Page 29 of The Best Bad Decision

It’s an unassuming, green-covered book about a little field mouse and her woodland animal friends, and the mouse’s name is Maisy. I pry it from the shelf and tuck it under my arm.

I spot another book about planes—an educational picture book, rather than a storybook—and grab that one, too. Then there’s a dinosaur puzzle on a stand beside the checkout, and I pick that up at the last second as I hand over my wares to the sales clerk. Maybe it’s a lot of gifts for no real special occasion—but I have three years of spoiling my little girl to make up for.

On my way through the mall, I stop at a toy store with a model railway in the window. The street furniture around the tracks looks a lot like the kind Maisy plays with when she builds her imaginary airports, and I find myself perusing the shelves, selecting a toy plane: a poorly proportioned model of a 777, Maisy’s favourite, and, by some bizarre kismet, the plane I fly, and a package of trees, fences, barrels and luggage stacks. And then I see an airport furniture package, and the trees are forgotten in favour of miniature baggage trucks, runway signs and buses.

One more model plane later, and laden with bags, I finally find what I came to the mall for: a new pair of boots to replace my worn-out pair. I’m in and out of the store in minutes, and by the time I return to the hotel for a nap before heading to the airport, my credit card is crying and I’m exhausted.

But it’ll be worth it to see the joy on Maisy’s face. I just wish I could see it in person.

“Cleared for takeoff, runway two-four-right, Dino-six-one-tango,” I say, and I both feel and hear the two enormous engines behind me spool up, powering the behemoth of an aircraft down the runway.

“Vee-one,” I call out a few seconds later.The point of no return.Then, “rotate.”

The aircraft’s nose rises, filling the windows with nothing but sky as we lift into the air, and I announce my actions as I flick a handful of switches before pulling out a checklist on a laminated sheet of paper.My co-pilot reads through it and I confirm each item, and then, after another few minutes, we’re cruising.

A handful of fluffy clouds sit between us and the sparkling ocean, but otherwise, there’s nothing but blue outside the window. It’s always sunny up here above the cloud layers, and as I loosen my tie and move my seat back to a more relaxed position, I take a moment to appreciate the view. I wish I could bottle it up and take it home, but I can’t even take a picture up here. Officially, at least. Unofficially, I see guys snapping a quick photo all the time, but especially since gaining my fourth stripe, I want to set a good example.

I want to be the best man I can be—the best Captain and mentor at work. The best Dad to Maisy. And God, I want to be the best man I can be for Amie. I want that—her—so badly. But every time we talk, she’s aloof, relaxing into our conversation before talking herself out of it, like she doesn’t want to allow herself to enjoy it. And I want her to. I want her to enjoy life. I want her to enjoy life with me. Fuck it, I just want her with me.

When Nicole, the young first officer beside me, takes a picture of the sun sparkling on the ocean’s surface and offers to send it to me, I can’t say no. Maisy would love to see this. She taps our phones together to send the photo, and I accept it before tucking my phone away again. I’ll send it to Amie later to show Maisy.

“Hi, Maisy Girl,” I say brightly. It’s barely lunchtime in San Diego, but Maisy is already tucked up in bed, surrounded by Roger and her yellow Daddy Bear. In the background of the frame, Amie straightenssomething on a shelf and then pulls the curtains closed over the blackout blind. “Have you had a good day with Mommy?”

Maisy nods shyly.

“We went swimming,” she says seriously. “But Roger can’t swim.”

“Oh no, he can’t?” I say. Poor Roger. Maisy takes him everywhere; they’re an inseparable pair, but as he’s a stuffed animal, I can understand his reluctance to enjoy time in the water.

“Nope,” she says, grinning with her teeth. “He stayed in the, um, in the—Mama! Where did Roger stay?”

“He stayed in the locker, baby,” Amie says from somewhere outside the frame.

“He stay in the locker,” Maisy repeats. “With my stinky socks!”

She laughs gleefully at the thought and I can’t help but smile. Her joy is infectious. She’s so smart, so happy—I love getting this time with her. I’d be with her every day, holding her in my arms and sharing in her joy in person if I could, but instead, I’m in a hotel room. Alone. So this is the next best thing.

“Are you ready for a story, Maisy Girl?” I ask. I grab the book from the bed beside me.

“Yeah!” She claps excitedly, and Amie’s face pops into the screen. She settles beside Maisy on the tiny twin bed, smiling at me expectantly, like she’s waiting for a story, too. She’s beautiful, all high cheekbones and tender eyes, still looking fresh-faced despite a whole day chasing after our tiny tornado of a daughter.

With a dramatic flourish, I pull the book into the frame, holding it in front of my face for Amie and Maisy to see.

“Maisy!” Amie gasps. “Look at the book Daddy found! It’s about Maisy the mouse!”

“I Maisy Mouse!” she exclaims excitedly. She prods herself in the chest, grinning up at her mom and then at me through the screen. “I Maisy Mouse!”

“You’re my Maisy Mouse,” Amie confirms, peppering her face with kisses before settling back against the pillows with Maisy cradled against her.

“I couldn’t resist,” I explain. “It was too perfect.”

Amie beams, and I know I made a good choice. I crack the book open and begin to read. By the time I close the book, Maisy is fighting to keep her eyes open.

“Sleep, Maisy Girl. Have big dreams, okay?”

Amie presses a gentle kiss to Maisy’s head before standing, and I see the light flick off and the jostle of walls and an arm as she jogs down the stairs.

“So, swimming, huh?” I say as Amie prepares a mug of tea. It’s become our nightly routine. Whenever we stay on the line after Maisy falls asleep, she prepares a cup of tea and settles down while we chat.

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