by Imani King
“No obligation. No mention of fatherhood,” I whisper. “And it’s not a date.” I leave off what I’m thinking—not unless you want it to be. I usually don’t read situations with women all that well, which is why they don’t stick around. But something tells me that this woman right here wouldn’t react that well to flirtation, not how things stand right now.
Helena glances nervously over her shoulder at Trixie’s room. “Fine. Just get out of here today—if you plan something, I’ll show up.”
“Deal,” I say, holding out my hand for her to shake. She takes it, and it feels me with that same addictive surge of warmth.
I want to stay and meet Trixie, but I won’t push my luck. Instead, I leave, somewhat more satisfied than before—and feeling less like an asshole than I did before.
If I can keep it up, I might just find out what I’ve been missing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I sink down on the couch after he leaves. The man I probably shouldn’t be getting anywhere near—the man who basically accused me of trying to get his money, and then showed up with a giant teddy bear for my daughter. His daughter. Our daughter.
I hear the door to Trixie’s room gently gasp open, and Celia walks out, looking behind her to make sure that Trixie’s not following. I put my hand against my head and lean back into the sofa.
This day has been taxing so far, to say the least. Compared with most of my weekends, this day has been loaded up with excitement—and not the good kind.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Celia says, sitting down next to me. I keep my hand over my eyes, trying to keep the pounding out of my head—and trying to stave off the miserable feeling that I’ve done something stupid, fucked up, and totally wrong. I put that man in a bad position, and all I can do is be salty towards him. It’s hard when he looks at me with that crooked smile, when I catch a glimpse of those defined cheekbones or the messy hair. Or the muscles underneath his carefully selected black t-shirt that make him look “beyond wearing suits.”
“Hm? What do you mean, Cee?” I yawn and pull one of my crocheted blankets over my legs. I feel sort of like falling asleep and forgetting the whole thing, including Saint Corbett’s email address, building location, or phone number.
“It’s been a while since a man looked at you like that. Since a man wanted to meet your daughter. Remember all those guys on Match who ghosted once they found out about Trixie? This man was practically drooling at the prospect of this perfect, gorgeous, ready-made family.”
“You’re hallucinating,” I moan. But my brain responds with a prickling enthusiasm. Was he really looking at me? There’s nothing about me that’s too special... at least not that I could see. Not that Kellan could see. I sigh and shake my head, trying to scramble up my thoughts. “I was bitchy and mean to him, starting as early as this morning.”
“Because...?”
“I can’t stand the thought of what I did,” I say frankly. “And I can’t stand the lingering thought of what I said. And I can’t stand his stupid face. He’s not even that attractive.” I spit the words out. The first two statements might be true but the third--well, certainly the hell not.
“I didn’t say anything about him being attractive. But you did.”
“Whatever,” I chirp. “Not relevant. I also didn’t notice him looking at me at all.”
“I don’t know a lot of things, but I know student advising—” Cee says, and then she pauses. “And I know men. And that man couldn’t stop staring at your tits.” She whispers the last word since I live with an echo-bot who repeats everything I say.
“He was not!”
“That’s what I was doing while you two were bantering, Hel. I watched those sparkly eyes of his, and he was absolutely and without a doubt undressing you where you stood. I bet he doesn’t see too many women with a naturally curvy, gorgeous body.”
“Stop, Cee. Stop it. You go on home and stop harassing me about it—”
“You can’t shoo me away like you did to him. You should have asked him to stay... cook dinner... give you a shoulder rub. Or, you know.”
“’You know,’ what?” I asked, of course, but I already know.
“With the way he was looking at you, I think he’d volunteer to do one or two things to your body that you’ve probably been missing. Or have you? I don’t know. You might be sleeping around behind my back.”
“I am not!” I throw a pillow at her and shift uncomfortably. At the very thought of that man’s hands on my body, a pulse of electricity sears through me, pooling like rich, dark heat between my thighs. It’s been a while. A long, long while. But men like that—or hell, any man—that signifies only danger for me. That’s why I had Trixie by myself, and it’s why I never looked back when Kellan left. Sex might be nice—and I loved it plenty when I was having it—but it’s a part of my life I’m done with. “He’s not...he’s not...safe.”
As soon as the words escape my mouth, Trixie appears at her doorway and waltzes into the living room, this time wearing a Batman mask with her outfit. It covers only her eyes, so I can see that missing tooth. And just like it does sometimes when I see her, my heart leaps.
How did I ever create something so perfect?
And how did Saint Corbett ever get to be a part of that? It doesn’t want to compute in my brain. But if I look at her, squinting, with one eye closed, I can see the resemblance. The air, of course, but also the shape of her face and her unusual height for her age. I’ve always imagined her growing up to be some type of warrior goddess, with her long arms and legs. And looking straight at the Corbett genetic pool, that might just be applicable. That man is what, six foot four? Six foot five? And I wonder just what all that muscle looks like underneath those purposefully casual clothes.
Stop.
“What’s not safe, Mama? Crossing the street without holding hands?” She comes over to me and climbs onto my lap, sprawling over me casually and kicking her little feet. One of her high heels falls off. “Or running at the pool? You could slip.” The “S” in slip makes it sound like she’s saying “sssthlip” instead. And that second tooth is one step away from falling out of her head too.
“Nothing like that, Princess Batman.” I brush some of the fine blond curls away from her face. Some people have actually asked me if I dyed her hair. Good God. What planet are people from that they don’t understand people of color can be born with any type of hair the universe pleases?
At least Saint didn’t say anything stupid like that. Instead, he was looking at Trixie’s golden hair like he’d won the lottery, like he was so excited and enchanted that he might fall on the floor.
He doesn’t think I caught that look, but I did. I guess it was kind of cute, to see a man excited to see his daughter. It’s not the kind of thing you see every day, is it?
“Where’d the delivery man go? I liked him.” I glance at Celia and she shrugs.
“He went back home.”
“We might see him again, and we might not,” Celia adds.
I turn to Cee to shush her, but Trixie doesn’t need to be getting curious about any of this, so I remain quiet. She just needs her world to stay the same while we sort everything out. I toy with the idea of letting her interact with Saint someday, and I find that the idea isn’t as off-putting as it was this morning. If there’s some sweetness in him, it might work. And if it’s only a short meeting, a meeting that happens one time, Trixie won’t be worse for wear. She doesn’t expect a father to magically appear in her life and stay forever—after all, and so painfully, her life hasn’t been that way.
“That’s right,” I say, trying to keep any negative tone after my voice. “It’s a possibility.”
“What’s a possibility?” Trixie asks, yawning. I guess I haven’t been paying too much attention to the time, because the sun is starting to get low in the sky, reflecting off of the apartment complex pool outside. It’s time for dinner, and then bath, and then books, and sleep.
“Something that might happ
en,” Cee says.
“That’s right. It’s just something that could happen,” I repeat.
“That’s a good possibility, because it might be nice for Mama to have another friend. A man friend,” she clarifies, looking at Celia.
Celia laughs. “That’s what I’m saying, Trixie. High five!”
The two of them high five, and I hoist Trixie up onto Cee’s lap. “I’ll get together some macaroni and cheese.”
“Come on,” Cee says, sighing. “Trixie—don’t you want to go get pizza?”
Trixie nods, smacking her lips together, her hair hanging over the side of the red sofa. A spray of gold on red. Nothing has ever been more beautiful.
“I’ll get mine without red sauce but with pepperoni. Lots of pepperoni.”
“You’ve been outvoted, Helena,” Cee says, lifting Trixie up and setting her down on the floor. She digs a pair of sandals out from under the sofa and replaces Trixie’s sparkly high heel with the more practical footwear.
“I guess I have been. That’s happening a lot today.”
Celia rolls her eyes, and we all rush out of the door in a flurry. All day, I’ve been hurried along from one place to another, and I barely even realized I was agreeing to a date with a billionaire along the way. When I close my eyes as Celia drives to Pizza Guru, I feel like there might just be invisible strings pulling on me, from somewhere up above. Not just the ones Celia has pulled, but something greater, driving me forward.
But I’m probably just tired.
And when I think about Saint Corbett, I’m more than that. Everything I’ve seen of him tells me he’s pushy, he’s brash, and he certainly speaks too soon. But when I think of his smile, my body tells me there are parts of him that might be long hidden. And perhaps I should give those things a chance.
The pizza is hot and crispy and delicious, and the company is the best I could have. Sometimes I still feel lonely when the nights are long. But like I said, the company is good.
When Celia drops us off at home, I carry Trixie up the stairs. She’s heavy now, but I don’t want to stop carrying her, not until my back breaks under the strain. Her hair and skin still smell sweet when she’s tired, just like when she was a baby and I thought I’d always be alone.
When I get to the door, there’s an arrangement of flowers sitting at the apartment door, impinging on my ability to get inside. I set them aside and get Trixie to bed, but after she’s fast asleep, I creep back out to the entryway in my pajamas and pick up the purple vase.
It’s filled with bright orange lilies and green hydrangeas that I didn’t think grew in California. But yet, here they are. When I bring them inside, a note falls out onto the floor as I set them on the table in my tiny foyer.
I pick it up and see a messy scrawl. The words are legible, but just barely.
I’m sorry about today, the top of the note reads. I wish we’d gotten off to a better start. But this is just the start. I hope to prove that I’m good enough to meet her.
My chest tightens, and I swallow hard. For some reason, I’m choking back tears. Maybe it’s because I haven’t processed what happened today, or I’m crying because Kellan left, or because I was an idiot and went to meet a man I didn’t know. And suddenly Trixie has a father who wants to meet her.
I look back down at the note.
Would love to take you out to dinner next weekend. -S
I slump down against my door, head in my hands.
It shouldn’t make me nervous. He shouldn’t make me nervous.
And yet he does.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It took an order of the prettiest flowers I could find—the green hydrangeas and orange lilies. None of that bright red rose stuff.
And after that, Helena Landon only agreed to lunch.
It took far more for her to agree to anything else. But first, let me pause, and tell you about my plan. It took the prettiest flowers I could find—well the ones Stacy could find.
Let’s be honest. I might have a certain flair for being completely amazing, but that doesn’t extend to picking out flowers for pretty ladies. Flowers that say, “I’m thinking of you, but not in a dirty way, I promise.”
Stacy would be better at picking out innocent flowers, since the message that promises no dirty thoughts is a big, fat, bold-faced lie.
I’m thinking of Helena Landon in the dirtiest way possible. I shouldn’t be. I know I shouldn’t be. But there’s something about that prissy, librarian look, and contrast of that against her hair and lips and her whole entire gorgeous, curvy body. It’s like she’s a sensual woman, waiting to be unleashed. And maybe I’m used to women who were already unleashed—or scratch that, they don’t even know what unleashed is.
It’s more than that, too. It’s the fact that her hands touch Trixie so gently, that her body carried that beautiful little girl, that Helena was always strong and smart in the face of everything she’s experienced.
That’s the other piece, the thing that I find more than sexy.
It’s deeper.
It’s biological.
It frustrates me and it should mortify me. But it doesn’t. It made me do more than just the flowers. It made me agree to lunch at a dive-y taco place in downtown Santa Barbara. It made me not mention dinner again, and it made me keep on driving up to Santa Barbara each weekend for the next month. I didn’t even use my driver because I didn’t want to look like an asshole. Other women—they’re impressed with my money. Helena is not.
It’s been a puzzle to figure out what will break this woman’s shell open. Bit by bit, I see glimpses of her, between the quips and the jabs at me. She’s testing me, to see if I’m a good guy, to see if I’m offended by anything she has to throw at me. She calls me “playboy” as a nickname, but there’s a twinkle in her eye when she says it.
And then, one Sunday afternoon, when I offer to buy her ice cream after our tacos, there’s a crack—a tiny fissure—in her normally reserved demeanor. I’m already walking to the ice cream parlor when she shouts at me.
“What the hell is all this about?” She says, her voice more accusatory than it’s been since I started taking her out to lunch each weekend.
I turn back to her and look at her, lifting up my hands in mock confusion. I do think I know what she’s talking about, but it’s not something we need to address in the middle of the street. “I need some ice cream. And you’ve gotten me addicted to those tacos.” I take a step closer, closing the distance between us. “And at the end of the day, I kinda like Santa Barbara. It’s not exactly Los Angeles, but there’s no disgusting haze here. So I’m thinking I could get used to it. Coming here, seeing you.” Without thinking, I lift my fingers to a stray curl that’s found its way to her forehead and push it back behind her ear.
She blinks and sucks in a short gasp of air. “I just—I just don’t know what you’re doing. What’s your goal here? It’s been four weekends—and one night during the week. And you drive up here, you meet me, you don’t ask about seeing Trixie, and then you go back home to your company and your women—”
“Not many women these days. You’re taking up some of my weekend time, you know, and I don’t have that much energy to go out and pick up women I can’t have a conversation with.”
Her eyes go wide. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
It’s a subtle flirt—certainly not my best work. But subtle is probably the only way to go with a woman who’s gun-shy about even walking next to me on the street. Or introducing me to anyone she knows. I haven’t seen this before in any woman I’ve dated—or been with—but I’m expecting it has to do with that man who left her high and dry.
And sure, I’m one who could do the same.
What I should say, then and there, is that I’m trying to prove to her that I’m not the type of man who would do that, to her or to her daughter. But when you’ve only been meeting up for tacos for a month, that’s the type of thing that might be presumptuous to say.
I pause and chew on my lip
. “That’s supposed to mean that I think you’re pretty great to have a conversation with when you’re not as nervous as a squirrel before winter. The women I usually see aren’t really there for a conversation. Last week, we talked about the election and a bunch of interesting shit you heard on NPR. We could go back to that today, or you could keep being weird.”
Helena huffs and shakes her head. “The women you usually ask out are good for one night and nothing more, right?”
I groan inwardly. “Now why on Earth would you harp on that part of what I said and not the good part?”
“The part about me hearing a bunch of interesting shit on the radio?” She crosses her arms, but there’s a smile slowly appearing on her face. In truth, I remember everything she talked about last week. It was the first time she actually opened up to me, the first time she treated me like a friend, instead of some suspicious interloper hell bent on taking her daughter to Los Angeles.
That’s not me, and it seems like that was the first time she saw it.
“No, well, that and, how you can have a good conversation. Believe me, it’s something I like in a woman.”
“Well, why haven’t you ever sought it out before?” She looks at me quizzically.
“Who said I was the one seeking out these women? It seems to me they seek me out, and they’re not exactly looking for a friend. Or a life partner. Or anything other than a quick, extremely satisfying lay.”
The tops of her cheeks turn a dark red color, and her hands drop to her sides. “And you’re what? Looking for a life partner? You think you found your daughter and a woman who can cook for you and keep you entertained? A ready-made family?”
The people passing by us on the street start to give us a few odd looks here and there, so I pull my disagreeable taco-eating partner to the side. “Hell no. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think you’re...well you’re beautiful.” Her cheeks color again, and she looks down so that all I can see are her long eyelashes. “But this is about Trixie as much as it is about you. I can’t keep either of you off of my mind, and I’d like to know that little girl. So why am I coming up here every week and taking you out for lunch? Dammit, lunch instead of dinner—because you said dinner was too suggestive?” If it’s possible, it seems that she’s looking down further, so I reach out and tilt her chin towards me. She looks up at me with those starburst eyes. “It’s because I want to know you, and I want to know Trixie too. I want you to understand that, up until this point in my life, I might not have ever been the type of man who wanted a child—but once I saw her, I knew she was something totally special, just—she’s incredible. And every time you tell a story about her and your face lights up, I want to know her even more. I don’t ask about seeing her because I don’t want to scare you away—I don’t want to lose a chance to be her father.”