Page 29 of Off the Beaten Path

Regardless, as I open the fridge and pull out the pancake batter that I prepared last night, I feel like some of the weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

June wakes up midway through making breakfast, no doubt lured by the smell of pancakes and frying bacon. She shuffles into the kitchen, her plush pink blanket wrapped around her shoulders and dragging on the floor.

“Morning, June Bug,” I say, holding back a smile at the grumpy frown on her face. While she may be a bundle of energy the majority of the day, she’s not a morning person.

“Something smells good,” she mumbles, climbing up onto one of the barstools and reaching for a piece of bacon.

I flip one of the pancakes onto a plate. “Pancakes.”

Her ratty curls shake with the movement of her head. “Uh-uh,” she says, more of a sleepy grunt than actual words. “Smells minty.”

That would be the pine-scented candle Finley pulled out of her bag last night. She said she got it to “liven the place up.” Although, looking behind June at the pastel yellow wall in my living room, I’m not really sure how much more lively it can get.

The sunshine accent wall wasnotmy idea. I’ve decorated the whole house in shades of navy and hunter green, dark wood tones and leather furniture. But then June saw into Wren’s house one day and couldn’t stop talking about the yellow wall in her living room. So we spent a Saturday afternoon in the summer painting the accent wall, June dripping yellow paint all over my dark wood floors. I got most of it up, but there’s still little dried droplets of sunshine scattered all over the living room.

“Aunt Finley brought us a candle,” I say, pointing to the lit candle on the other side of the kitchen island. I drop the last of the pancakes onto the plate and push it in June’s direction. “What should we top them with today?”

She taps her pointer finger on her chin, looking more awake now that she’s debating sugary toppings. “Hmm, whipped cream.”

I nod and pull open the fridge door, repressing a shiver at the blast of cold air. Today is one of those days that even the heater is struggling to warm up the house.

“And syrup,” June says.

I glance at her over my shoulder and find her grinning, her front two teeth missing.

“And chocolate chips.”

“One topping,” I tell her, attempting my firmest voice.

“Two.”

“One.”

“How about a little bit of two?”

I stare her down for a long moment, waiting for her to cave, but I should have known better. “Fine. Which ones do you want?”

“Chocolate chips and whipped cream.”

A few minutes later, I have her plate made, the tiniest dollop of whipped cream and four chocolate chips on each pancake, stacked next to a heaping pile of eggs, fruit, and one piece of bacon. I slide the silicone plate toward her and make my own, adding only one pancake, which I added a scoop of protein powder to, two pieces of bacon, and the rest of the eggs.

“What do you want to do today, June Bug?” I ask, climbing onto the stool next to her. Her little knee bumps against mine under the counter.

“Let’s build a snowman.”

Thirty minutes later, we’re bundled up in heavy jackets, and June’s hair is sticking out from under a beanie, the pom-pom bouncing atop her head. Her cheeks are already ruddy from the cold, but she seems impervious to it, giggling as she catches snowflakes on her tongue.

The snow fell in a heavy blanket last night, coating the ground and piling up to my lower calf and June’s knees, but she trudges through it with a smile on her face. I feel that overwhelming ache in my chest again just looking at my little girl, who’s growing up without my permission, growing sassier and wiser and more independent by the day.

The older she gets, the more I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing, that I’m not prepared to raise agirlon my own. Most days, I can’t even manage to get her hair brushed and put matching socks on her feet. But for the first time, instead of blaming Mia and mourning what she stole from us, I wonder if maybe there might be someone out there for me, like I was telling Grey last night. If there might be someone who would look past all my emotional baggage and my surliness and lookatmy perfect daughter and not see a burden but a blessing.

I haven’t allowed myself to think like that because it feels too much like hope, and the last time I allowed myself to hope—when I stared at a little bundle wrapped in my wife’s arms—I got burned, and badly.

Maybe hope wouldn’t be so bad.

Without meaning to, my eyes drift across the snowy yard to Wren’s cottage. The lights are off, and her car isn’t in the driveway. There are no tracks to indicate she’s been home since the snow fell. Something sour stirs in my gut as I remember her tipsy texts last night and wonder where she ended up, whose bed she slept in if not her own.

I turn away from her lawn, knowing I have no business feeling whateverthatwas.

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