Page 3 of Those Two Words

“One.”

People around us cheer and the flash of the camera goes off right as I kiss her on the cheek. Her eyes shoot open when I pull away and I smile at her nervously. She looks a little shocked. We saw a couple kiss like that in a movie once and Johanna said it was cute.

“See. I can be a good husband, like my dad is.” She still looks confused, but then giggles, so I guess she liked it. Which is good, because I’m not doing it again—it was gross, and she smelled like flowers.

Our parents are cheering around us and kissing each other now. Yuck.

“I’m your best friend and you’re mine, right?” I ask, checking for sure that she isn’t mad anymore.

She gives me her biggest smile and it lights me up like the fireworks flashing outside in the street. Flashes of blue, red, green, and yellow streak across her face, turning her into a rainbow. Her eyes are bright and shining, and seeing her smile like this has my own cheeks hurting as I smile back.

“Yeah, Patrick.” She throws her arms around me and squeezes tight. “I’m yours.”

one

PATRICK

PRESENT DAY

“Spud! We’ve got to get a move on or we’re going to be late,” I shout up the stairs, glancing at my watch. Almost five years in and we still don’t have this timing thing buckled down.

“I’m almost ready. Don’t rush me, Daddy,” a sassy voice hollers back.

Sighing, I remind myself that women of all ages don’t like to be hurried. I take a quick glance in the hallway mirror to see how much being a girl dad has aged me. Answer: it’s a lot, but totally worth it. My dark blond hair is its usual shaggy self and a little damp from my morning shower, making it appear darker in shade. Grabbing a beanie, I pull it over my head and grab our coats from the rack, ready for when my daughter graces me with her presence. We’re against the clock this morning, so I haven’t had the chance to shave the day-old stubble decorating my jaw.

I’m about to shout up for the fourth time when, right on cue, Lottie hops down the stairs, her dark chestnut braids bouncing with each step. The angelic face she makes has me forgetting all about how late we’re going to be. She might be four, but she knows she has me wrapped around her little finger. Blackmail by cuteness.

“What do you think?” she asks with a twirl that almost has her tumbling backward but saves herself by finishing off the move with some jazz hands. She’s paired a bright orange T-shirt with an otter printed on the front, with a pink skirt, and hiking boots. Quite the ensemble—and not the outfit I laid out this morning, and definitely not appropriate for the snowstorm we got hit with over the weekend. Hopefully the last one of the winter.

She looks up and flashes me a toothy grin. Vivid green eyes matching my own stare up at me, eagerly waiting for approval. There’s a glimmer of mischief in them too.

“So pretty. Don’t you think you’re going to be a little chilly during recess?”

She lets out a sigh of her own, reminding me I need to watch how I act around her. She’s at the age of repeating everything she overhears.

“How about we put a sweater and some tights on, whaddya think?”

She taps her pointer finger on her chin a few times, contemplating her decision, even though we both know this is nonnegotiable.

“I think…okay!” she shouts, then hurries back up the stairs and slams her bedroom door shut behind her. Privacy is very important to her now, and I must always knock before entering or face her wrath.

I can’t wait until she’s a teenager.

When she returns, I double-check her outfit before helping her into her coat and heading outside, thankful the snow isn’t as heavy now. I load her into my truck, and without any more delays, we finally get going.

Ten minutes later we’re almost at her school as some song about unicorns and sharks is playing through the speakers. The one thing no one warned me about when you have a kid, is how they dictate every song you listen to. We’ve been listening to this one for almost four weeks and I’m confident it’s melting my brain cells.

As we turn into the school, I check my rearview mirror to see if Lottie’s braids are still intact from her outfit change. When I don’t spot a hair out of place, I nod my head in quiet congratulations that I’ve finally cracked the French braids she’s been begging me to do for months. Thank you, YouTube.

Once we reach the front of the drop-off, I put the car in park, and the school admin opens Lottie’s door to help her out of her car seat. I roll down my window and wave goodbye.

“Have a great day, spud. Don’t forget to listen to what?—”

“Daddy, what’s for dinner tonight?” she interrupts.

This kid.

“I haven’t decided yet, but try not to interrupt people, remember? Listen to your teachers, and Grandma will pick you up after school. Love you, kiddo.”

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