Her jaw drops. “You are the worst father in the world.”
“I love you too. Let’s get to school so you won’t be lateandhankering for a doughnut.”
I inhale all but one bite of my fritter, and just as we begin to ride out of the parking lot, I offer her the last morsel.
She frowns despite steering her bike closer to take my peace offering.
“Lola, I don’t need your help finding a date.”
“Dakota said his sister said their mom said she’s surprised you haven’t started dating.”
When we stop at the light, holding our breaths from the bus exhaust, I replay her statement for comprehension—Dakota, his sister, and their mom.
Dakota’s mom is on her third husband. I can see why she’d be surprised.
It’s hard to date when I can’t drive a car. And it’s hard to explain this to Lola when Victoria, her therapist, said I should never say anything that might make my daughter feel bad about “the situation.”
“Have you discussed this with Victoria?” I ask. Thankfully, the bus turns right, and we can breathe again.
“No. Why?”
“I think you should,” I say, just as we pass the congested line of cars along the street in front of the school.
“Fine. I will next week.”
“Great,” I say.
“Dad, that’s far enough.” Lola glances over her shoulder, eyeing me before I roll past an invisible line.
I stop at the crosswalk. Heaven forbid Lola’s friends see her dad escorting her to school.
“Have a great day,” I say.
“How am I supposed to do that when I’m starving?” Without another glance at me, she walks her bike through the intersection with the crossing guard.
The gray-haired lady holding up the stop sign in the middle of the street eyes me with disapproval.
“She had a breakfast burrito.”
While I finish my coffee, Taylor, the maintenance manager at Cielo Aviation, gives me the rundown on the plane engine I need to rebuild. And before donning my coveralls, I use the men’s room. After I flush the urinal, someone in the stall clears their throat.
“Excuse me,”shesays.
I quickly zip my pants as if I’m in the wrong restroom. “Yeah?” I say slowly.
“Could you find me a roll of toilet paper?”
There’s only one stall, so I glance around the floor-to-ceiling tiled room for toilet paper while washing my hands.
Nothing.
“Uh, give me a minute,” I say.
“I’ll be here,” she singsongs, followed by a tiny laugh as I leave the men’s room.
Near the door to the hangar, Taylor stares at his phone’s screen.
“Where’s the toilet paper?” I ask.