Page 202 of The Single Dads Club
She gave me the dead eyes and shook her head slowly. “Your mother obviously doesn’t count.”
“Where is that in the question?” I challenged her.
“It goes unspoken. Now, come on, get serious.” Mandy shot back.
“Isn’t this multiple choice?” I groaned.
“Not for you, it isn’t. Stop stalling.”
“What if I told you I love you right now?” I tried, desperate.
Mandy rolled her eyes. “A man, then. When was the last time you told a man you loved him?”
I bit down on my bottom lip. Before he died, I used to tell my father I loved him nearly every day. It had been one of the most important rules of growing up in my family. The world was a crazy place and anything could happen, so before it did, you made sure you told the people you loved that you loved them often and loudly. Before I left the house, whenever I called, whenever I went to bed, I told him. And then, when he’d gotten sick, those words had become a plea.
“I love you, Dad”became“Please don’t go”or“Don’t leave us.”
And for my mother? She could hardly speak without bursting into tears during that time.
My own eyes burned as I shoved the memory away.
“Hello?” Mandy cleared her throat again. “You there?”
“Just thinking. I don’t think this question counts for me. What if I have never been in love?”
Mandy pursed her lips. “Seems like a cop-out.”
“Fine, fine. So, I told a boy in middle school that I loved him. I think that was the last time if you’re not counting, you know, my dad or anything,” I rushed through the second half of my sentence but it didn’t matter—Mandy knew me too well to let it pass unnoticed.
“You haven’t told a man you loved him since before your father died?” She raised her eyebrows.
“Maybe we should move on to the next question.”
“Fine.” Mandy glanced down at her phone, clicked something, then read, “How many dates does it take before you share personal details about your past?”
“I already told Mason about my past. He knows what my favorite childhood toy was and everything.”
“Then he already knows about your mom and dad?” Mandy asked.
“Well, that’s not fair. The specifics of it haven’t really come up.”
“Really? There was never an opening for you to tell him—the man who might be the father of your child—about your family? Not a single moment?”
I focused aggressively on my donut and licked at a bit of the glaze. “I don’t think I like this pushy side of you.”
“I’m your boss.”
“Only at work,” I reminded her. “And I don’t think it’s that important for Mason to know all my baggage so quickly. It’s good to keep a little bit of mystery.”
“Meaning you don’t know any of his?”
I thought back to our night—the way he’d spoken about his mother’s illness, the way some of his dreams had been snatched from him. “I know some of his history. I don’t know that it counts as baggage.”
“Right. So I’m guessing you want to skip this question too?” Mandy asked.
I took another bite of my donut, then washed it down with some latte. “I’m seriously not digging your tone.”
Mandy shrugged. “You’ll live. Now, come on, question three. How comfortable are you with sexual intimacy?”
