Page 1 of The Single Dad's Guide to Recreation

ChapterOne

AVERY

For most people, the answer to the question, “How do I get to Climax?” is personal. Intimate, even. But in our little Upstate New York town nestled between the banks of the Hudson and the rise of the Catskills, we have a ready answer: “No need togetto Climax, when youlivein Climax.”

No lie, it’s our official slogan. I just passed a billboard with the words blazoned across it. The one that taunts me on my way to work every morning.

Which is why I came up with my version: “There’s no getting to climax when you’re a twenty-nine-year-old who lives with her parents. In Climax.”

For the record, I did leave my hometown. After college, I moved to Atlanta for a great job in hotel management and set up house with my boyfriend. But when that life imploded, I came home to regroup. It was supposed to be a short stay, but my best friend Leia talked me into working for her at Climax Parks and Rec, managing children’s programming. Then, just as I was thinking about leaving again, my parents’ health went south. So, of course, I stayed on to help out.

Now I’m a little stuck.

But it’s all good, as they say. My friends may needle me about playing Cinderella, taking care of everyone’s needs but my own, but I think things have turned out fine. Better than fine.

Who needs a prince, anyway? I mean, those glass slippers look like a safety hazard, if you ask me. Don’t even get me started on that ball gown. Shapewear hasn’t been invented to cinch anyone’s waist that tight. And it’s not like I’m locked in my garret room. I chose to sleep under the sloping ceilings of the attic.

That Cinderella tag is just bull patties. I love being able to take care of my parents, I love being back in my hometown, and I love working with my best friends.

As I pull into the employees’ parking lot at CPR—short for Climax Parks and Rec—the sun reflects off the glitter I’ll never get out of my favorite cardigan. I’ll admit that I could dial down the arts and crafts in the class I teach in addition to my admin work. My mother created the parent-toddler program we call Playgroup, and it’s been the heart of CPR since before I was born. When she couldn’t run it anymore, there was talk of canceling, but there was no way I was letting it die on my watch.

I’m not a parent; I’ve never been a parent. Due to the aforementioned life implosion, I’ll likely never be a parent, so I’m not exactly qualified to teach anyone about parenting. But my mom assured me that the true purpose of the program is to, and I quote, “build community by giving new parents a space to connect with each other while their toddlers take part in age-appropriate activities.”

I figured I could handle that.

I was already doing the work of one and a half people, since the adult programming admin left six months after I started and never got replaced. I figured I may as well make it an even two. I used my mom’s notes and outlines, and I read tons of early childhood development books. I’m still sure that someone’s going to walk in while we’re singing “The Wheels on the Bus” and ask me what the halibut I think I’m doing, but it hasn’t happened yet.

At the moment, however, I am questioning the wisdom of carrying the heavier-than-I-thought stack of boxes full of donated supplies from my car to the classroom instead of fetching a handcart first. But when you’ve got six kids under three showing up in twenty minutes, you don’t have time for extra steps. So I tell my aching arms to shut the H-E-double-hockey-sticks up and use a hip to push open the heavy side door of the building that feels as much like a home to me as the house I grew up in. Successful navigation of the doorway accomplished, I just have to make it down the hall and somehow get the door to the playroom unlocked before my shaking biceps give out on me.

Note to self: get your well-padded hips and noodle arms to one of the fitness classes offered for free at your place of employment. I’m scrolling through the class schedule in my mind, wondering if I could squeeze in Jazzercise if I skipped lunch, when unfamiliar voices coming from the lobby catch my attention.

Peering between items sticking out of the top box, my stranger danger alert goes on high. The group of people in fancy suits aren’t threatening in aHey kid, want to see my puppy in this white vankind of way, but something about them feels off. They sure as sugar don’t look like they’re here to sign up for a softball team. Or participate in any other form of recreation. Plus, the center isn’t even open yet, so how did they get in?

My grip slipping, I drag my focus back to getting the boxes down the hall. I can’t help hearing their conversation as I pass, however. The soothing voice that first broke into my thoughts is interrupted by one with a foreign accent, something vaguely British. Or Swedish? Or some unidentifiable tiny European nation you’d find in a Hallmark movie?

Weirdly,thatvoice sounds familiar.

“You’ve got your work cut out for you here, Josh,” he intones. “This place is a dump.”

“It is a bit worn around the edges…” Soothing guy—must be Josh—tries to get a word in, but Euro Voice just talks over him.

“Can you believe this program schedule? I don’t think our people are going to sign up for”—he pauses, and I swear I can hear him shudder—“Zumba or Quilting. We’ll need a Pilates setup, of course. And CrossFit is a no-brainer.”

“If the rest of the building is all chipped tile floors and drop ceilings like what’s going on here,” a judgy third person says. “You may as well raze this place to the ground and start over.”

When I trip, probably on one of those chipped floor tiles, the wordsraze this place to the groundecho inside my head. Boxes fly out of my arms, art supplies roll in every direction, and I land with a thud. Wincing in frustration as well as pain, I crawl along the floor to clean up the mess, noticing for the first time that the tiles are stained as well as cracked.

“Miss, are you okay?”

When I catch sight of the face behind that soothing voice, I actually gasp. Talk about Prince Charming. Tall, check. Dark, check, the bronzed skin of his face framed by chocolate brown hair. Aaand handsome, check, with eyes as blue as the sky on a perfect summer day.

“Did you hit your head?” he asks, dropping to his knees next to me.

My mouth’s probably flapping open and closed like a fish out of water, and the only words I’m coming up with are ones I cannot say out loud in my place of employment. Or even in my head. There are no kid-friendly substitutes for these words.

He holds out a hand. I take it. And just like in the movies, his touch sends a shiver through me. I swear romantic music swells.

Though that might be from the art room down the hall. Daisy does blast music when she’s trying to get in the zone before class.

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