Page 8 of One and Only

It had been a long time since I’d sat across from a beautiful woman, in general, and from the looks of how this was going, I wasn’t quite sure how to handle it anymore.

She cleared her throat, settling her clasped hands on the table.

“Our meeting tonight is just for me to get a sense of which direction you’d like to go for the room, then I’ll work on putting together some inspiration boards for your approval.” She reached over and pulled out an iPad from a bag tucked onto the bench, swiping the screen to life. “Something like this.”

When she flipped it around, I saw an image of some furniture, a lamp, a ceiling light fixture, and some paint color swatches arranged on a crisp white background.

“What do you need from me?”

Her frame was more relaxed now, and in place of the subdued laughter was a brisk professionalism that I appreciated. “This is for your daughter, right?”

I nodded.

Whenever I thought about this room for Olive and what it represented, my chest felt tight with pressure. And excitement.

For six years, all I’d had was snippets of time that were never long enough. An afternoon here or there during the regular season. Every other week and every other holiday during the off-season.

And finally, I’d have my chance to be a full-time dad to the person who was the anchor of my world.

Greer traded the tablet for a small notebook. “How old is she?”

“Six. Almost seven.”

Greer smiled. “I love that age. My sister Poppy was an absolute terror when she was that old. If I’d designed a room for her back then, it would’ve needed a climbing wall, a mattress on the floor, and unbreakable glass.”

People said things like that often. About the craziness of that age. It was hard for me to wrap my brain around anything of the sort, knowing Olive.

I managed a nod. “Olive is a pretty quiet kid. No need for any of that.”

Greer wrote something down. Her hair—dark and long—fell over her shoulder as she focused on her notebook.

I took another sip of water.

“Quiet,” she said. “Likes to read? Draw? That sort of thing?”

I nodded.

“So maybe an area where she can do arts and crafts?”

“She’d like that,” I said.

“What’s her favorite color?”

“I, uh, I’m not sure.” I tugged at the collar of my shirt. Greer’s eyes flicked up to the movement and back down to the paper.

Her pen slowed. Her face was composed when she looked back up again. “What color clothes does she pick the most?”

What a kind way of redirecting a question that every dad should know.

Her mom picked all her clothes, mainly because I wasn’t sure Olive had ever expressed an opinion about it. “She wears a lot of pink and red.” I thought about the dress that she was wearing the previous weekend. “White, too.”

“That helps.” She smiled.

Her hands were elegant, her fingers long and graceful as her hand flew across the page, free of any jewelry or adornment. Her nails were bare, filed into perfect round edges. But despite all that refinement, she had terrible handwriting.

“What?” She’d noticed my staring.

My chin lifted in a slight nod. “You can read that?”

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