Page 57 of The Single Dad's Guide to Recreation

When he scoops me up and heads for the bedroom, I let out an ear-piercing squeal of shock. “What are you doing?”

“Showing you what I’ve got, of course.”

It’s a good thing I got up early because he takes his time teasing me with his hands and mouth before driving me right to the edge with a joystick that was made for my console. After an equally enjoyable shared shower, he leaves me to my makeup application while he checks in on his family. But when I emerge, ready to head to breakfast and morning workshops, he’s reading my scribblings.

“Is this what you were working on this morning?” he asks.

Straightening the papers, feeling self-conscious about them, I say, “I just woke up thinking about what Regina said last night. About figuring out how to keep the spirit of Playgroup without getting dragged down by what doesn’t work.”

He turns to face me, propping a hip on the desk. “I was going to make it a surprise, but my current proposal includes Playgroup. You’ve sold me on its value. I was able to move some line items around so?—”

“What if I don’t want to keep it?”

“But I thought you?—”

“It’s my mother’s program,” I say.

“Her legacy, right. I know. Another reason to keep it.”

I shake my head, my determination growing. “Nothing lasts forever. Cutting it won’t change her impact over the years.”

“But…” His brow furrows. “You’re so good at it. With the kids and the par?—”

“I’m not a parent,” I say, the words coming out more forcefully than I intend. But instead of reining them in, I just keep going. “It’s all theoretical to me. It’s ridiculous for me to offer advice when I don’t know anything about the challenges people are facing. Trying to empathize with their complaints and frustrations when I can’t even?—”

“But you’re young. You could have kids. You have plenty of time.”

“Pfft. Time I’ve got. What I lack is the plumbing.”

“Plumbing?”

“I can’t. Have kids. There. Now you know.”

Josh just stares at me.

“I’m not sure how we got from morning orgasms to arguing about Playgroup to this but now that we’re here, if you’re really thinking you want to”—I make air quotes?—“make this work, then you should know what you’re getting into.”

Before I lose the nerve, I tell him the story of my salpingectomy, leaving out the gaslighting from the dillweed doctor and that son of a biscuit Peter. Then, before he can tell me that he’s no longer interested, avoiding what is sure to be either a look of pity or disgust in his eyes, I beat it out the door. “I think I need a walk. I’ll see you later.”

We’d already planned to split up for the morning, to cover as many workshops as possible. Last night, I’d resisted because I wanted to spend as much time as possible together, but Josh argued that if we covered more ground, we could skip the afternoon’s so-called “bonding” activities, which he said were usually lame.

I skip breakfast, needing time to walk off the agitation. The feeling of being exposed. I attend the first workshop, but I don’t have a clue what it's about, because even though I sit there and take notes, my mind is churning. Trying, and failing, to convince myself that I did the right thing. After all, if Josh really wants more kids, it’s better to end it now. Before I get too attached.

As if that hasn’t happened already.

At the second workshop, I linger in the hallway, pretending I’m not looking for him. But when they begin to introduce the speaker, I make myself slip into the back row where I can stew in peace. But just as the lights lower for the visual presentation, someone sits next to me. Someone who smells of pine, with a faint undertone of baby wipes.

He takes my hand in both of his. When I make myself look at him, even in the dim light, I can tell there’s no pity or revulsion in his light blue eyes.

Just hope.

“I know we said we’d split up, but I couldn’t pay attention,” he whispers. “I just kept thinking about how good you are with kids. How hard it must be to work with parents who don’t appreciate what they have.”

The person in front of us turns around to give us a pointed look, but Josh just scoots closer. “Thank you for telling me. Things haven’t changed for me. I’m still all in.”

I just squeeze his hand for a long moment, swallowing back the tears clogging my throat. But I eventually manage to whisper back, “Me too.”

I’m not sure if it’s being away from my day-to-day routine, having told Josh about my past, or the many ways we’ve made each other feel good in the past twenty-four hours, but I’ve never felt so inspired and alive. Like all the ways I’ve pretended to be happy for the past few years were just a rehearsal for the real thing. After the morning sessions, we’re told to dress for physical activities for the afternoon. Changing clothes back at the cabin, it’s tempting to skip lunch for a quickie, but we decide that we’ll enjoy everything better with fuel in our bellies.

---