Chapter 2 Hayes #2
“I’m not being weird about it.” I do my best to keep my tone light, eyes still on the road. “But why, though? Between Bigfoot and Polar Plunge, you snuck in ‘meet-cute for my dad’?”
“Pfft, I’m not the only one,” she boasts, matter-of-factly. “So does Nana Fielder and Glamma Wagner. Majority rules, Dad.”
Honestly, I had no idea she felt this way. And if we weren’t actively pulling into a resort, I would try to have a more meaningful conversation about this.
Like, I get it. She wants a mom; the women in her life can’t replace what she’s missing deep down in her soul. And yeah—I’m sure she gets tired and bored with me.
Benny grins out the windshield; I can see the little smirk of hers in the glass’s reflection. “Also . . . there’s a group chat.”
“No there is not.”
“Yup.”
“What’s it called?”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “‘Dad’s GF.’”
That little shit. “Absolutely not,” I sputter indignantly, laughing at the same time. “Change it. Immediately.”
“To what? ‘Potential Stepmother, Please Apply’?”
“No. Change it to a conversation about, I don’t fucking know. Christmas lists and shit.”
“Dad—language.”
Shit. “Sorry.”
But she is totally unbothered. “It’s already pinned in my contacts. Nana made a Google Form.”
“A Google Form?” I am going to kill my mother. “For what?”
“Application for the position. Questions include ‘Do you return your cart at the grocery store?,’ ‘Biggest pet peeves?,’ and ‘How do you feel about having more kids?’”
“Oh my God. Please tell me you’re joking.”
She shakes her head no. “There’s a short-answer section about boundaries.” She reaches over the center console to pat my arm. “Your broody brand is safe with me.”
We roll under the wooden Star Lake Lodge sign, and I pull into a spot beneath a maple tree. Before either of us moves to take off our seat belts, my daughter angles her body toward mine. Rests her knobby elbows in the space between us.
“Talk to me, Benny. Why would you put that on your list?”
Her eyes flick to the windshield, to the lake beyond it. She shrugs her little shoulder. “’Cause. I just . . . like thinking about you laughing, that’s all.”
Thinking about you laughing.
“I laugh.” I frown.
Benny snorts. “You’re a lot of things, Dad, but giggly isn’t one of them.
Which is fine—you’re the best.” She takes a breath.
“And also, I’m fine. I don’t need a mom.
I have you and I have Nana and I have Coach Jen and Madison’s mom and my brain and stuff.
I just . . .” Her sentence trails off. “It would be like having extra whip cream, you know? Optional but nice.”
Optional but nice.
“Benny, I love you, but I do not want any ambushes. No scheming. We’re here for two days, and I don’t need my child staging a parent trap in the beer tent.”
“I would never,” she says. “The beer tent isn’t my style, and I’m underage.”
Duh. “I’m serious, Ben. No accidental bumping me into some woman on the dock that sends her tumbling into my arms. No slipping my number into a raffle jar. No switching spots during the hayride so I’m sitting next to someone single.”
“Wow, Dad.” She clicks her pen and begins scribbling. “You thought of better schemes than I did.”
Fuck.
She settles back, pleased with this entire conversation. “Can I ask one question, purely for science purposes?”
I give her a side-eye. “Proceed with caution.”
She clicks her pen again. “What’s your type?”
“She has to like you,” I say. “Everything else is extra whip cream.”
Benny smiles, liking that answer. “Optional but nice,” she approves.
We crest the hill and the lodge opens up on our right like a movie set—wraparound porch, warm light smudging the windows, a carved bear in a scarf guarding the steps. Banners flap. A gust of wind chases leaves across the asphalt like they’re trying to race us to check-in.
Benny leans forward in her seat belt. “Okay, one last question. And then I’ll stop.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah—I’ve heard that before, but go.”
“What do you not want in a girlfriend?”
“I don’t know, Benny. I haven’t thought about it.”
“Dad, this is serious.”
I groan. Once my daughter latches on to an idea, she’s like a dog with a bone, and there’s no stopping her. I have to give her something, or she won’t let it go.
“I don’t want anyone obsessed with social media.” Someone simple, I guess, if I was forced to choose. Quiet. Sweet. No one flashy, who spends tons of time on hair and makeup.
She caps the pen, satisfied. “This is extremely helpful to the committee.”
I pull into the parking lot behind a turquoise pickup that looks older than half the chairs on that porch. It’s piled high with hay bales, corn stalks, and every shape of pumpkin God ever carved on a bet.
The tailgate is held closed by bungee cords.
Barely.
Benny sees it the same time I do, eyes going wide as saucers. “That’s a lot of everything. It looks like steak stuffed into a hot dog casing.”
I laugh at her analogy. It’s one of her favorites.
“Festival supplies, obviously,” I say, rolling to a cautious crawl behind the old truck. “Give them space.”
Then, as if in slow motion, the bungee cord snaps.
The tailgate falls open.
An avalanche of small gourds begins its descent, at the same time several hay bales—that had been piled on top of one another—thump to the ground, split, and start shedding straw like golden confetti.
“Dad, Watch Out!”