Page 116 of Biggest Player
“Blue hair?” I exclaim. “Since when?”
This is news to me. My daughter has never, not once, mentioned wanting brightly colored hair, and if she had, I would certainly be open to it. I am nothing if not open minded ... yet a part of me wonders if she was afraid to ask me? So she asked her dad instead.
One of the downsides of coparenting.
Sigh . . .
“Just the ends of it. The tips,” Colton goes on hastily before I can say no. “And I won’t be the one doing it. Gretchen said she’s done hair before, so it will be easy.”
Ah. Gretchen said.
My butt cheeks clench. “Wyatt has never said she’s wanted to dye her hair.” It’s a perfectly perfect shade of light brown, and never once has she wanted it any other color, let alone blue.
I give myself a glance in the rearview mirror, knowing that the longer I sit here, the more my makeup begins to cake on my face.
Ugh.
“I mean, if this is whatshewants and you’re only doing the ends ...” I bite my bottom lip. “Just the ends—there’s a school policy about the whole head.”
“Got it.”
“This is so random,” I say out loud becauseThis is so random. On one hand, I seriously want to speak to my daughter; on the other, I don’t want to micromanage. Coparenting sucks so hard, and this is one of those days.
“I know. That’s why I called.” Colton laughs again.
“Noted.” I feel my nostrils flaring. “Anything else?”
“You’re in that big of a rush to get rid of me, hey?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m sitting in my car, in my date’s driveway. Yes, I’m in a rush to get rid of you.”
“Ouch,” my ex drawls out, sounding hurt.
“Why would that hurt you? Stop being dramatic.” I tap my toe on the rubber mat beneath my feet. “Welp. Let me know how it goes. And send pictures if you go through with it.”
“Will do.” He hesitates. It sounds like he wants to say more, but eventually we end the call.
I stare at my phone a few moments, regrouping. My brain could go down so many paths, but instead I will myself to get it together.
“Focus.”
I angle the rearview so I can get one last look at my face before grabbing my purse from the passenger seat, quickly debate whether or not to leave the keys in the ignition, then jam them inside my bag.
Stiffen my spine and give myself a pep talk.
“You are not here to have sex with the man. He is feeding you dinner, do you understand?”He is feeding me dinner because he was bragging about what a good cook he is and wants to prove it to me, nothing more.
Right.
Dinner.
Is that what we’re calling it these days?
Taking a deep breath, I step out fully and shut the door behind me. The driveway is long and flanked by manicured hedges, leading up to a house that looks straight out of a lifestyle magazine. As I walk toward the entrance, I have to remind myself to put one foot in front of the other so I don’t fall on my face.
I am not used to these shoes.
Hobbling slightly, I reach the front door, raising my hand to knock—it swings open before my fist makes contact.
