Chapter 14
Fourteen
DEAN
The drive to Packy’s feels strained for some reason—Clover directs most of her conversation to the girls in the back seat, and rarely makes eye contact with me, but I tell myself it’ll be fine.
She’ll have a good time once we get there.
I didn’t bully her into attending my party…did I?
I just wanted her to enjoy the night, have a little time off, cut loose, be young. I just wanted her to…
I don’t know.
I don’t know what I wanted her to do, but I know I probably can’t encourage it. Whatever it is.
So, when she grabs her purse and swings out of the truck the second we get to Packy’s, saying, “I’m going to run ahead and change, okay? I want to freshen up before I join the grown-up fun,” I simply nod and wave, promising, “Okay, we’ll see you inside.”
We will see her inside, and it will be fine. Better than fine.
I intend to have a good time tonight. I loathe a cheesy kiddie arcade as much as the next parent, but this isn’t that.
Packy’s is three stories of polished industrial brick and tasteful neon that feels more like a boutique hotel than a family fun center. Their beer selection is on point, the cocktails are creative, and the food is actually good.
A fact I’m reminded of as we step through the door into the wood-fired-pizza-scented air…
Ava hums beside me, clinging tighter to my hand as she inhales. “Yummy. Their pizza always smells so yummy, Daddy.”
“It really does,” I agree.
“I think I’m hungry for real food, too,” she adds. “I think I need pizza dinner before cotton candy.”
“Me, too,” Bella chirps from my other side.
“Me, three,” I say, making them grin. “How about I order us an extra cheesy pizza with pepperoni and mushrooms while you two play on the playground until it’s ready?”
They cheer the brilliance of this idea before racing off to join the other kids already swarming the climbing structure and slides in the widest portion of the main floor.
Even the playground is an elevated experience here, a sprawling warren of interconnected tunnels and nets that looks more like a modern art installation than a playground.
It anchors the first-floor kiddie zone, surrounded by Packy audio-animatronics that dispense “elephant wisdom” for a quarter, a carousel, and typical carnival-type games.
Above, the mezzanine bar is perfectly positioned to give parents a clear view of their kids, while providing a buffer from the chaos.
The final, upper floor houses the stage, dance floor, and vintage pinball machines, as well as the “fast track” elevator down to the bowling alley and adult video games in the basement.
The designer arranged to keep all the loud, blaring shit contained in the soundproof basement so you can actually hear the music, and I couldn’t be happier. It sounds like it’s an ‘80s night tonight, practically guaranteeing good vibes.
It’s impossible to be sad while listening to ‘80s music. I love the ‘90s grunge of my childhood, but when the world’s getting me down, I go straight to my ‘80s playlist.
I’ve been listening to a lot of Boston, Wham!, and Cyndi Lauper lately, but I’m okay with it. We do what we have to do to get by, and it could be worse. I could blast Rage Against the Machine when I’m in the dumps like my mother.
For someone raised in the seventies, the woman has an unexpectedly hardcore taste in music…
“Dean! Up here!” Parker calls from the mezzanine. “We’ve got a pitcher, but we’re waiting to pour until we can toast you, old man.”
“So, hurry up before the beer gets hot,” Nix adds.
I join them, placing an order for a large pizza, garlic bread, and a carrot slaw salad in a nod to good nutrition, before lifting my glass.
“To eleven hundred more,” Nix says, making us all laugh.
“Hell no.” I grin as I clink my glass against my teammates’. “But I’ll take another hundred or so. I’ve still got some fight left in me.”
“Fuck yeah, you do,” Parker agrees, taking a hearty gulp and swallowing before he adds, “You give me hope, dude. You really do. If you can make it to thirty-seven or thirty-eight, why can’t I?”
“Because your knee is wrecked?” his fiancée Makena reminds him before poking his slightly rounder-than-usual gut.
“And because you’re getting a dad bod and can’t stop talking about how much you want to stop being a professional athlete and take over the bakery side of my business?
” She rolls her eyes affectionately. “Because you could run it ‘so much better’ and with more fiber?”
Parker wraps an arm around her waist, flashing a shameless grin as he cuddles her close. “I mean, I do have a gift for adding fiber without losing deliciousness. And you love my dad bod. You have to. It’s your fault I have one. You gave it to me with all your good cookin’.”
Makena laughs as she wraps her arms around his neck. “I do love it.” She kisses his cheek, clearly as smitten with him—and his dad bod—as she’s ever been. “But I worry about your knee. Two more years, maybe three, and then you retire and help me finish becoming the female Gordon Ramsey, okay?”
He nods, looking pleased with this idea. “Totally. Except we’ll have pet raccoons instead of all those kids. I’m already working on an enclosure for them in the backyard by the garden.”
“Pet raccoons are illegal in Louisiana,” Grammercy pipes up as some of the younger players wander off to find more exciting entertainment now that the toasting is over. “I’ve told you a hundred times. You can’t have raccoons as pets here, brother.”
Parker scowls at him over the top of his beer.
“And I keep telling you that I’m lobbying to have that law changed.
I have a contact in the state legislature, dude, and we are tight.
Mark my words, by the time I retire, raccoons will be legal pets in Louisiana, and I will be well on my way to being declared a state treasure. ”
“Maybe even a national treasure,” Makena agrees. “I say we take this all the way to the Supreme Court. Raccoons want to be our friends. Our best friends. They’re way smarter, cuter and cleaner than dogs, and the legal barriers to our inter-species love must be abolished at once!”
Elly laughs. “You didn’t use to think so. Remember when that raccoon broke into your food truck and had babies on your prep table? You were so mad.”
“I was uneducated. And grossed out by childbirth,” Makena says, lifting her nose in the air. “There’s a difference.”
The mention of childbirth reminds me…
I stand, moving closer to the railing to check on the girls, who are happily playing with Mimi and two other kids I don’t recognize. They all seem to be having a good time, however. Which is good, considering the waiter said it would be at least a half hour wait for the pizza.
As Elly and the others continue their debate on the future of domesticated raccoons in Louisiana, Nix joins me at the railing. “So, speaking of the future, have you thought about…getting back out there at all?”
I arch a brow. “Getting back out there as in…”
He shrugs. “As in dating. It’s been almost a year since the divorce, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, uncomfortable for some reason.
Are my “more than friends” feelings for Clover that obvious?
Or am I being paranoid? Just in case, I play it safe and keep my response vague.
“I guess, but I’m not sure when I’d have time.
Or where I’d meet someone. I don’t think dating apps are for me. ”
Nix pulls a face. “Yeah, fuck no. Dating apps are the worst. Literal torture, but… Well, you might not have to bother.” He glances over his shoulder, nodding toward the far end of the mezzanine.
“See the gaggle of ladies over there by the pool tables? The two blondes and the redhead? I heard them talking while I was ordering the beer. The redhead wants your body, man.” His brows creep up as he shakes his head.
“Like a lot. The things she was saying were…not vague, if you know what I mean.” He claps me on the shoulder with a laugh.
“So, do with that information what you will. Just thought you might want to know.”
I glance toward the pool tables to find the redhead in question—a very curvy, very young woman in a microscopic dress watching me with a sultry smile—and quickly shift my focus back to Nix. “She’s like…twelve,” I mutter, lifting my glass.
Nix grunts. “She is not. She ordered a margarita, so she’s at least twenty-one. I’m betting closer to twenty-two or twenty-three. One of the girls she’s with went to high school with Reed. They’re both twenty-two, and twenty-two is a fully legal, adult human being.”
It’s my turn to grunt. “Barely. And you wouldn’t date someone that much younger. If memory serves, when you were on the market, you only dated older women.”
“That’s because I’m an old soul,” Nix says, making me roll my eyes. “I am!”
“And I’m not?” I counter. “You think your soul stays young when you have two kids under the age of five? Hell, Bella just started sleeping through the night a year ago. I’m still sleep-deprived from her babyhood. I don’t have the energy to keep up with a woman in her early twenties.”
I don’t, which is why Clover is off-limits.
And if I can’t be with Clover, why would I bother with this redhead? Who is likely not nearly as interesting or smart or kind or talented as Clover, and doesn’t hold a candle to her in the looks department?
I’m not a shallow man, or at least I try not to be, but Clover is…something else. Every part of her is more perfect, more beautiful than the last.
You should bother with the redhead because the redhead isn’t your nanny, the inner voice pipes up. And you’re not already obsessed with the redhead. Maybe you could actually have something casual and fun with her.
As if eavesdropping on my brain chatter, Nix says, “You don’t have to keep up with someone in her twenties forever.
You just…ask her on a date and make sure she knows it’s casual.
That you’re just dipping a toe back into the dating scene.
Then, you two enjoy each other for however long it lasts.
” His shoulders lift. “There’s nothing wrong with casual dating, you know.
Or even just hooking up. A lot of women like a low-stress situation, too.
” He pulls in a breath before adding, “And the redhead definitely wants casual. Filthy and casual…”
I frown harder and take a long pull on my beer, wishing that sounded good to me. But it doesn’t. Not even a little bit.
“What’s up?” Charlotte, Nix’s fiancée, joins us, a glass of white wine in hand. “I’m not interrupting serious talk, am I?”
I shake my head. “Not at all.”
“We just finished that part,” Nix says, grinning. “I tried, but Dean isn’t into redheads. At least not that one.”
Charlotte huffs. “Of course, he’s not. I told you he wouldn’t be. She’s practically a fetus.”
Eyes widening, I motion Charlotte’s way. “See? She gets it.”
“I do,” Charlotte assures me. “And don’t worry, I have my eye out for an age-appropriate match for you.
Just let me know when you’re ready, and I’ll narrow the search and provide an intro.
But in the meantime…” She rests a hand on Nix’s shoulder.
“I need you for a second, babe. My contact for the film festival last year just texted. Their organizer at the Colorado event bailed, and they need emergency help next week. I think I can free up a few days to fly out, but I wanted to check with you and coordinate our schedules before I said yes.”
Nix steps away from the railing. “Sure, yeah. I’m sure we can make it work.” He claps me on the shoulder as they move away. “Congrats again, man. You really are an inspiration. Especially for those of us without dad bod bakery empires in our future.”
I laugh and lift a hand. “Thanks, man. Appreciate it.”
But I’m not sure I do…
I don’t like feeling like the pathetic old fogey of the team, the one my teammates feel sorry for, and go out of their way to try to set up with puck bunnies.
I am not a charity case. I’ve never had problems with women.
Quite the opposite, in fact. In the early years of our marriage, Frederica used to joke about having to beat other women off of me with a hockey stick when we went out.
And sure, I’m older now, and a single dad, but if I wanted a girlfriend—or a one-night stand—it wouldn’t take much effort to make that happen. Not because I’m such a catch, necessarily, but I’m a decent guy who keeps my promises and respects women.
Sadly, in today’s dating market, that bare minimum is enough to ensure I have my pick of incredible women. I could likely get a “yes” to a date from any single woman in this building.
Any single woman except the one bent over the pool table across the room, looking so different than when she walked into Packy’s, that I’m just now realizing the leggy woman by puck bunnies is Clover.
My Clover.
My Clover, with a crowd of men surrounding her as she bends to take a shot, causing her tight jeans to stretch even tighter across her ass…
I freeze with my beer halfway to my mouth, already planning elaborate ways to disembowel the two frat boys staring at her backside with matching smirks.