Single Dad Seeks Juliet

by Max Monroe

  “Ow,” I mouth as I push back up from wrecking directly into the pink material of my mat. I look like a plane that took a nose dive into a mountain, and I have to work my jaw to get the kink out of it.

  Damn, I’m going to have to put some serious work in to get back in shape enough to handle the advanced classes I used to take.

  Judy wraps things up by bringing us back to Child’s Pose and walking us through the meditation steps that focus solely on controlling our breathing.

  I take the opportunity to officially let go of the weight of the past—at least, most of it.

  It’s high time I start thinking about myself now. Looking for the things I want and going after them.

  Once the class is dismissed, Jake’s unread messages pop directly into my mind, and I grab my phone and read through them before cleaning and packing up.

  Jake: I guess you are then, huh? Ha-ha.

  Jake: I’m trying to picture you doing yoga, and I’m not sure I can.

  Jake: Wait. You know what? Now, I can. I get it. It definitely fits. What else do you do that I don’t know about, Holley from the Tribune?

  Shaking my head on a laugh, I toss my phone into my bag and slip my socks and tennis shoes back onto my feet.

  After I wipe down my mat with cleaner and paper towels and pack up the rest of my belongings, I wave goodbye to Judy and Gina and head for my car.

  Once inside, I take out my phone and get ready to answer him. There’s already another one from him waiting.

  Jake: Matt is wondering when you’re going to be at our next job. I told him you had very important inspector duties to tend to. I’m not sure if he believed me.

  I finally type out a message.

  Me: It almost seems like you miss me or something today. Or maybe you’re bored. Is that it?

  His reply is immediate.

  Jake: I just got everything done so quickly without having to wait for you to climb into the truck that I’ve run out of stuff to do. And so now, yeah, I’m bored.

  Me: Sure. Blame it all on me.

  Jake: What else am I supposed to do? I can’t LIE to you, Holley.

  I shake my head. For some reason, when he picks on me, it always makes me feel good. I guess it’s something about the way he does it.

  Me: I have to go. I’m supposed to meet my dad for lunch in fifteen minutes.

  Jake: YOUR DAD? And you didn’t invite me? How is this possible?

  I smile as I type.

  Me: Because you’re BA, not me. I don’t have to open the trapdoor to my life. lol

  Jake: Yeah, but…it’s your dad. He seems so fun.

  Me: Maybe you can meet him one day. When this is all over.

  Jake: You promise?

  Me: Sure.

  Jake: I’m holding you to that.

  I’m not sure why, but it kind of feels like I just signed an oath in blood.

  I drop my phone into the cupholder and start the engine. It’s like an oven in here, and I’m sweating profusely, but when I was texting with Jake, I was too preoccupied to notice.

  I back out of the spot and take off. Lord knows, I have to get to the restaurant quick, or I’ll have to risk eating penalty pickles.

  Trust me, it’s a long story.

  The clock on my dash reads three minutes past twelve, so I’m barely even in the spot before I slam on the brakes, engage the emergency brake, shut off the engine, and jump out like my ass is on fire.

  My dad is already inside, of that much I’m sure, but I can only hope he has his watch set a few minutes behind the clock in my car.

  I bob and weave through the crowd of people at the front entrance, trying to make my way into the restaurant and scan the tables quickly for his big, freckled, bald head. It sticks out in a crowd and I find it fairly quickly, and I’m not all that ashamed to admit, I actually elbow a couple people out of my way to clear a path to the table.

  On quick feet, I book it double time and slide into the booth like I’m diving onto the top end of a slip ’n slide.

  My dad watches it all, waiting for me to sit up and look him in his faded-gray eyes.

  “You’re late.” He turns his wrist and clicks his watch to stop the timer, and my shoulders sag in defeat. Dang it.

  “Looks like you owe me four pickles, Holl.”

  “Maybe your watch is fast, Dad. I mean, it could be—”

  “This is a Casio G-Shock Tactical watch, Holley Marie,” he cuts off my excuses. “It’s a military watch, and the military doesn’t make mistakes.”

  I narrow my eyes at him, but I don’t argue. There’s no arguing with Phil Fields about time. I know better.

  “Four minutes late equals four picks.”

  “Will I ever outgrow the pickle penalty?” I whine. “I’m thirty-three, Dad.”

  “I don’t care how old you are, doll. You don’t outgrow the penalty. There is a way to beat it, though. You stop—”

  “Being late. Yeah, I know,” I grumble, and a hearty chuckle escapes his throat and vibrates his rounded belly.

  And right on cue, as if he freaking timed it, a waitress drops off a plate of pickles, and it only encourages more damn chuckles from Phil Fields.

  Oh yeah, just yuk it up at my expense, old man.

  “I don’t understand why you hate the penalty so much,” he says once he gets control of his hilarity. “You like pickles. It’s why I picked ’em in the first place.”

  “I like pickles when I want to eat pickles,” I counter. “They taste different when they’re punishment.”

  He shakes his head in amusement. “Girl, there are some parts of you I’ll never understand. Like a four-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle, I swear.”

  “You like my complication,” I challenge, and his responding grin is affectionate.

  “I do. You and your mother, both complex women. Never loved two of ya’s more, though, that’s for sure.”

  I smile as he mentions my mom and force myself to start munching on the stupid pickles. They’re good here, I’ll at least give them that. Garlicky without being too much.

  “Am I really like her?” I ask, only a hint of sadness tingeing my words. Sometimes I miss the fact that I didn’t get to know her better, but I know what I’ve got in my dad, and I can’t claim to be anything other than lucky.

  “Oh yeah,” he answers with a nod, leaning into the back of the booth and stretching out his arm. “She was just a little bit older than you when she passed, and I know you were probably too young to remember, but you act just like her. A little awkward and a little lost sometimes, but a whole hell of a lot more heart than the two of those combined.”

  I look down at the table and back up again as he considers me carefully. I don’t know what he’s looking at, but there’s an analysis in his eyes.

  “You’re looking less lost today than you have in a good while, though. What’s shakin’?”

  I shrug off his question. “Working on a new assignment for the paper. Went to yoga this morning. Nothing too groundbreaking.”

  “This that Bachelor Anonymous whosie-whatsit?”

  A blush creeps up into my cheeks, but I have to laugh. “Have you been reading my articles?”

  “Well, yeah,” he says with obvious attitude. “I read everything you write, Holl, you know that.”

  I do know that. My dad is the most supportive guy in the universe, and he’s been that way since the moment I was born. When my mom died of breast cancer the December before I turned six, he damn near doubled his efforts. I don’t remember all of it, but I can see it like a storybook, all told through photo albums.

  His dressing up like the Beast when I wanted to be Belle that first Halloween after my mom died. Him sipping tea from my brand-new tea set the following year and talking to my stuffed animals. Him wearing his beaded bracelet I made with my jewelry kit for six years until it broke. It was sparkly pink, but he didn’t care. He wore that thing with pride, no matter where he went.

  When I was ten, he even let me practice painting
my nails by painting his. He left the polish on until it all chipped off on its own.

  Honestly, I couldn’t have asked for a better dad—even when he had to be the mom, too.

  “That Bachelor fella seems like the real deal. Was he really a Navy SEAL?” he asks.

  “Yep. He was.” The truth is, Jake is all the things I wrote about and so much more. There’s no way an article could even begin to capture his entire essence. It doesn’t matter how well I write it; I’ll never do him justice.

  “What’s that?” my dad inquires, pointing at my face. Immediately, my brows draw together, and I start to wipe at the skin.

  Do I have pickle juice on my chin or something?

  “What’s what?”

  “That look.”

  I scrunch up one side of my face. “There’s no look.”

  “There was a look. You think I don’t know when you have a look? I’ve been studying your expressions for thirty-three years, and I know ’em. That look there means somethin’.”

  “Are you seriously trying to claim you know my looks better than I do?” I ask, and he doesn’t hesitate to respond with his usual colorful banter.

  “You bet your asshole, sweetie. Is my name Phil Fields?”

  I snort. “Unfortunately.”

  “Why unfortunately?”

  “Phil Fields?” I shrug. “I hate to tell ya, Pops, but your parents did you dirty.”

  “I don’t know what that means, but I hope it doesn’t mean what I think, Holley Marie.”

  “I pretty much guarantee it doesn’t.”

  “Stop trying to distract me,” he responds in a huff. “You’re avoidin’ this, which makes me really know there was a look.”

  “Dad, there wasn’t a look. Can we just drop it?”

  He narrows his eyes. “I’ve been watchin’ you for the last months, draggin’ your carcass through life, just barely hangin’ on. Dead eyes. Dead heart. You’ve been coughin’ up oil like a fuckin’ ’69 Nova with a rotted-out pan.”

  Oh, here we go…

  “Dad, you know I don’t know what any of these car things mean.”

  “But your engine is runnin’ a lot smoother today, girl,” he continues, completely ignoring the fact that his car metaphors still make zero sense to me. “And I just wanna know why.”

  He stares at me, waiting for a response, and all I can do is lift up both shoulders.

  “I don’t know…” I pause, trying to find an answer that will prevent more questions and car lingo. “Time, I guess? I’m starting to get over everything that happened. Moving on, you know?”

  “That ain’t it.”

  A defeated breath leaves my lungs, and I slam my hands onto the table. “Then I don’t know what it is! Or what you’re even seeing, for that matter. Maybe you need to get your eyes checked?”

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and without thinking, I pull it out and glance down at the screen. Another text from Jake beckons, and I can’t stop myself from opening it up and reading it.

  Jake: Tell your dad I said hello and that I agree with him that sex is a very healthy, natural thing that should include a lot of practice. Except for my daughter. At least, not yet. I mean, I don’t want to be one of those dads who says never, but by God, I hope it’s never. Not really, though, you know? I just hope the guy’s not like any of the ones I know.

  I smile at his fatherly ramble and shake my head.

  “That,” my dad says, startling me. I look up from my phone, and he’s pointing a beefy finger in my face. “That’s the look. That’s the look right there.”

  I look back down at my phone and panic a little.

  Is he right? Is Jake Brent the reason I’m not applying for the job of crypt keeper anymore?

  Now that is a question I’m in no way ready to answer.

  Jake

  “So, what does this change?” I ask after Matt provides a concise update and explanation of the redline changes we’ve had to make on this house.

  Some of it was inevitable—the kind of stuff you can’t know until you’re deep in the trenches on a project—but there are a couple mistakes the architect made that are really going to cost us.

  Fuck, this certainly isn’t how I wanted to wrap up my Friday.

  “The roofline is going to be pitched a little differently in this gable,” Matt answers, pointing down at the blueprints on the makeshift table in front of us. “And the architect didn’t leave enough head height for the stairs here. So, since we’ll never get them in the way it is, we’re going to have to reframe and change the pitch.”

  “That’s going to change the elevation of the house,” I comment, and he nods, already well aware of this factor. “Dammit.” I groan and run a frustrated hand through my hair. “Tell me it’s not going to look like shit.”

  “It’s not going to look like shit,” Matt assures, qualifying, “It could. But Johnny and I will make sure it doesn’t.”

  On a sigh, I give him my approval. “All right, man. I trust you. Do what you have to do to make it right.”

  Matt disappears with the blueprints, already jumping back to work, and the sounds of crunching gravel urge my eyes over to the spot where everyone parks their vehicles.

  Instantly, I spot a familiar truck pulling to a stop beside mine.

  I make my way over just as my buddy Garrett hops out of the driver’s seat and waits for my arrival with a smile. His beard has clearly been shaved off since I saw him last week, but stubble is making a solid comeback.

  “Where were you the other night?” Garrett asks, popping a peanut into his mouth and leaning against the hood of my F-350, a formal greeting of any kind apparently too difficult. “I called the house, but Chloe said you were out. I pushed, but no details. Very cryptic bullshit, if you ask me.”

  An exasperated chuckle leaves my lungs. “What? No hello?”

  He holds out his free hand in front of himself. “You see me, don’t you? That was my hello.”

  I shake my head and grab a peanut from his plastic jar. I have a pretty good idea the night in question is Tuesday, the night I had to suffer through dinner with an Instagram-loving woman named Bianca. But still, since I’m really not ready to get into any of this Bachelor Anonymous shit with him yet, I take the chance that I might be able to deflect him.

  “What night?” I feign confusion. “I’ve been home all week. She probably just didn’t feel like yapping with you.”

  “Yeah, whatever, dude.” He narrows his eyes. “It was Tuesday. And I know for a fact that you were out. Truthfully, Chloe sounded pretty fucking giddy about whatever it was that you were doing.”

  I lean into the bumper, sliding my sunglasses out of my shirt and slipping them on. I need them to block out the sun, but mostly, I need them to block out Garrett’s stare. The two of us have known each other way too long. I don’t need him reading me like a goddamn open book.

  I sigh, cross my arms over my chest, and admit, “I was on a date, okay?”

  “Wait, what?” Garrett nearly shouts. “Like, with an actual woman?”

  “No, with a hologram,” I retort, rolling my eyes and groaning. “Yes, a woman. You’d think you’d be less excitable with all the action you see as a fireman.”

  He ignores my deflection and carries on like I didn’t even speak.

  “Was this like a fuck-and-run kind of thing, or are you trying to get serious with someone?”

  I snort at his terminology. He really has a way with words. “Somewhere in between. I don’t plan on there being a second date.”

  “Bummer.”

  “I’m happy,” I argue. “I don’t really need someone, man.”

  “Oh, trust me, I know you have that whole independent vibe down pat,” he interjects. “But even you can’t deny the fact that you’re even going on dates in the first place is saying something must have changed…” He pauses, waiting for my response to his assumption.

  A correct assumption, but whatever.

  “Chloe…feels like I need to find
someone.”

  “Okay, but let’s be real. As much as you love that girl, you’re not going to go on dates just for her benefit. Something has you flipped, too.” He stares at me like he’s trying to reach inside my brain and find out all my secrets. “I just don’t know what it is yet.”

  Instantly, Holley’s face flashes in my mind, but we haven’t talked since we texted on Wednesday.

  Yeah, and it’s bugging you a little that you don’t know what she’s been up to…

  I’m sure she’s busy. We both are.

  But I won’t dispute that it’ll be good to see her tomorrow.

  “Nothing has changed,” I respond. “I’m just going on a few dates, starting with date number two tomorrow, to show Chloe that I’m trying. But that’s it, man. I doubt I’ll end up anything but single when it’s over.”

  Garrett nods. And I get why. I sound believable and confident, and ninety percent of me says I am. Almost two weeks ago, though, that ninety would have been one hundred.

  Which leaves me with one question.

  Where in the hell did that ten percent go?

  Holley

  When Jake steps down out of his truck in the bright, beating sunlight of Saturday afternoon, he’s never looked better. He has a trailer hooked to the back hitch with two four-wheelers strapped on it, but he doesn’t stop to do anything with them. Instead, he slams the door behind himself and starts walking in my direction.

  Dressed in jeans that hug his ass but don’t look too tight, an aqua-colored T-shirt, and square-toed brown boots, he’s like the outdoorsy cover model on any lifestyle magazine—except better.

  Maybe it’s because I went a full three days without seeing him, and my memory somehow blocked out just how handsome he is, but as he walks toward me through the parking lot, it’s like he’s backed by a heavenly glow.