Touching Down(22)

I knew these moments would come to an end sooner rather than later.

Dinner could wait. My daughter could not.





THE STORM HAD won the game, much to Charlie’s delight. Well, to Charlie’s and mine. We were both Storm fans and rarely missed a televised game. Granted, she probably knew more stats and strategy than I did, but half of her DNA came from a professional football player. The sport was, literally, in her blood.

Since I knew Grant would be getting here late and there was a possibility that circumstance could prevent him from getting here at all tonight, I hadn’t told Charlie much. I’d told her we might be having a guest tonight, but that I wasn’t sure, and she’d pretty much said, “That’s nice, let me get back to the game.”

I didn’t know if letting Grant walk in and allowing Charlie to respond however she needed to was the right way to do this. I wasn’t sure if I should sit her down and explain everything or keep it simple and let her fill in the blanks going forward. There wasn’t an outline in a parenting handbook for how a parent could explain a situation like Grant’s and mine, and believe me, I’d been looking. The librarians at the local library all knew me by name now.

Charlie had always been an easy-going, take-it-as-it-comes kid, but this was introducing her to her father for the first time. This wasn’t having her try a bite of her broccoli to see if she liked it.

“Why don’t you go ahead and eat, Charlie?” I eyed the plate in front of her, which she’d refused to touch, before checking the time for the tenth time in the past five minutes. It was after eight, and still, nothing.

“I’m waiting for our guest,” she stated, crossing her arms and slouching further into the chair. “It’s rude to eat dinner before your dinner guest arrives.”

I had to turn into the sink to keep her from seeing my smile. Charlie was an easy-going kid most of the time. When she dug her heels in, there was no unburying them until she pulled them out herself. This was one of those instances.

“It’s almost your bedtime. You need to eat your dinner.” Absently, I washed a couple of cups, trying not to think the worst. Grant had always been a man of his word, and I knew he wouldn’t abandon that quality when his daughter was involved.

“I’m not hungry.” Charlie pouted into her spaghetti.

I knew better. The girl loved spaghetti. “Listen, sweetie, why don’t you just eat? Our guest told me he might not be able to make it tonight, so we might just have to do this another night. It’s getting late, and I don’t want you crawling into bed hungry.”

“Why not?” Charlie eyed the meatball at the top of her spaghetti tower, those dark eyes going big.

“Because you’ll wake up a grouchy bear and I prefer my snuggle bear in the morning.”

That managed a giggle out of her, and she reached for her fork.

“If our guest does make it, then we’ll have dessert together instead, okay?”

“So he’ll be our dessert guest?” Charlie sank her fork into the giant meatball and lifted it to her mouth.

“Exactly. Now, how many seven-year-old girls do you know who get to have dessert guests?”

“And instead of a dinner party, it can be a dessert party?” Her eyes were lighting up as her imagination spun its web.

“I like the way you think, Charlie-Bird.”

After drying the cups, I tucked them away and wandered into the living room to check my phone. Again. I exhaled when I discovered there were still no missed calls or texts.

We’d watched the game earlier today and it hadn’t gone into overtime or been delayed. Nothing like that. Where was he?

Nervous energy carried me to the door, my eye automatically squinting as I leaned into the peephole. What I saw outside made my stomach bottom out.

“Charlie, when you finish your dinner, go put on your jammies. I’m just stepping outside to make a call.” I kept my voice as normal as I could or else I knew Charlie would pick up on it.

“K, Mom!” she replied around a mouthful of meatball probably.

As soon as I’d unlocked and opened the door, I stepped outside and closed it. I guessed he knew it was me, but Grant didn’t move. He just sat there, butt parked on the curb, with his knees bent and his head bowed. He’d backed his truck into the spot in front of him and the tailgate was lowered. Inside, there was a mountain of toys. Like Santa’s sleigh mountain. Everything from girl and boy toys, toddler, and teenage toys.

“Grant . . .” I said softly, stepping up behind him, my eyes going from his hunched frame to the bed of his truck.

“I have a daughter. A seven-year-old daughter.” His voice was tight and quiet. “And I have no idea who she is. Or what she likes. I don’t have a goddamned clue, and I should. I’m her dad. I should know this stuff.”