Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Tyler
This is not awkward at all.
Not one bit, I swear.
I don’t feel like a complete jackass at the kitchen table the next evening, sitting across from the nanny, pretending I didn’t almost fuck her.
Nope. I’m not thinking about yesterday at all. I’m definitely not imagining what could have happened as I stab a pumpkin with a tiny, ineffective carving knife.
I keep my head down while Sabrina teaches the kids how to make the world’s coolest jack-o’-lanterns. A reward, she’d said to Parker, for creativity in the science fair after school today. Not excellence, but creativity, and I appreciate her distinction.
I’d appreciate, too, if I could stop thinking about the yoga corner incident.
She seems to have moved on from that.
Her voice is light, easy—like she’s genuinely not thinking about what went down. “So if you slide it like this,” she says, leaning over to show Luna how to use the etching tool to make precise cuts, “you can carve some really cute whiskers for the seal face.”
Luna squeals a little in excitement. “Yes! And Dad, maybe this should be the new team logo since there really aren’t any actual sea dogs.”
“I’ll take that to management,” I say, gripping the serrated carving knife like it’s a weapon of war instead of an innocent Halloween tool.
Parker is locked in concentration, his tongue sticking out at the corner of his lips as he carefully slices the visor of his astronaut helmet. Sabrina leans close, guiding him as he works to carve clean lines.
Meanwhile, I…well, I’m creating something that looks—not gonna lie—exactly like the DickNose board my asshole teammates and I keep in the locker room. The one where we draw stick figures with dicks for noses to give each other a hard time. And here I am, apparently bringing that masterpiece into my own home, in front of my kids.
“Um, Dad?” Parker says, squinting at my pumpkin like it personally offends him. “That kind of looks like—”
“A Basset Hound!” Sabrina cuts in, her voice a little too bright.
Parker tilts his head, skeptical. “Really?”
“Sure!” Sabrina nods way too hard. “They have those droopy faces, and, uh—look at the ears!”
I snort under my breath, but I’m grateful she jumped in before Parker could say dick face in front of Luna. Or, really, anyone. “Yeah. It’s a Basset Hound.”
Sabrina has already grabbed her phone from her pocket and googled Basset Hounds, showing the kids the pics of the droopy dog. “See?”
Parker shrugs like okay, fair point. To me, Sabrina says, “You did a good job, Tyler.”
It’s almost placating, but her eyes linger for a beat too long. Long enough that I wonder—hope—that she’s remembering too. But then she looks away, and the moment’s gone.
Luna side-eyes me. “Dad, it’s okay if you’re not good at carving pumpkins. You’re good at carving the ice,” she says, proud of her comparison. That makes two of us. “And wait till you see my Halloween costume.”
She sounds too pleased.
“Is it a cat, still?” I ask, relieved to steer this conversation toward something that isn’t my pumpkin atrocity or the world’s sexiest kiss yesterday with the nanny.
“I can’t tell you,” she says, smirking. “But Sabrina is helping me.”
Sabrina flashes a pleased smile, wiping her hands on an orange towel with a black cat illustration. “It’s going to be amazing, and it was all Luna’s idea.”
And hell, that is great. I should be thrilled that Parker has finally warmed up to her, that Luna is bonding with her more. I should be grateful that everything feels so damn normal.
And yet, some primal, restless part of me is annoyed.
Annoyed that Sabrina has apparently put yesterday behind her so much more easily than I have.
I grip the knife harder as I carve a droopy dick face.
“Are you ready?” Luna’s voice calls out from behind her closed bedroom door at seven in the morning on Halloween.
I still haven’t seen her costume yet. It’s been one hundred percent classified on a need-to-know basis, she’d told me. Apparently, I didn’t need to know.
What I do know is that she’s been spending a suspicious amount of secret time at Sabrina’s place.
“She has a sewing machine, Dad! And it’s so cool,” Luna had said, practically vibrating with excitement.
Huh. I had no idea. “She does?”
“Her name is Elphaba,” Luna had informed me, like I was an idiot for not knowing that.
“The sewing machine has a name?”
“Obviously.” Then she’d trotted off to work on “girl” stuff at Sabrina’s.
Now, I’m waiting, standing in the hallway outside her door, while my son—fully suited up in his hand-stitched astronaut costume—sits on the stairs, adjusting his helmet.
The door creaks open, and Luna swings it wide.
“Ta-da!” She throws her arms out, sticking the landing like she’s mid-routine on the ice.
And—holy shit.
She’s a figure skater. But not in any costume I’ve seen before.
Gone are the simple pink and black practice dresses with their little skirts that she’s worn for the programs she’s performed in showcases and minor competitions. This one is lavender, with sheer long sleeves, fine netting along the neckline, and sparkles everywhere—over the arms and cascading down the front like stardust.