Page 66 of The Single Dad's Guide to Recreation

I just shake my head, too tired to follow this logic.

My mom straightens and points at me. “You said you can’t take your eye off the ball. But a juggler doesn’t keep his eye on one ball. His eyes remain straight ahead while the balls circle around him. His peripheral vision keeps track of their movement. He trusts that all the practice he’s done will pay off, that his hands know what to do.”

When I just stare at her, not sure what exactly she means, she points at me again. “You know what to do. You just have to trust yourself.”

ChapterTwenty-Three

AVERY

It feels like the idyll in the Berkshires happened months ago, even though it’s been only two and a half days since Josh whisked me away for the weekend.

My body doesn’t seem to realize that things are over between us, because it’s completely immune to the charms of the guy who gives me a ride back to the CPR parking lot. The one we all call the Hot Fireman.

When he asks if I want to get a beer, I just give him a limp wave. “No thanks, Jared, I’m beat.”

He winks and shoots a finger gun at me. “I’ll take a rain check, then.”

Besides mine, there’s one other car in the employee lot: Daisy’s ancient Ford Bronco. The center closes at six on Sundays, so it’s a little odd that she’s still here. I called home to tell my mom I’d be late as soon as we found Mabel, and she reassured me that they were all set for dinner, so they won’t be left high and dry if I check on my friend.

There’s no way I was going to Come Again with Jared, but a chat with Daisy feels like just the ticket. Some distraction before I head back to my childhood room to face the fact that I’m cursed when it comes to love, no matter what the darn clock thinks.

The center is locked up and the lights are off, but the minute I step inside, I hear music. Following the sound, I turn the corner to see light spilling from the art room doorway, and when I step inside, I find Daisy dancing around the room holding a paintbrush like it’s a microphone. The tune is infectious, the lyrics are hopeful—something about the good outweighing the bad in life—and I’m enraptured by the sight of my friend throwing her entire self into singing along with what I’m pretty sure is the Barenaked Ladies.

Until she notices me. After turning down the music, she asks, “Are you crying?”

I swipe away what may in fact be tears from my cheeks. “No.”

“Oh, well. That’s good. Must be allergies.”

“Yep. That’s it. Allergies.”

Her head tips to the side. “What are you doing here?”

“What areyoudoing here?”

“Painting,” she says, likeobviously. “I mean, just now I was taking a dance break, but I always paint on Sunday nights. It’s the only time I can get lost in it, you know? With nobody here.”

“Can I see?”

“Sure.” She points the paintbrush at me. “No judgies, though. Creativity in progress and all that.”

The very large square piece of wood on her easel is painted in bold geometrics in the shape of a star. Or maybe a flower. “Is this a barn quilt?”

She nods, seeming to be happy that I get it. “My version of it, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, usually, they’re just paint on wood so they can be hung on the side of a barn. But mine are more like collages.”

When I step closer, I can see that while she’s painted the underlying shapes, she’s added things on top. Pieces of fabric and old newspapers and even small items like drawer pulls and shells and feathers.

“The dumb thing is, now I can’t sell them to hang on barns because the elements would ruin them. So I don’t know what to do with them, but I can’t seem to stop making them.”

“It’s beautiful,” I say, entranced by the way she’s echoed the paint colors with the objects. “If a little eerie.”

Daisy clasps her hands and bounces on her toes. “That’s exactly what I was going for!”

“You sure you can’t sell them? Like, for inside art?”

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