Page 77 of Three Pucking Words
Sweet, sweet Gemma has a solution for that too. “So she can just move in with us. Puck can stay in my room.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“And where would Honor sleep?” Bodhi asks, entertaining the idea.
If I were drinking water, I’d spit it out when she answers, “Your room. You have a really big bed and it’s super comfy. She’ll like sleeping with you like I do.”
Bodhi’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel, squeezing it once until his knuckles are white before loosening. “There’s an idea,” he says, his voice a little hoarser than a minute ago.
I fight off the heat spreading up my neck and switch the topic to a much safer one. “Are you excited for the pumpkin patch?”
Thankfully, she takes the bait. “Yeah! We’re going to pick pumpkins to carve and then go on a wagon and pet cows!”
Her excitement is contagious. “Cows are pretty cool,” I tell her, even though I have no real opinion on the animal other than how great they taste between two buns with some cheese melted onto them. But I’m not about to traumatize a child with that sort of information the same way I was when I found out that chicken nuggets came from chickens, just like the ones my neighbors raised next door to us on the island.
I’d almost given up meat.
The operative word beingalmost.
Gemma goes on to tell me about the other animals we’ll see, although I’m not sure they’re all accurate. Cows, goats, and pigs I can see being on a farm. But I think she started listing random animals she knew when she added donkeys, zebras, and elephants. A strange feature for a farm, but I suppose you never know.
By the time we pull into the crowded parking lot that’s basically an open field, sweat makes my hands clammy. Gemma helped keep me distracted from facing the two people who I probably have no right to be nervous around, but now that we’re here, the nerves are back in full force.
And, once again, Bodhi knows it. His large palm comes down on my thigh and takes up a vast majority of it. “You’ll be fine,” he promises, shooting me a wink when I look over at him.
“Come on, Daddy!” Gemma urges, unbuckling herself from her seat. “Puck wants to go on the slide and then get candy apples!”
Amusement crosses Bodhi’s face as he glances over his shoulder at them in the back seat. “He does, does he?”
His daughter nods. “He told me so.”
Bodhi hums with a big smile on his face as he shuts the car off. “All right. Let’s find your grandparents before we run off and do anything else. Okay?”
As soon as I see him take her out of the car, adjust her jacket, and ruffle her hair, I find myself feeling…a lot. Happy. Sad. Anxious. Excited. It’s easier to separate Bodhi Hoffman the dad from Bodhi Hoffman the hockey player. It’s even easier to separate those two versions of him to the Bodhi Hoffman I met at the bar all those years ago. They’re all so different, yet so him at the same time.
When he catches me staring, he extends his hand. I stare at it for a second in confusion before realizing what he wants.
“Do you…?” My hand twitches at my side, as I look between his palm and face. “Do you want to hold hands?”
Without verbally answering me, he steps up and threads our fingers together. His other hand is holding Gemma’s. “Don’t want you running away,” is the reason he gives me.
But we both know I’d have nowhere to go.
I don’t point that out, though.
And when we find Joe and Helen Doran, they both smile warmly as they see us walking toward them hand-in-hand like…
Like we’re a family.
*
Four hours ata pumpkin patch with a six-year-old turns out to be exhausting. Thankfully, I don’t need my EpiPen during this trip. I do, however, wish I wore pants with a little more stretch. That part is thanks to the massive amounts of baked goods that Bodhi continued to purchase from various vendors. It started with the pumpkin donuts and apple cider from the first booth, followed by the kettle corn that came in a bag almost the same size at Gemma. Then he decided that the homemade sourdough booth looked too good to pass up. And, I’ll admit, the cinnamon sugar swirl loafdoessmell delicious.
“There’s no way you can eat all of this,” I tell him incredulously, glancing at the assortment of food stuffed into the bottom of the stroller that Gemma hasn’t used once. Do six-year-olds even use strollers? “Not before it goes bad or you get a serious tummy ache.”
Bodhi chuckles, popping another handful of kettle corn into his mouth. “A tummy ache, huh?”
As much as I love sugar, too much of it makes me sick. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen what you can eat.” And boy, can this man eat. I’m almost jealous. If I so much as breathe next to a slice of pizza my butt grows an inch. “But this is…excessive.”
