eventually, and now “eventually” had arrived with a vengeance.
Half a carton of milk that was probably questionable.
Three eggs.
A sad-looking apple that had seen better days.
Some leftover takeout that I couldn’t quite remember ordering.
And in the back, a package of hot dogs that had been there so long they’d probably achieved consciousness.
“Daddy, I’m hungry,” Debbie announced, climbing onto her step stool to peer into the refrigerator beside me. “What’s for dinner?”
“That, my little monster, is an excellent question.” I moved aside a container of something that might have once been yogurt. “How do you feel about . . . creative cuisine?”
“What’s . . . creative cuisine?” she asked, sounding out the words like they tasted funny on her tongue.
“It’s when Daddy has no idea what we’re eating either.”
She giggled.
I opened the pantry, hoping for inspiration.
A box of stale crackers.
Half a bag of pasta with no sauce.
A can of green beans that had been there since we moved in.
And shoved into the back corner, a jar of peanut butter that would probably have to serve as our protein source.
“We could have peanut butter pasta,” I said weakly.
Debbie wrinkled her nose. “That sounds gross.”
“You’re right. It sounds really gross.” I closed the pantry door and leaned against it in defeat. “Looks like we’re going to the grocery store, kiddo.”
“But I don’t want to go to the store,” she whined. “I want to stay home and play with Sir Hornsworth.”
“Well, Sir Hornsworth is going to have to come with us, because unless he can magically produce food from thin air, we’re all going to starve.”
I was mentally preparing myself for the ordeal of grocery shopping with a tired, hungry five-year-old who was growing crankier by the moment when my phone buzzed against the kitchen counter.
The screen lit up with Jeremiah’s name, and my heart did a backflip that would’ve made Simone Biles applaud.
Postie: Hey. It’s me. Jer. What are you two up to?
I stared at the message and chuckled. Who announces themselves in a text? Surely he knew I had him programmed in by now. It was so Jeremiah . . . and so damned adorable.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard.
What was I supposed to say?
That I was currently contemplating whether expired hot dogs qualified as actual food?
That I’d been wallowing in self-pity all afternoon while my daughter tried to turn the neighbor’s dog into personal transportation?
Me: Just trying to figure out dinner. The pantry situation is . . . dire.
The response came back almost immediately.
Postie: How dire are we talking? Like “order pizza” dire or “call the food bank” dire?
A grin so wide it hurt split my lips.
Me: Somewhere between “peanut butter pasta” and “teach Debbie to hunt and gather.”
Postie: Yikes. That IS dire.
Postie: Sounds like you need a knight in shining armor.
Me: More like a DoorDash Delivery Dude in Shining Armor.
Postie: Do you both like Chinese?
Me: God, I could eat all of Beijing right now. And Debbie loves it more than me, especially crab Rangoon. She could eat her weight in deep-fried cream cheese.
My phone was silent so long I wondered if Jeremiah had run away or decided to end the conversation.
Then the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it!” Debbie’s yell was followed by the rapid patting of tiny feet against hardwood.
Before I could round the corner, I heard, “Willie Wee!” followed by a deep, rumbling laugh. By the time I reached the front door, Debbie was already pulling Jeremiah inside by his free hand.
“Uh, hey,” I said, suddenly very aware of my own bare feet that were probably black from the yard and floor, and I was sure my hair looked more like a Chia Pet than anything resembling an adult’s hairdo. “Were you . . . texting from my porch?”
Jeremiah grinned and nodded. Then, ignoring me completely, he kneeled before Debbie, mussing her already mussed hair, and held up a plastic bag I hadn’t noticed. “I heard somebody likes crab Rangoon. Guess it’s good I got two orders of them.”