Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
But tonight, since it’s Christmas Eve and I’ve been a shit dad in the past at holiday time—doing the bare minimum of hanging a few stockings and letting Matilda do the heavy lifting—I turn to Mia and ask, “Do you want to come to the gala with me?”
She stops at the end of the street and stares at me. “Where is my dad and what have you done with him?”
It’s adorable. The way she crosses her arms and scrutinizes me like she’s trying to find the real Rowan underneath some imposter. Wanda barks too. She doesn’t believe me either.
“It’s the new me,” I say, tapping my chest with my free hand, emphatic. “It’s the me who decorated for Christmas. It’s the me who got the tree. It’s the me who wants to take you to the—”
“You’re taking Isla.”
And I wish I still were.
But I haven’t dealt with that little issue of telling my daughter what went down. I didn’t want to make her Christmas worse. I just…kind of hoped Mia wouldn’t ask again about the photo. Yesterday, when she brought it up, I punted with: Let’s talk about that another time.
I guess that other time is now.
“So here’s the thing,” I begin, and her shoulders slump.
“People only say ‘here’s the thing’ when they’re about to disappoint you,” Mia says.
Why does my daughter have to be so damn astute?
Wanda tugs ahead, eager to explore the scents buried under the snow, so we keep walking down the snow-lined street. “I realized that pranking my teammates with me fake-dating wasn’t very nice. So…we decided to stop fake-dating.”
It’s the truth. Even though those words rip me apart a little. No, a lot.
My daughter doesn’t need to know what I was doing with Isla after dark—on a train, in a sleigh, in the middle of a makeshift tree farm. She doesn’t need to know there were real feelings involved. She doesn’t need to know I made plans to see Isla again back in the city.
Plans I broke.
That’s adult stuff.
But Mia’s face still falls. Her shoulders sag even more. “Well…I’d rather you didn’t,” she says with a huff.
I bark out a laugh. “You’d rather I didn’t what?”
“Let’s pretend this is another Christmas Would You Rather.” She squares her shoulders. “Would you rather fake-date Isla or take me to the gala? And my answer is I’d rather you take Isla.”
My throat squeezes, right along with my messed-up, damaged heart.
“I know, cupcake,” I say gently. “But that’s not an option.”
“Why not? You like her.”
I sigh, part my lips, but I’m not sure what to say. The truth—that love stabs you in the heart with a rusty knife—is not something I want to teach her. Though, does it always? I never once felt like Isla would do something like that. Do I tell Mia I don’t want to take a chance? That feels a little chickenshit to tell my kid, especially since I play a dangerous sport for a living.
I need to say something though. “I do like her. You’re right about that,” I say, and, wow, it’s a relief to be honest.
“So what’s the problem?” It’s asked so simply, so innocently.
Maybe I owe it to her to tell more of the truth. I blow out a breath, then take her hand. “I just don’t know if I’d be any good in a relationship,” I admit with a shrug.
She frowns. “Why? You’re a good dad. And a good dog dad,” she says, gesturing to our little cutie-pie who’s sniffing all the snow.
My heart slams painfully in my chest, but I push past the ache. “I think a part of me shut down after Mom left.”
Mia’s lower lip quivers. “I thought that happened to me too,” she says softly. “But then, I realized it didn’t.”
Ah, hell. Oh fuck. I haul her in close for a hug. “I’m so glad you learned that.”
She wraps her little arms around me. “You can learn it too.”
Can I? Is she right? Can you teach a damaged dad new tricks? I just don’t know.
But I hold her a little longer. “I love you, cupcake.”
“I love you too, Dad. And I mean it—you’re a really good dad even when you didn’t want to celebrate Christmas.”
I smile against her hair and do my best to swallow down this annoying threat of tears. But my stupid eyes are a little wet when she lets go.
I take a beat, then say, “So…do you want to come?”
With a beleaguered sigh, she says, “Okay, fine. But what am I going to wear?”
Excellent question.
It’s three o’clock on Christmas Eve, and the world is starting to shut down. But then I remember the thrift shop where I picked up the ornaments, the one where all proceeds support the town’s animal rescue. If memory serves, I passed a rack of fancy dresses for kids. I quickly google the store and check the hours.