Page 8 of Campus Daddies

Birdie waves and trots into class with her canvas portfolio awkwardly balanced under her arm. I watch her until the doors close her up then make my way to the faculty parking lot outside the Fine Arts building.

In my office, I send Sofia a quick text.

This is Braxton, your father’s friend. I’d like you to meet my daughter before hiring you to watch her. When are you free?

I read it over, decide I sound like the old man I am, and send it. I’m done trying to fit in with the twenty-somethings I teach. There’s no keeping up with their ever-evolving language and culture.

Yeah, I totally get that. My evenings are pretty open.

Rubbing the stubble on my chin, I take a chance and ask her if she’s available for dinner tonight. It’s short notice, but I’d rather know sooner rather than later if I have to keep looking.

Sure, my last class lets out at five. Is that a good time?

It’s perfect.

I send her my address and dive into the syllabi of my two classes today, Design 101 and Color Theory.

The first day runs smoothly. Freshman classes are pretty basic to start off with, and Color Theory brings me a nice mix of more serious artists. I always enjoy watching their styles develop throughout the semester.

I stop at the grocery store on the way to pick up Birdie. She’s quiet on the ride home, and that deep worry about her and the things I can’t protect her from flares up when I usher her inside. She goes to hide in her room.

I mean, I get it. She’s a pre-teen. I’m not her friend. I’m her dad. But that doesn’t take the heartache away when she’s upset and I can’t do anything about it.

Sighing, I get to work on dinner, something easy that I know tastes good. I wouldn’t want her running off because the food is bad. A rich, thick beef stew should do the trick. I don’t have to overthink it.

It makes me glad I didn’t pick a more complicated meal when she arrives early. Takes after her father, that one. Fifteen minutes early or you’re late.

“Hey.” I offer her my warmest smile when I answer the door.

Big blue eyes meet mine from behind her thick glasses. The striped navy-blue romper is embroidered with silver thread, creating delicate leaves and roses that make her creamy skin a bit pinker. And she has a lot of it on display.

“Hey.” Her voice is light and friendly.

I look to the floor and step back, waving her inside. “Dinner’s about done. Let me call Birdie down.”

Sofia steps in past me, and I get a whiff of a sweet perfume she must have put on this morning. It’s subtle, faded from the hours, but it brings me back to a time before I had so many responsibilities.

Before I got married, had a kid, and my wife abandoned us. A simpler time.

Shaking myself free of the nostalgia, I close the door and call Birdie down. I’m surprised to see more curiosity than disdain when she encounters Sofia standing there. And the smile Sofia lays on her is clear, open, and bright.

“Hey. You must be Birdie.” Sofia extends her hand. “I’m Sofia.”

Birdie shakes her hand, and I dip back into the kitchen.

“Oh, my gosh, are you a painter?”

That pings my radar, leaning me over the counter in wonder at how she could know that.

“How did you know?” My daughter’s voice is soft with awe.

Sofia laughs. It’s quiet and intimate. “The blue smudge by your elbow. It’s not cracking, so it must be a premium paint. That means you take it seriously.”

“I do.”

“Take after your dad, huh?” She bends down like she’s going to confide in her, blonde hair falling over her shoulder. “Me, too. Only my dad likes ethics and morality. You know what that is?”

“Like rules?”

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