Page 60 of Just a Plot Twist
Indie does a little wiggle dance in her seat. “We can play obstacle course at that one.”
We listen to Kendrick Lamar and Sabrina Carpenter (the clean versions, of course) on the way to the park. When we arrive, I tell them we can do the obstacle course competition when Dax is finished with his homework.
“I’ll start practicing now,” Indie says as she scrambles out of the car and runs to the playground.
Dax gets set up near the pond with his notebook and pencil and Indie asks me to time her as she does the route we always do: Scampering up the slide, then heading down the rock wall, then across to the other side where she jumps on the jungle gym, hops across the teetering stools, and finally crosses the monkey bars. She gets it in three minutes and one second. She’s only about twenty seconds behind our family record, which was done by Dax. My own record is quite a bit slower.
I feel old.
Indie wants to try again, so I time her, while keeping Cinnamon close to me, her leash tied to the bench.
Thoughts of Claire take over.
I find myself arguing the points, a sort of seesaw of logic. She’s eight years younger than me, which isn’t a huge deal, but it’s something. Our lives are vastly different. She’s never dated anyone long enough to have said “I love you” before. I was married for seventeen years.
She’s also smart, ambitious, witty, and gorgeous. And when I told her about my divorce, she was open to learning more—to understanding my past. I feel good around her. I smile a lot more than I have in a long time, even when I’m not around her.
But what about Dax and Indie? If Claire and I date, they’ll all need to meet, right? Eventually. And I’m not ready for that. They have a stable life now, but things haven’t been easy for them the past while.
I don’t need to introduce the instability of my own dating life into the mix.
Before Claire, I’d been in a fog—a long-term one. You know those wind tunnels at museums and amusement parks? You step inside and the wind is roaring around you. You can barely breathe. Everything’s a blur.
That was me through the divorce.
Taking the DNA test and finding the Tate family didn’t help at first. Things with Thomas were rough. Over time, though, I started dreaming of something more for myself, so when Thomas asked if I wanted to come help him with some software changes, and after a lot of thought, I came.
“Daddy, look!” Indie’s on the rock wall at the very top, her long, dark blonde hair flowing in the wind. She’s always losing her clips and elastics. “Take a picture of me,” she says, her hands and feet clinging to the pegs and turning towards me.
I remove my phone from my pocket and can’t help smiling as I capture a couple of shots. “You’ve never gotten that high before, Ind. Good job.”
Before we all ended up in Colorado, being apart from Dax and Indie made me physically hurt.
I visited as much as I could and flew them to my place as much as possible, too.
Inadequacy from the fallout in my marriage lingered like the scent of an unbathed Cinnamon. I was in that air tunnel, barely breathing.
But then, miraculously, the kids moved to Highlands Ranch, and I was complete. Finally, I could be with them every week. And things at Foundations Financial were going well. I was starting to feel like I belonged with the Tates.
I was doing fine.
And then Claire Lawson came around.
Now, I’m having intrusive thoughts of her big green eyes and stubborn determination and the way she lights up at photos of my kids. Thoughts of her are unrelenting, even when the chances of all our differences working out—of us working out—are slim. Still, I want to go for it—just ask her out.
I want to. But is that the responsible thing? Because I have to consider what’s best for Dax and Indie.
These thoughts of Claire are inconvenient, especially when I don’t realize Dax is standing in front of me, trying to get my attention.
“Dad, I’m done.”
I hold out my hand. “What have you’ve got?” He tends to rush through assignments, so I need to make sure he’s actually finished. I have him add a couple of things, but it fits the bill.
I set the notebook down on the bench after he makes the changes. “Ten second head start for Dads over forty!” I yell as I go tearing across the playground, wood chips flying.
Three minutes and twenty seconds later, I’m wheezing, but at least I got my personal best. I collapse down onto the grass next to Cinnamon and use my watch to time the kids as they take their turns.
Still lying in the grass, I scrub my hand along Cinnamon’s neck, and she steps right out of her sleeping position next to me and puts her paws right on my torso, all cozy like.
