Page 50 of Freefall

“Of course,” she finally says to Daisy.

The three of us head to the cart on the other side of the park, where an older white-haired man in a pink striped shirt scoops ice cream into cones. This cart has been here since I was little. Opa used to take me and Emory to the park on Sundays so Gram could have some time to herself. We would climb trees, and then Opa would buy each of us a cone. He told us to promise not to tell Gram about the climbing because she would worry, but one night I overheard him come clean about it. I guess he couldn’t keep anything from her.

Daisy gets strawberry, and Harper orders herself Rocky Road.

“Still a vanilla guy?” she asks, a slightly teasing edge to her tone.

Yeah, I like vanilla.

It’s safe, predictable, easy.

Granted, parts of my life are very much not vanilla, but when it comes to ice cream, I don’t need anything extra. Unlike Harper, who chooses the one flavor with literally everything in it.

Ignoring her question, I turn to the man. “One vanilla in a cup. Thanks.” I hand him a twenty and tell him to keep the change. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Harper mouthing the words “thank you” to Daisy.

“Thank you,” Daisy mumbles through a mouthful of ice cream, pink liquid already adorning the corners of her lips.

“You’re welcome.”

Daisy finishes her ice cream before I’ve even had two bites of mine and takes off back toward the jungle gym. Harper and I walk in the direction she went, but we take our time. As surreal as it feels to be walking in a park eating ice cream with Harper Daniels, it feels even weirder to think that my—our—daughter is playing a few feet from us.

Harper’s eyes flick to mine, the ghost of a smile playing against her lips.

“What?”

“You’re full of surprises today.” She looks down at her feet, then back up at me. “I didn’t know you were into gymnastics.”

I take a bite of my ice cream, letting it melt against my hot tongue before swallowing. “I have a sister, remember? Emory came home from school one day when she was ten, crying because she claimed she was the only girl in her class who couldn’t do a cartwheel. Gram was great, but she wasn’t exactly limber. So I researched how to do a cartwheel online, and I taught her.”

Silence stretches between us, and I think maybe she’s still angry about the whole sister lie, but when I glance over, Harper is staring at me. Her lips are parted, her eyes glistening. She lets out a small breath that’s almost a laugh but not quite. “You researched it?”

“Yeah.”

“And you taught her how to do it?”

“Eventually. Emory is not what I would call coordinated.”

She looks away for a second, pressing her lips together before looking back at me. Something passes across her features, and then it’s gone.

I feel something cold against my thumb and realize there’s a bit of melted ice cream on it. I wipe it off with a napkin, then toss the cup in the trash. Harper does the same.

We walk a few more steps before she speaks again.

“Kids are messy, Nate.”

Something in the air shifts with her change of subject, and I feel that anger welling up again. “Yeah, I know that. This isn’t the first kid I’ve come across.”

“I just mean…if you really want this, you should know all that comes with it.”

“You think I can’t handle a little mess?”

“I’m not saying that. I…I know you like everything tidy and orderly. Kids don’t really fit into that box. They’re sticky. There are toys and books and papers everywhere, and sometimes there are random puddles of water for no good reason.” She stops walking. “Are you going to be okay with that?”

“You mean if she came to stay with me?”

Her eyes widen. “Slow down, speed racer. I don’t think we’re there yet. I meant in general.”

I take a step toward her. My hand itches to reach out and tilt her chin up, but I don’t. “What about TJ?” I ask, making sure to emphasize his ridiculous excuse for a name. “Does she go to his house?”