Grumpy Dad: A Greenbridge Academy Romance

by Knox, Abby

  “That sounds terrible,” I say. The diet, I mean. The other stuff, having a wife and driving teenagers around to soccer games and play practice, sounds OK. Kind of.

  “You might want to get your blood work checked, too, all those burgers you eat,” Barry jibes.

  “I’ll have you know I’m eating a burrito with lettuce on it right now,” I reply, waving down the carhop for a coffee refill.

  Barry bursts out laughing. Something has struck him not just funny but hilarious. I know what this means. When he gets like this, I’m in for some smartass comments. He’s cracking himself up with about a dozen comebacks he’s thought of. Soon, Barry is beside himself with laughter. “Oh my god…I can’t breathe…hang on…‘lettuce’ call Dr. Oz and tell him he’s out of a job. Your unemployment problems are solved, my friend.”

  I can’t help but give a half smile and a laugh. “Asshole.”

  He is cackling. “Hey, wait! I’ll have the girls help you set up your Instagram living well blog immediately. Take a nice picture of that healthy breakfast burrito but make sure it’s on a plate and not, like, on your lap on greasy paper. Unless you want to be edgy.”

  “You seem to think I understand any of those words,” I say, nodding to the female carhop and adding a couple extra bucks onto her tip.

  “You love me,” Barry sings.

  I hang up before things turn weird and sincere.

  I toss the half-eaten burrito back in the bag, since now I’m self-conscious about it. I sip my black-as-death coffee while I motor over to the address Barry gave me.

  Jewel lives in a halfway decent apartment complex with a well-kept pool and nice landscaping. Old ladies are walking their dogs in the middle of the day. Lots of runners. Maintained sidewalks. All good signs.

  Now that that goofball Barry has brought up Instagram, I go ahead and look Jewel up on social media. Her feed is full of photos of her decorating her classroom. Scrolling back, it seems to have taken her about a month to assemble all that stuff. The terrariums and animals are donated. The superhero gear also. The “quiet corner” she assembled herself as a way to help overstimulated kids stay calm.

  Wow. She really loves kids.

  Me? I can’t stand kids.

  Correction: I like Max. I like the kids I used to know from my old job. Barry’s kids are OK but fuck if I understand a single word they say. Other kids? Totally annoying.

  I scroll down, down, down and finally see a photo of her. It looks like a Roaring Twenties party kind of photo. She’s wearing a slinky black dress and her hair is styled in a flapper bob. She’s got a face full of makeup and a painted-on beauty mark under her eye. Her whole look makes me want to pick her up and carry her off to my cave, but the seductive smirk she’s giving the camera …holy hell.

  I scroll further back and see a photo of her with two small girls. I pause. That photo looks like it’s from the 1990s, so that can’t be her. Then I read the caption and I understand. The grown woman in the photo must be her mother. A miniature version of Jewel sits cross-legged at the woman’s feet. A slightly older girl, maybe nine, stands next to the woman. The caption says, “It’s been 19 years, but I still miss celebrating your birthday so much, Mama. #takentoosoon.” And it looks like someone else, a fourth person, has been physically cut out of the picture. If I’m correctly doing the math on this photo from last year, that means in another month, her mother will have been gone for close to 20 birthdays.

  Well, I knew she lost her mom very young. And now I know she doesn’t have a relationship with whoever was cut out of that picture. How can she be so damn perky? This is rough stuff.

  My phone rings while I’m staring at her tits in the flapper picture again and I’m so startled, I drop it on the floor.

  “Fuck!”

  I have to unbuckle to reach between my feet and pick it up. I grunt hello.

  “Hi, Vince? It’s Jewel Fairhope from the school. Are you coming?”

  Disney princess voice. What the hell is she asking me?

  “Uh…”

  She laughs. “It’s lunchtime. Are you coming to the school?”

  “Oh fuck. Oh shit, sorry. I mean, yes, I’m coming.”

  She snorts a laugh, not seeming at all put out that I’m late.

  I hang up and peel out of the apartment complex.

  Why do I feel like I’ve been caught stalking?

  9

  Jewel

  Vince is fifteen minutes late for lunchtime.

  I give him a hard time by raising my eyebrows and tapping my finger on a freckle on my wrist when he comes to our table.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  I chirp, “It’s totally fine, you can make it up to me by helping me with the fine arts bake sale next week!”

  “Uh, I don’t know how to bake, but if you want some bowls of cereal, I’m your man,” he offers.

  Was that sarcasm combined with a smile? I wouldn’t call it an outright smile. More like a narrowing of the eyes and a pursing of the lips, like he’s trying not to smile.

  The phrase “I’m your man” sort of hangs in the air with a kind of unintended heat that comes from out of nowhere.

  “Scoot over, kids,” he says brusquely to the gaggle of students sitting across the table from me.

  Wide eyed, they look up at him and squish close together. They leave a gap so he can sit across from me and Max, who, when Vince finally has a seat, starts to wolf down his food.

  “So,” I say. “Cereal, huh?”

  Vince takes a bite of his grilled chicken breast and chews, politely finishing before speaking. “Yeah, it’s taken years of study. I’m kind of a connoisseur of cereal. You’ve got your dessert-based cereals, such as Cookie Crisp, and you’ve got your healthier things like Kix and Corn Flakes. And then you’ve got the hippie-dippy shit—I mean cereal—like shredded wheat and muesli. What you don’t want to do is double down with the really sweet. See, Cookie Crisp tastes better when you combine it with something healthier like Frosted Flakes.”

  Does he realize he is surrounded by wide-eyed kindergarteners right now who are staring at him like he’s a rock star? It’s pretty damn cute.

  He takes another bite of his chicken breast and looks positively proud of himself, his eyebrows raised at me, waiting for a response. Well, he should be proud for using so many words. So, he can form a complete sentence after all. This is very exciting to me. “Frosted Flakes are healthy?”

  “Absofuck—sorry, absofrigginlutely.”

  I glance around and it doesn’t appear that any of the kids registered any bad language on their radars. I really wish he would stop that. I’m not offended, but you never know what kids will repeat to their uptight parents after school.

  “Well, you don’t need to bake anything, but I can always use extra hands. But you must demonstrate your cooking technique for me some time. I’m totally cereal about it!”

  Vince glares at me and I nearly squirt my almond milk out my nose.

  Max pipes up cheerily, “We have cereal for dinner all the time! You can come!”

  Vince raises his chin at Max and says, “Zip it, kid. Don’t go telling your teacher you eat sugar for dinner.”

  “Why not?”

  I reach across the table put my hand on Vince’s tattooed forearm—his very masculine, sinewy…strong…forearm…was this the arm, the hand, that knocked that guy on his ass? Damn, my pounding heart loves that story.

  “Listen, Vince, you can feed the kid Pop-Tarts, as far as I’m concerned, because at the moment, Max is putting a hurt on his green beans, applesauce, and sautéed seitan.” I say this to Vince with all the sincerity I can muster. I can muster a lot.

  “Is it good, little man?” Vince asks.

  Max nods but doesn’t stop eating to say any words.

  “I don’t know what you said to him last night but he’s been completely different all day in school today,” I tell him.

  Vince pokes at the greens on his tray in front of him. I hope he didn’t feel obligat
ed to eat a salad on my account.

  “All I said was, ‘your teacher’s a nice lady and you can trust her.’”

  Max looks up at me and grins while chewing his green beans. Actually grins. His eyes are big pools of velvety brown and they actually sparkle. My heart melts.

  I look at Vince, who is still not exactly smiling at me but doesn’t look quite as mad as yesterday.

  “You told him I was a nice lady?”

  Vince shrugs and sort of grunts, looking embarrassed.

  “I think you’re nice too,” I say, beaming at him.

  10

  Vince

  I don’t really know why, but I’m walking with Jewel and Max out to the playground after lunch. It’s like I can’t tear myself away.

  And then I feel like a dope because now she has to ask me to go because I can’t take a hint.

  “Parents are not encouraged to hang out on the playground unless they are volunteers. Would you like to apply to be an official volunteer at the school? We could use you.”

  I huff, “You don’t want me volunteering with other kids. But I would like to have dinner sometime.”

  I help her hold the doors open as her kids file outside and make like wild animals toward the swings and the jungle gyms. “You mean like a gourmet cereal dinner date? You and me and Max? I would get a huge Kix out of that!”

  11

  Jewel

  Oh my god, Vince’s face. I do so enjoy annoying him with my puns. The madder he gets, the more beautiful he is. The more he glares at me, the more I tingle. Yesterday, when he was telling me the story about snapping and punching that child abuser, I was one hundred percent creaming my undies. Today, simply being near him, watching him bristle at every silly joke I make, is no less of a turn-on.

  He leans in close as I’m about to let go of the door and follow my kids outside. “Not cereal. Actual food.”

  My mouth falls open.

  I need to let go of the door and send him on his way, but I don’t want to.

  12

  Vince

  “Didn’t we already eat together? In there?” She points to the lunchroom. She smiles coyly.

  I see what she’s doing. “The fuck is Satan, anyway?”

  She wags her head like she’s not sure what is happening. And then she cackles. “Oh! You mean seitan. It’s a meat substitute made of—”

  I put my hand up. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. I’m asking if you want to go on a date with me. Now, before you say no, let me tell you that not only am I unemployed, but I also don’t cook or clean, and I haven’t had my cholesterol checked in…well, ever. I’m a real catch.”

  She cocks her head at me like I can’t seriously be as disgusting as I make it sound.

  “Let’s see how we do at the bake sale first and then I’ll decide. And in the meantime, go easy on yourself, Vince.”

  Before I leave, she gives me a wink.

  A wink is not a promise.

  But a wink is something.

  I’ll take something.

  13

  Jewel

  He doesn’t see me, but I’m right behind him in the baking aisle at the grocery store the next Saturday morning.

  The bake sale is Monday, and I think I’ve got everything under control. I’m making sour cream Meyer lemon poppy seed muffins with raspberry glaze. It may seem a bit rich, but can we all stop pretending muffins are anything but cupcakes disguised as breakfast?

  I try to stay back so he doesn’t see me, but I’m also creeping close enough to see what’s in his cart. All-purpose flour, sugar, peanut butter, eggs, cream, bananas—oh god. He’s actually going to bake something. And by the looks of it, it is not allergen-free or vegan. I’ll have to make sure it’s wrapped well and that I post signage. And then I make a mental note to buy whatever the hell he makes because the pleasure of seeing this grouchy fellow pushing a buggy around with his little boy is making my ovaries form a roaring cheerleading squad.

  Just then my phone rings, which might ordinarily not cause a grown man to swivel around in the baking aisle, but of course my ringtone is set to “Big Yellow Taxi.” Extra loud.

  Max and Vince both whip around to gawk. I wave enthusiastically. “Hi, Vince! Hi, Max! Oh god, sorry, so loud. Ugh.” Why am I such a spaz?

  I answer it. “Hi, Janeane…yes…yes…the bake sale goes from after school until seven p.m. Right…well, we’ve let the parents handle the nut-free, vegan, gluten-free, paleo, keto baked goods this year. We’ll have a special section for non-allergen-free items and it’ll be clearly marked. No, no, I’m sure your vegan keto energy bars will sell like hot cakes—gluten-free, egg-free hot cakes, of course. Bad joke. It’ll be great…wonderful…fantastic…gotta go. See you Monday…”

  I hang up with gritted teeth. I know allergies are real, but I wish parents would trust that I’m looking out for the kids. I’ve been trained by the school’s highly paid nurse to know how to prevent allergic episodes and how to treat them when they do happen. And I wish parents would avoid calling me on weekends, especially with questions that have already been answered in group emails. Multiple times over.

  But then my face lands on Vince and Max together, and those two make my happy heart feel relaxed and somehow happier.

  “I’m so glad I ran into you guys!” I cheer, letting Max come over to hug me. Oh my god, I love little-boy smell. I could sniff that mop top all day long.

  I peer into his basket, “Whatcha got cooking in there, daddio?” Did I just say daddio? Somebody run me over with a grocery pallet mover right now please.

  “Uh, it’s a secret,” Vince says, his mouth frowning but one sexy eyebrow raised.

  Heat and electricity crackles in the air between us. But it doesn’t hang in the air this time. It travels…down. Down the front of my t-shirt and flutters lower, all the way down until it teases my Luna Lovegood.

  Yes. I named my lady business Luna Lovegood. Obviously.

  14

  Vince

  “What are those?” The question comes from a woman barreling toward me. I glance around the auditorium at the sea of khaki, golf shirts, and Burberry to scope out who she’s talking to. Just my luck, she’s talking to me. And she’s pointing to the cling wrap-covered paper plate in my hand. I would have thought it obvious.

  “Cookies,” I say.

  She looks pleased. “Oh! Are these the faux-nut butter cookies we needed? I shared the Pinterest recipe for them with Ms. Fairhope but I don’t know if she looked at it…”

  “You must be Janeane,” I say. “The fuck is a faux-nut?”

  Her eyes flutter and she gives a shocked head wiggle. She looks like she’s about to school me on something when my rescuer shows up.

  “Hi! Janeane! This is Vince Cole, Max’s daddy.”

  Jewel picks up my plate of cookies and makes introductions. I shake hands with half a dozen extremely nice parents whose names I will never remember because all I have stuck in my head right now is the feeling of Jewel touching my shoulder and the sound of her voice calling me “Daddy.”

  That’s not fair. Now my cock is as stiff as an iron fence post.

  I do my best to nod and smile while silently begging for her to remove her hand from my body but also hoping she never does.

  Some dude wearing a cardigan knotted around his shoulders says, “Say, yours must be that old Mustang I keep seeing in the drop-off line in the mornings.”

  Finally, a car guy. What a relief.

  “That’s me. 1968 GT fastback. My father was the original owner. Still purrs like a kitten.”

  The dude looks a tiny bit envious and I’m not gonna lie, it’s a good feeling.

  He goes on to ask about the engine. “302 cubic inch V8. Four speed,” I tell him.

  “Nice,” he comments. “Haven’t driven a manual since I don’t know when.”

  I shrug. “We can carpool sometime. Ditch the Volvos for one day, at least. Fuckin’ Detroit. Nothing cooler, am I right?”

  Cardigan Man
looks interested but his wife pipes up with, “Well, the Scandinavians make the best safety features. Does that old car even have side curtain airbags?

  “Good point,” I say. “But feel free to borrow it on date night. You never know, you might score with the Mrs.”

  “OK!” Jewel snorts and takes the plate out of my hands as she physically steers me away. “Let me show you where these go!”

  She smiles excitedly when we’re out of earshot from the PTA crowd. “I can’t wait to see what you made!”

  When we reach a display table she’s chosen, she sniffs the plate of cookies and her eyes roll up in her head as she sighs. “Oh…god… Whatever they are, they smell amazing.”

  Shit. Also not fair. Her eyes stay closed in rapture over my stupid cookies so long that it’s pornographic.

  Lady, I think to myself, you are cruising for a sweaty dry hump under the bleachers if you don’t knock that shit off.

  “Elvis cookies,” I say.

  Her eyes fly open and her mouth spreads into a smile that says she’s elated by the two words I’ve said. “Did you say Elvis? What are Elvis cookies? No wait! Don’t tell me!” She pulls back the film and takes one out. “Do you mind?”

  I shrug. “Shit, girl, it’s the PTA’s money. I have zero fucks to give.”

  I hear a couple of parents nearby laugh and a couple of others make tut-tut noises. Cussing is one way to weed out the uptight ones.

  Jewel takes a cookie out and inhales deeply. “Hmmm. Peanut butter…and…I’m getting banana. Oh my god, I get it! Peanut butter plus banana equals Elvis!”

  “You win the grand prize,” I tell her, making jazz hands despite myself. The fuck is wrong with me?

  “These go on the non-allergen-free, non-special diet table.” She pulls me toward a table on the far side of the auditorium.