Page 7 of The Best Bad Decision

My head is spinning. I don’t know how to react to the news and as my brain tries to catch up, I see Amie close herself off and pull away from me. I said I wouldn’t lose her again without a fight, but now I know how much is on the line, I’m even more determined.

When she asks if I want to see a picture, my eyes sting and I blink hard, nodding. I press my lips together. I don’t know what’s happening, but I feel like I could cry and this is definitely not the time or the place.

I have a daughter.

Amie pulls her phone from her pocket and taps at the screen, spinning it on the tabletop to show me her screensaver.

“Here she is,” she says with a soft smile. On the screen is a little girl, barely visible under an enormous chunky knit blanket, eyes closed as she sleeps. Her light brown hair is tied in pigtails, secured with a pair of yellow ribbons. My lips turn upwards of their own accord. Then, with another tap, she unlocks the phone and navigates to her camera roll, swiping to her favourites folder with a dreamy, faraway smile on her face. She finds what she’s looking for and pushes the device towards me, and my breath catches in my throat.

The same little girl beams up at me from the screen. Her curly hair surrounds her head like a halo, tiny white teeth parted in a shriek of laughter. Her green eyes are crinkled and her perfect tiny nose is scrunched… her face looks just like the ones in my own childhood photos. She looks just like me. My heart slams in my chest, in my throat, in my mouth; my nose stings and my eyes burn, filling with the tears I thought I’d managed to stave off. I bring a hand to my mouth, biting my fist to choke down the emotion.

“She’s…”

Beautiful.

For the first time in my life, I might actually be speechless. I tear my eyes from the screen to look back at Amie, who has one hand on mine, resting on the table, and the other brushing the edge of her phone.

“She’s perfect,” she confirms. “She’s beautiful.”

Amie swipes her screen a couple of times and more pictures appear with each tap: Maisy wearing fairy wings, Maisy with an ice cream moustache, Maisy asleep on a chair, clutching a blue stuffed dinosaur. His name is Roger, Amie tells me, and he’s Maisy’s favourite thing in the world. She’s getting younger in every photo until suddenly, she’s ababy in Amie’s arms. Amie smiles, embarrassed, and snatches her phone back until I grab her hand.

“I want to see them,” I plead. “I want to know everything. Please, Amie… I’ve missed so much.”

Her face softens and she turns the screen back to me, swiping through with periodic narration until she reaches what might be the most beautiful photo I’ve ever seen. Amie is in a hospital bed, propped up against white pillows, her curls messy and her face pink with exertion, split by the widest grin, eyes glossy and cheeks damp with tears. On her chest, she clutches a tiny bundle wrapped in a yellow blanket, mouth open in a crying protest. Even freshly born, I recognise my own features in newborn Maisy’s face. I trace the image with my finger hovering over the screen, committing everything about it to memory. The most beautiful girls in the world.

My mouth is dry and I have to swallow a few times before I can get the words out.

“Ca—can you send me some pictures? Can you send me this one?” I ask, tapping a fingertip at the edge of the screen. Amie nods shyly, pulling her phone back and tapping again. After a moment, she pushes it back to me.

“Put your number in,” she requests, and I do. Seconds later, my phone vibrates several times in my pocket, and I know I’m about to change the lock screen on every device I own.

“I want to be in, Amie,” I say after a moment of quiet. We’ve been holding hands across the table and I’ve been lost, struck dumb by the way the light dances in the golden flecks in her hazel eyes. “I’m all in. I want to be in her life.”

“Okay,” she whispers. Just,okay. Then, “Let’s walk.”

She stands, picks up her coffee and untouched cake, and heads for the counter. I hear her request a to-go cup and two boxes for our cake, and I smile. She speaks Spanish with a slight English lilt. It reminds me of dancing close to her onthatnight in Singapore, hearing her sing along to the pounding Latin music in the bar. The memory has me twitching in my pants and I think of something, absolutelyanythingelse to halt the thickening of my cock. I find myself mentally running through a flight deck checklist as I grab my own cake plate, drain the last of my coffee and meet her at the door, resting a hand against the small of her back as we leave.

We walk in comfortable silence for a few minutes until we reach a nearby park. She brings her coffee to her lips.

“Will you tell me about her?” I ask.

Amie smiles into her cappuccino.

“She’s amazing.” Amie lights up when she talks about our daughter. Her eyes sparkle and the prettiest smile lifts her lips into a grin. “She turned three two weeks ago, on the sixteenth of September. She loves planes and dinosaurs and anything pink. Her favourite food is pizza fingers. She’s so bright, she just has this relentless energy, I don’t know where it comes from but she’s like the Energizer Bunny, you know?”

She looks at me with the biggest smile and my heart stutters. She’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I’ve never been a big believer in fate, but hearing that my daughter’s favourite things are dinosaurs and planes when I fly for Jurassic Air, an airline whose call sign is Dino and whose aircraft livery features a cartoon brachiosaurus on the tail, makes me think that maybe this is a story written in the stars.

“She’s just so pure, so kind and loving and sweet. And so smart, she’ssofucking smart, I don’t—I can’t keepup with her.”

“I can’t wait to meet her,” I say, a giddy laugh rushing out of my lungs. “I want to meet her, Amie.”

“I want you to meet her too,” she whispers. She stops walking, a hand on my arm. “I want—I want to give her everything I have. I want to give her the world, Cam…” She trails off, a hint of uncertainty colouring her voice. “I want her to have a mumanda dad who love her. I want her to have everything.”

My throat tightens and then releases, a rush ofsomethingfizzing through my limbs.

“I’m in, Amie,” I tell her. “I’m all in. You just tell me what you need, and you’ve got it.”

Later that same day, I convince Amie to let me take her to dinner, where I hope she’ll tell me more about the little girl dominating my every thought. I meant every word: I can’t wait to meet her. I can’t wait to hear her voice and memorise the sound when she calls medaddy. I can’t wait to make her laugh. I want to hold her in my arms, kiss her goodnight, teach her to swim, read, ride a bicycle, and throw a football. I don’t just want to be her father. I want to be her dad. I want it all.

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