Page 111 of Who's Your Daddy?

Placing my elbows on the counter, I lower myself to his eye level and give him my thumb to hold instead. “Is it weird that I still think about her every day? That’s kinda your fault...because that dimple on your cheek...Fuck, it gets me every time.” I remind myself for the millionth time that I need to stop cussing and let out a slow breath to release the pressure that constantly builds in my chest. “But...it’s beenmonths. Enough time has passed, and I think I’m pretty much over her now.”

Spit covers my thumb when he starts gnawing on it, and that’s a clear sign that he’s skeptical of what I’m saying.

“I’m serious. Was I once stupid enough to believe that your mom was the most amazing woman on the planet, and no one wasevergonna hold a candle to her? Yes. Did I not have sex for months because I instinctively knew that it just wouldn’t be the same with anyone else? Also...yes. But things have changed. I’ve moved on. Your mom’s not the reason I’m hesitant to give the hot doctor a call becausethat’sacting like a simp, and I’m not a simp, alright? That kind of cuck behavior is reserved exclusively for Dylan. I’m not like that. I’m tough. I’m unbreakable. You think a woman betraying me and ripping my heart out is enough to stop me? No. I could do it again. In fact, I’mreadyto do it again. I could call this doctor up right now and have her naked in my bed in the next hour. You’re the roadblock here.”

He runs his mouth again, and I can hear that he’s judging me.

“Whatever. Save it. I know what my reasons are, and I’m telling you I don’t want to call her...‘cause of you. That’s it. I don’t have time to date becauseyouare a handful.” I straighten and hold up the Post-it note. “I don’t know if you know this, but our fridge has mystical powers, so I’m going to stick Dr. Mason’s number right here.” Turning around, I stick it on the fridge with a magnet. “The last woman who was on here threw me for a loop, and I could not get her out of my head. So, let’s make a deal. If Dr. Mason crosses my mind even once in the next month, I’ll give her a call. Now, can you quit nagging so we can get lunch ready?”

He squeals in delight, and we leave the conversation there.

26. Peter

“It really doesn’t tastebad,” I say, trying to push another spoonful of sweet potato into Ambrose’s mouth. He smacks it away, the dollop hitting his highchair before landing on the floor with a splat. “I don’t understand why you keep spitting it up. You literally tried to eat a block yesterday, and now you wanna pretend like sweet potato doesn’t meet your very high standards. Sorry. I’m not buying it.”

This has been my challenge for the last week. The books and websites I’ve read say that solids should be introduced at six months. That was this week, so I started him off with some cereal. He wasn’t having it. I then tried butternut. That didn’t work either. I’ve now progressed to sweet potato, and he is point-blank refusing to eat any of it. Dylan has some experience with making baby food, and because he’s so pedantic about processed foods, he’s made a few bottles of pureed vegetables for Ambrose to try.

But Ambrose isn’t even willing to try. He spits it out the second it touches his tongue. I’m not going to go into a panic. It’s only been a week. I’ll just keep trying.

I hear a jovial squeal before the frantic pitter-patter of small feet comes racing into my kitchen. We’ve got a playdate with Neymar and Dylan after our basketball game today. A boys’ day out at the park. The last month and a half have been a rollercoaster for Dylan. Neymar’s mom followed through with her plan to put him up for adoption. It was a choice driven purely by her circumstances, but Dylan and Isabella were so attached to him, so invested, that they couldn’t let him go. And so began the long, arduous process of legally adopting him.

On top of that, they also had to deal with a toddler who was going through the worst case of separation anxiety because his mom was there one day and not the next. From my own personal experience, I know that it’s hell, and it must be ten times worse with a toddler who actually understands what’s happening in the world around him. But Dylan’s been handling it like a champ. He’s tired, but wholeheartedly embracing the journey.

“Dyl, Ambrose doesn’t think you’re the gourmet chef you believe you are,” I say when he steps into the kitchen.

“So, sweet potato is a bust too?”

“Yep.”

Neymar comes over to assist me, but only ends up getting food all over Ambrose’s hair and clothes. I listen as they babble to each other, probably devising a foolproof plan of how they’re going to eat dirt the second we turn our backs. It’s what happens nearly every time. One minute they’re happily frolicking in the sandpit. I’ll turn for a split second to get a wipe, and when I turn back, it looks like they’ve eaten about twenty metric tons of sand based on how much mud has accumulated on their chins.

“Hey, Scott,” Dylan greets when Scott enters the kitchen.

“What’s up, Dyl.” He gives me a head nod. “Hey, Pete. You guys ready to go?”

“Well, I’m just going to take him out back and hose him down.”

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