Page 45 of The Single Dad

Eventually, I give up, settling for a safer comment. “That’s very selfless of you.”

She looks at the ground, a flush of red creeping into her cheeks. “Well, I don’t know about that. There are plenty of people doing more.”

“Still—you devoted a lot of your life to this. It’s admirable to want to help people.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to glance at the screen. It’s my driver, letting me know that he’s arrived. I look over my shoulder and see the sleek, black SUV idling by the curb.

“That’s us,” I say, rising to my feet. I lift my voice to reach Archie. “Our ride’s here, bud!”

Archie darts over to us, and together, we head to the car.

It’s a short drive to the nearest restaurant, a humble place that feels like it was lifted from a simpler time. As we step through the door, we’re hit by a rush of warm air that smells like French fries. There’s an old-fashioned jukebox pushed against one wall, and a classic rock tune plays quietly over the speakers.

The restaurant is almost at capacity, but it doesn’t take long for us to get a table, a booth by a back window. Riley and I each order burgers, and I ask for a kid’s meal for Archie—a cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake.

While we wait for the food to arrive, Archie talks non-stop about the petting zoo.

“I think my favorite was Ralphie,” he says with a thoughtful air.

“Which one was Ralphie?” I ask.

“I think Ralphie was the sheep,” says Riley, earning a nod of confirmation from Archie.

“What did we like about Ralphie?”

Archie gestures to his ears. “He only had one ear. He was different from the other sheep.” He pouts down at the table. “I think the other sheep are mean to him about it.”

Riley meets my gaze, her eyes brimming with laughter. She glances back at Archie. “How are they mean to him?”

“I think that they make fun of him,” says Archie. “I don’t know, though, ’cause I don’t speak sheep.”

At that, Riley is unable to hold her laughter in anymore; she chuckles lightly, and I find myself almost laughing along with her.

“I’m sure they don’t make fun of him,” I tell Archie, trying to cheer him up. “Sheep don’t care about little things like that.”

“How do you know?”

There’s a teasing glint in Riley’s eye as she says, “I’m pretty sure he was chatting with the animals while we went to go get your pretzel. They probably gave him all the gossip.”

Archie gapes at me, shocked. “You were?”

I think back to the goat pen, then sigh. “That’s right. I sure was.” That seems to delight Archie, so I add, “They all keep up with each other, you know. News travels fast in a place like that, so the goats know everything that’s happening in the sheep pen.”

There’s a look of wonder on Archie’s face; I’m sure that he’s cooking up something in his five-year-old imagination that will start to appear in Riley’s bedtime stories.

I catch her eye across the table, and see my own fondness mirrored in her expression. She also seems pleased that I played along.

“I can’t speak to the animals,” Archie says, miffed.

“Your dad probably learned how to do that in college,” Riley ad-libs. I’m impressed by her quick responses.

The waiter saves me from having to explain which elective taught me how to talk to goats, arriving with his arms full of plates. I notice that Riley jumps to help him, taking two plates in each of her hands immediately. She worked in a restaurant before she came to work for me, I remember; she must know exactly how hard it can be.

For a little while, things are quiet at our table as everyone digs in, hungry after a long day at the petting zoo.

“Mhm, this burger tastes like heaven,” I say to get the ball rolling before leaning over to Archie and asking, “How’s yours buddy?”

Archie ignores me, an obvious mixture of hungry and tired that has left him incapable of doing anything but scarfing down food. Riley leans forward to meet Archie’s eye level and tells him, “Hey, hey. Slow down, kiddo. The food’s not going anywhere.”

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