Page 124 of Scouting the Single Dad

My shower is a quick rinse, the water hot enough to sting, and the whole time my mind is a tug-of-war: Text her. Don’t text her.

Text her. Don’t be that guy.

Do it, what’s the harm?

Her heart and mine.

After I towel off, I pull on sweatpants and a hoodie, pad back to the kitchen, and yank open the refrigerator door, then take the note off the puddings and flatten it on the counter.

Dont Eat My Pudding Dad i Licked It..

I take a picture of it with my phone: the goofiest, most innocent, softest thing I could send her, my thumb hovering over her name in my contacts.

Me:

Benny left me a threat this morning about eating her pudding.

Me:

It’s in all caps.

I hit Send.

Layla:

All caps?! She’s not messing around, better not eat that pudding, Dad ;)

Me:

I’m terrified. Considering witness protection.

Layla:

I’d settle for diplomatic immunity. Also: hello, stranger.

It’s been days. We haven’t spoken in days, and I wonder what she’s been up to.

I glance at the photo of the note again, the ridiculous sweetness of it, proof that my life is more than empty rooms and a hum from the fridge.

Me:

What are you doing right now?

Dots vanish. Come back.

Layla:

Getting ready to go out.

Something tightens low in my ribs. I angle a look at the oven clock like time might explain why that hits hard.

Me:

With a friend?

Instantly I regret asking for clarity. Or asking at all.

Layla: