Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“Okay, so,” she announces. “I made a list of things I want to accomplish since we’re only here for two days. Prepared to be razzle-dazzled.”
“I was born razzled. Dazzle me.”
She giggles before clearing her throat. “First: ‘Buy a postcard and actually mail it to Nana.’”
“Strong open.” I approve. “Love a realistic goal.”
“Item two,” she goes on. “‘Try hot cider with whip cream—there will be no photos of my whip cream mustache.’”
“I make no promises.”
“Three: ‘Swim in the lake even if it’s freezing—don’t be a baby.’”
“If it’s cold, we don’t call it swimming. We call it the Polar Plunge.”
Benny nods her agreement and goes back to her list. “‘Go hiking,’ ‘take pictures of the Bigfoot sign,’ ‘convince Dad to be in lumberjack competition.’”
My head shakes. “That’s not happening.”
She ignores me. “And last but not least, ‘meet-cute with the love of Dad’s life.’”
I nearly miss the road we have to turn on despite there being a giant Star Lake Lodge sign at the entrance. “Ah. We put that on the itinerary, did we?”
Benny doesn’t even flinch at her own freaking audacity. “Obviously. It’s a festival by a lake. Statistically, meet-cutes increase by, like, forty percent.”
“Statistically? Where did you read that?”
“TikTok.”
Of course.
I take the turn, Ketchup’s blinker ticking like a metronome. “And why is my love life on your list?”
She taps her pen against the notebook. “Don’t be weird about it.”
“I’m not being weird about it.” I do my best to keep my tone light, eyes still on the road. “But why, though? Between Bigfoot and Polar Plunge, you snuck in ‘meet-cute for my dad’?”
“Pfft, I’m not the only one,” she boasts, matter-of-factly. “So does Nana Fielder and Glamma Wagner. Majority rules, Dad.”
Honestly, I had no idea she felt this way. And if we weren’t actively pulling into a resort, I would try to have a more meaningful conversation about this.
Like, I get it. She wants a mom; the women in her life can’t replace what she’s missing deep down in her soul. And yeah—I’m sure she gets tired and bored with me.
Benny grins out the windshield; I can see the little smirk of hers in the glass’s reflection. “Also . . . there’s a group chat.”
“No there is not.”
“Yup.”
“What’s it called?”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “‘Dad’s GF.’”
That little shit. “Absolutely not,” I sputter indignantly, laughing at the same time. “Change it. Immediately.”
“To what? ‘Potential Stepmother, Please Apply’?”
“No. Change it to a conversation about, I don’t fucking know. Christmas lists and shit.”
“Dad—language.”
Shit. “Sorry.”
But she is totally unbothered. “It’s already pinned in my contacts. Nana made a Google Form.”
“A Google Form?” I am going to kill my mother. “For what?”
“Application for the position. Questions include ‘Do you return your cart at the grocery store?,’ ‘Biggest pet peeves?,’ and ‘How do you feel about having more kids?’”
“Oh my God. Please tell me you’re joking.”
She shakes her head no. “There’s a short-answer section about boundaries.” She reaches over the center console to pat my arm. “Your broody brand is safe with me.”
We roll under the wooden Star Lake Lodge sign, and I pull into a spot beneath a maple tree. Before either of us moves to take off our seat belts, my daughter angles her body toward mine. Rests her knobby elbows in the space between us.
“Talk to me, Benny. Why would you put that on your list?”
Her eyes flick to the windshield, to the lake beyond it. She shrugs her little shoulder. “’Cause. I just . . . like thinking about you laughing, that’s all.”
Thinking about you laughing.
“I laugh.” I frown.
Benny snorts. “You’re a lot of things, Dad, but giggly isn’t one of them. Which is fine—you’re the best.” She takes a breath. “And also, I’m fine. I don’t need a mom. I have you and I have Nana and I have Coach Jen and Madison’s mom and my brain and stuff. I just . . .” Her sentence trails off. “It would be like having extra whip cream, you know? Optional but nice.”
Optional but nice.
“Benny, I love you, but I do not want any ambushes. No scheming. We’re here for two days, and I don’t need my child staging a parent trap in the beer tent.”
“I would never,” she says. “The beer tent isn’t my style, and I’m underage.”
Duh. “I’m serious, Ben. No accidental bumping me into some woman on the dock that sends her tumbling into my arms. No slipping my number into a raffle jar. No switching spots during the hayride so I’m sitting next to someone single.”
“Wow, Dad.” She clicks her pen and begins scribbling. “You thought of better schemes than I did.”
Fuck.
She settles back, pleased with this entire conversation. “Can I ask one question, purely for science purposes?”
I give her a side-eye. “Proceed with caution.”
She clicks her pen again. “What’s your type?”
“She has to like you,” I say. “Everything else is extra whip cream.”