Page 15 of Scouting the Single Dad

She drags out a sparkly spiral notebook and flips it open. From where I’m sitting, I can see that she’s already written on the page in block letters: Star Lake To-Do List. Doodles border the margins: cute leaves with eyelashes, round pumpkins with vines around them, a steaming mug of what can only be assumed is hot chocolate with marshmallows bobbing on top.

“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’?”