Page 16 of The Best Bad Decision

“This is Roger.” She reaches across the floor for her stuffed dinosaur—blue, with darker blue spots and a long, slightly threadbare neck—a brachiosaurus, just like the ones painted on the planes I fly. She holds him out to me. “He my dinosaur.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Roger,” I say, shaking one of Roger’s paws. Do dinosaurs have paws? Feet? Why am I considering the anatomy of a prehistoric reptile-lizard-thing?

Maisy grins at me, and I forget everything. Who cares what kind of animal a dinosaur is when my little girl is looking at me like I hung the moon? I grin back, leaning forward to pick up another plane and zooming it along the floor towards her feet.

I glance around the room quickly to find Amie is no longer watching us from the armchair. I spot her through the open kitchen door, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. Meeting Maisy—my daughter—has me all choked up; I can only imagine the storm of emotions Amie must be weathering right now.

I find it hard not to split my focus between the two Caine ladies for the next few minutes until Amie suddenly appears in the doorway with her hair freshly brushed and braided to match her daughter’s. By the time I notice her, she’s leaning against the door-jamb, a soft smile on her face like she’s been watching us play for a while. When I look up, Maisy does too, and she shuffles towards her mom expectantly.

“What do you guys think about going to the playground?”

Maisy cheers and bolts to her feet, rushing for the door. Amie catches her mid-step with practised ease, and I bite my lip to hide the grin.Their relationship is so easy, so sweet, and while it’s beautiful to witness, there’s a hollow ache in my stomach that reminds me of all I’ve missed.

“Not so fast, Maisy Mouse,” Amie admonishes the little girl, and I suddenly remember the tiny rodent tattoo on her collarbone.It’s a Maisy mouse. Maisy looks up at her mother with what I imagine is a tried and tested wide-eyed pout, one Amie seems thoroughly immune to. I can’t help but think I’d crumble every time. “Put your planes away first, please. Once everything is tidy, we can get ready to go.”

Just like that, Maisy drops her head and shoulders, slouching towards the toy basket and sweeping our model airport away. It seems so easy: Amie lays down the law, and Maisy complies. I’m sure it’s not always quite so simple, but my heart swells a little with pride as I watch my little girl tidy her toys away. I reach under the sofa to retrieve a wayward 747 and drop it into the basket, taking the chance to smooth a hand over Maisy’s hair as I do so. Her curls are softer than a breath and she grins up at me, tiny teeth in a straight line. I help her lift the full basket back onto the lower shelf of the console table, and then she jumps up, hollering for Amie and something about pink boots.

Almost like she knew, Amie returns to the doorway, arms loaded with a pink rain jacket and a tiny pair of pink boots. They look too small to fit any human, but I look from them to Maisy’s feet, and they look like a perfect match. Maisy climbs into the armchair and kicks her feet straight out in front of her for Amie to put the boots on, then slips her arms into her coat and allows Amie to help with the buttons.

For her part, Amie has thrown a plum-coloured puffy coat over her black sweater, and her dark blue jeans are tucked into a pair of black biker boots. She looks comfortable and casual, the simple outfit hugging her curves in all the right ways. She’s stunning. She’s even morebeautiful now than she was four years ago, and even back then she was the most beautiful girl in the room. I swallow hard, tearing my eyes from her ass in those tight jeans to focus on absolutely anything else.

I follow the girls into the hallway to find Amie has stacked my high-top Vans on the shoe rack alongside hers and Maisy’s shoes. I pull my leather jacket from my backpack, slip my feet into the shoes, and we leave the house. Roger the dinosaur remains sitting on the shoe rack, two plush feet in two of Maisy’s small boots, guarding the door.

The playground, it turns out, is only a few minutes away, and we walk there with Maisy between us, holding both of our hands. She fills the silence as she chatters away, mostly about what she plans to play when we get to the playground, and I’m surprised not just by how normal this feels, but howright—a tiny hand in mine, swinging at my arm as she skips along, telling me all about how she plans to slide down the slidea hundred times.Her excitement is contagious, and I can’t help but grin along with her.

Inside the gated confines of the playground, Maisy drops both of our hands and runs straight for the jungle gym, making light work of hauling herself up to the top platform and turning to wave at us. I follow her from the ground, ready to leap into action and catch her, but she’s sure on her feet and absolutely fearless as she runs along the rope bridge and scales the tiny rock wall. Pretty soon she’s at the top of the bigger slide, and with one yell of “watch me!” she pushes away, shrieking with echoing laughter as she slides through the metal tube to the bottom. Her tiny body is buzzing, convulsing with laughter and unadulterated joy as she jumps to her feet at the bottom. Then, she runs around to where I stand and grabs my hand, leading me to the other side of the jungle gym where the monkey bars are.

“Up,” she demands, raising her arms. “Up please!”

How can I refuse? I lift her with ease and her tiny hands close around the bars, legs swinging and arms working furiously to grab the next bar, and then the next, as I walk her along to another platform. This one is surrounded by railings that look like castle walls on three sides, with the fourth side open to the monkey bars.

“It’s my castle!” she announces. “You come in too!”

I don’t give it a second thought. I pull myself up on the monkey bars and swing myself onto the platform, sitting so my feet hang off the open edge while Maisy stands beside me.

“You’re the queen of the world,” I tell her, nudging her with my shoulder, and she grins.

“There’s a plane!” She points to a small shape in the sky above us, bouncing excitedly on the balls of her feet.

“I think you’re right,” I say, looking up and shielding my eyes with my hand. “Where do you think it’s going?”

“Um…the moon!” Maisy shrieks, doubling over with laughter. The girl is a riot. She’s lively and excitable with the kind of bubbly effervescence only a three-year-old can have. She’s always smiling. Amie has done such a wonderful job of raising her. She’s kind and polite, funny and independent, thoughtful and loving. I’ve never imagined a daughter before, but if I had, I think she’d be just like Maisy.

I’ve never been the worrying type. I’ve always been extroverted, sociable, sure of myself—even when I probably shouldn’t have been. I’ve never had any doubts that I’d reach my goals. But with Maisy—my daughter—standing on the platform beside me, I’m suddenly struck with anxiety, doubts slamming into my chest like a Boeing on takeoff.

I knew the moment Amie told me about Maisy that I wanted to be involved. I wanted to be her dad. But now I’m here—howdo I do this?CanI do this? In a matter of minutes I went from single and unattached, pining after a one-night-stand from nearly four years ago, to someone’s dad.

This little girl who looks like me and scrunches her nose like her mom, who laughs with her whole body and loves with her whole heart—and call it clichéd, but I’m pretty sure I’d lay down and die for her. I’m already wrapped around her little finger; she’s got me, hook, line and sinker.

Guess that’s my answer.

Guess I’m doing this.

ten

Amie

It’s like I’m watchingit in real time. I could see cracks in his heart beginning to form at the playground when Maisy took his hand and demanded to be lifted to the monkey bars. Her peals of laughter rang out across the swings and climbing apparatus, and already, she had him wrapped around her tiny pinkie finger. He looked at me and I just shrugged; five minutes later, they were atop the jungle gym, beating their chests and Tarzan-yelling across the open grassland.

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