Page 64 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
“Do you want to marry her?” he asks, same tone he uses to ask for more syrup.
That one knocks the wind out of me, plain and simple.
I don’t let it show. I pull into our usual spot and look at him with the biggest dad-smile I can manage. “Looks like we’re here.”
He slides out, slings his backpack over one shoulder, then pauses. “Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re allowed to be happy.”
He says it like he’s older than both of us and then he’s gone—folded into the swarm of kids and backpacks and whatever passes for cologne in the fifth grade. He turns at the door, gives me a quick wave. I wave back and sit there, hands on the wheel, listening to the engine tick.
Allowed to be happy.
I pull out of the lot and aim for home, bargaining with my brain. Fifteen minutes. Just keep it together for fifteen, then collapse. I try not to think about her; that never works. Every thought I push aside brings two more. What if she decides it was a mistake? What if I imagined that look in her eyes?
Fourteen minutes, the dash says. Great.
On impulse I detour two streets and idle in front of Scotty’s, because apparently I’m a glutton for punishment. The OPEN sign blinks. I don’t go in. Not today. I settle for staring at my own tired reflection in the glass, then roll on.
***
The bullpen is noisy in that oddly gentle Golden Heights way—phones chirping, chairs rolling, the coffee machine making a sound like a small jet achieving liftoff. I popped in after a nap to catch the afternoon briefing and write up a report I’ve been avoiding. The whiteboard is divided into neat boxes: PETTY THEFTS, TRAFFIC, ANIMAL COMPLAINTS. Someone’s drawn a ferret wearing a cape next to “FOUND: ferret answering to ‘Pablo.’”
Deputy Otto stands by his desk in socks, holding his boots like they insulted him. “I swear the new polish is a crime against feet,” he tells anyone listening. “We should make an arrest.”
Sergeant Ruiz sets a box of donuts beside the coffee and flips open the lid like he’s unveiling evidence. “No jelly. We’re cutting back,” he announces. A chorus of groans. Marla from dispatch leans in the doorway with her headset crooked and a notepad at the ready.
“Morning, sunshine,” David says as I slide into my chair. He taps the stack in the middle. “You got three pinks.”
Pinks are impulse complaints - noise, neighbor drama, chickens on the wrong lawn. I flip the top one. “Loose goat?”
“Name’s Susan,” Marla says. “Owner says ‘Susan is particular.’”
Sergeant Ruiz points his marker at me. “Two things. One, your dashcam’s firmware update is still pending. Don’t drive into a sinkhole. Two, we’re getting another round of prank 9-1-1sthis week. Teen trend, apparently.” He draws air quotes around “trend.”
“Because, of course,” I say. The coffee is brutal and effective.
David wiggles his eyebrows. “And three—purely as a friend—did you know the Scotty’s punch card in your wallet has seven stamps? Bold, my man.”
“Maybe I like scones,” I say, taking a donut-that-isn’t-jelly. He grins like a hyena. Someone wheezes a laugh. The whiteboard ferret judges me silently.
Marla taps her headset. “Heads up—be on your toes for SWATTING calls. The last one was a ‘bear in a bathtub.’ Turned out to be a very hairy man named Walt.”
“Thanks for that image,” I say. The room chuckles. It feels good, normal. For a minute I can pretend I’m just a guy with a job, a son, and not in a growing storm with Harold Swanson’s face on the horizon.
We roll through briefing. By the end, I’ve got a list: patrol swing on Brime and Bay, check the new traffic sign on Peyton, swing past Baxter to reassure a lady who’s convinced her ex moved into her shed (fingers crossed, raccoons again). I sign the clipboard, finish the coffee, and remind myself not to text Jasmine from the squad car like a teenager.
***
“I’m leaving,” she says that evening.
We’re anchored at opposite ends of the kitchen counter; the sink is running over with a pile of dishes, the smell of garlic and red pepper clinging to the air from my ill-advised attempt at chili. Brick’s upstairs, face-planted into his pillow after basketball club. The house has that humming, warm, safe sound I’ve been trying to build for him since Miami.
“What?” I ask, thrown.
“I can’t do this anymore. Hiding. Peeking through blinds with my heart in my mouth. That’s not me, Asher. I need to leave for my sanity before I turn into somebody I don’t recognize.”
