Page 33 of Upshot

I can feel my cheeks heat. They caught me escorting the daughter of a family friend back to her hotel. They said it looked scandalous. I thought it came off as a man in desperate need of a bathroom after eating his fill of tamales at the local food truck.

“Anyway, it got me thinking,” she continues. “There’s something I need from you.” Shit. Please don’t ask for a large settlement. Please don’t turn into what my father believes you are. “I think it’s time we get to know a little more about each other. Don’t you?”

“Okay. I guess.” I’m not sure about this. But I let out a pent-up breath of relief. At least, until I see what she has in mind.

“I’ve made a list of questions,” she adds, digging in her purse. She unfolds a sheet of paper and lays it on her lap. “First one.” I wait for her to ask my opinion on the political landscape or what I think of OPEC. You know, questions you can’t possibly give the correct answer to. Instead, she surprises me. “What do you like to do if you have nothing to do?”

“I like to go sailing,” I answer.

“Really? I’ve never been. Tell me about it.”

“I own a small twenty-eight footer I cruise the bay in. Nothing spectacular, but it has a cabin. Sometimes, I’ll stay on it in the slip. There’s something peaceful about sailing early in the morning when there’s just enough wind to open the sails.”

“That sounds amazing.” I risk a glance to see if she’s teasing me. She gives me a sweet smile. I guess I got that answer right.

“Maybe I can take you some time. There’s nothing more relaxing.” My mind flashes briefly to a beautiful, dark-haired child in a lifejacket learning how to sail. Their mother, watching us as I teach them how to come about. It evokes an emotion that has me clearing the lump from my throat. “How about you?”

“Promise you won’t laugh?”

“I promise.”

“I bake.” Really? This seems good to know. She likes to bake, I like to eat baked goods. Winning. “Yeah, mostly desserts, bread, and the like. I know it sounds like a cliché.” She rolls her eyes. “But there’s something about it that makes me forget everything else.” She laughs lightly. “I think Dad gained twenty pounds the first month I was home.”

I laugh with her. “I propose that I’ll bring the boat, you bring the cake.”

“Oh, I didn’t think about that. That sounds like the perfect date.” It really does. We both grow silent. What sounds like a perfect idea also sounds like an impossibility.

Or… I could see where the nearest lake is near here that can handle sailboats. I could take Brontë and the baby sailing on the weekends. Teach her a way to relieve stress without putting on weight.

“Second question,” she says, interrupting my daydream. “What is one thing you did in school that you got in trouble for? I’ll go first this time.”

She proceeds to tell me about the time she, at the suggestion of her oldest sister, changed the large outdoor message board. It went from saying “welcome back seniors” to “lick crack.” She had to use one letter “n” sideways for the extra “c.”

“You belong behind bars.” I laugh. “I didn’t know I was running with such a felon.”

“Don’t tease,” she says, lightly punching me on the arm. “Let’s hear about yours, smartass.”

So, I tell her about streaking across campus with the lacrosse team. I leave out the part about the beating I got when they informed my father about it. Some things she never needs to hear about.

“Completely naked?” she asks.

“Yep.”

“With all the jiggly bits jiggling?”

I laugh, then I tell her about the time Peter convinced me to sneak out. Turns out, there wasn’t much to do after midnight in the small town where the school was located. It didn’t matter, we were happy just to be free for a little while.

It makes me wonder what I’ll do when I’m being called to the school to deal with our child. Probably laugh and tell the principal to let them be a kid. I hope so, anyway. I hope I’ll always be here to have our kid’s back.

She continues to pepper me with questions all the way to the city. I can’t remember having so much fun in the front seat of a car before. She’s right, I do feel like I know her a little bit better than before. I know what she likes to eat, her favorite color (yellow, in case you wondered), and that she’s a dog person, although she’s not opposed to owning a cat.

By the time we find a parking lot near Sixth Street, I’m much less worried about how today will turn out. Maybe Peter knew what he was doing when he insisted they leave early. Having Brontë alone for the day promises to be a good thing.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” she announces, climbing out of the car.

I won’t point out that she ate breakfast two hours ago before we left. I don’t have a death wish.

“Let’s find somewhere that serves brunch.” I take her hand as we walk toward the bustling tourist area. She settles on a small diner that has a little of everything.

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