Page 54 of Like Home
Even through the poor reception, I can hear his annoyance, “Yes. Just take her to get ice cream or something and I’ll pick her up after. There’s a place just down the road. I shouldn’t be long.”
I think for a beat before saying, “Okay, I can do that.” Maybe this is how I show Jared that I can be helpful, and that Emma and I can get along. We hang up and I release a tight exhale. I’m nervous, but I can’t pinpoint why. Maybe I just want Emma to like me. It feels sort of strange to be meeting her formally without Summer.
I try to give Summer a call even though Jared said he couldn’t get ahold of her. Her phone goes straight to voicemail, and after the tone, I leave a brief message saying, “Hey, so I’m going to pick Emma up from gymnastics. I’ll explain later. Love you.”
After I hang up, I wonder if I should have mentioned Jared, but decide against it. I don't want to bother her at work and I figure since Jared asked, she'd be okay with it. I’ll just tell her when she calls me back. I don’t want to leave Emma waiting forlong, so I click save on my timesheet, and power down my computer, waving to our receptionist as I head out of the office.
When I pull in front of Oasis Gymnastics, I turn off my audiobook (one of Summer’s favorites) and shove my phone in my pocket. I quickly get out of the truck because I’d hate to be lateandunexpected.
I open the glass door and am greeted by an icy blast of air conditioning that smells vaguely of feet and disinfectant, a front desk, and a waiting area full of parents either looking down at their phones or watching the kids through the large glass wall separating us from the rest of the gym. “Are you here to enroll a new student?” the teenage girl behind the desk asks me, boredom rolling off her in noxious waves. She has her hair pulled back in a thick blonde ponytail and her crossed arms have the toned definition of an athlete. She must be one of the older students here.
“No, I’m here to pick up Emma Forrester?” I realize I end the sentence with a question and mentally steel myself. I need to get it together because right now I sound like a confused old man.
She narrows her dark brown eyes at me and pops her gum once before replying, “You’re not her dad.”
“No, I’m not. I’m a—um—friend of her mom’s,” I fumble. My god, who knew teenage girls could be so intimidating?
She sighs and holds out a hand, palm up, “Let me see some I.D. and make sure you’re on the approved pick-up list.” I take out my wallet and slip my I.D. out from its slot, placing it into her open palm. She makes a show of squinting at the picture, then up at me, “You look old now.” I feel my ears turn hot and I grumble something about not taking a new picture for my license in a while. “I’ll say,” she responds while clicking around on her computer. “Okay. Looks like Ms. Evans put you on the approved list a few weeks back. Lucky you,” she says the last part so dully, you’d think she was talking about her least favorite class in school.
I look over her shoulder to see that Emma is finishing up. I take my I.D. back and stand by the wall nearthe exit.
Emma follows a few other students through the glass door and comes to a stop to scan the room. When her eyes land on me, I wave awkwardly (I swear I hear the girl behind the desk snort), and her mouth turns down in confusion. She slowly approaches me and asks, “Do I know you?”
“Sorta. I’m Ryan, your mom’s friend. You might not remember, but I drove you to the hospital the day your appendix got removed.” I sit in the chair nearest me, so I’m not towering over her.
She frowns again before her expression clears. “Oh yeah, I kinda remember you. What’re you doing here?” She looks around, clearly searching for her mom or dad.
“Your dad called and asked me to pick you up. Said he was running a little late from a work thing. He thought we could go get some ice cream and then he’ll get you from there soon.”
She shrugs and says, “Okay,” in the easy, accepting way that children often have. I’ve always admired how they can just roll with the punches. I lead her out toward my truck, and when she looks at the backseat she says, “Where’s my booster seat?”
I mentally facepalm. I don’t know how I forgot that little detail. “Well, I don’t have one for you, but we can probably just walk to the ice cream place. Your dad said it was nearby?” Didn’t think I’d be asking for directions from a six-year-old, but here we are.
“Oh! We’re going to Swirl? Yes! Come on.” She excitedly slams the door, takes hold of my hand with a surprisingly firm grip, and tugs me back on the sidewalk. As she leads me (hopefully) in the right direction, she prattles on about all the different flavors she’s tried and warns me away from a flavor called Curd Your Enthusiasm proclaiming it’s “yucky.”
A few minutes later, we stop at a storefront with windows painted in bold swirling patterns of every color. I pull open the door and am immediately assaulted by sweet-smelling, cool air. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s get you a scoop. Do you want it in a cup or a cone?”
She looks at me like I must be missing a few brain cells and says, “Cone,” in a way that implies “idiot” was tacked on at the end in her head. She must be getting sass lessons from the front desk girl at her gym.
Despite the heat, there’s no line, so we walk right up to the counter. I order her a watermelon lemonade flavored ice cream in a cake cone and get a scoop of strawberry cheesecake in a cup for myself. Once we have our ice creams in hand, I lead her to the seating area, which is made up of two giant swings hanging from the ceiling on either side of a small picnic table.
The decor looks like something they threw together in the hopes that it would photograph well on social media and attract more customers. Inexplicably, there's a stuffed animal section in the back corner with one massive teddy bear whose head nearly touches the ceiling surrounded by his much more appropriately sized minions. It looks vaguely like something I’ve had a nightmare about once or twice. I shiver and tell myself that it's just from the cold.
I pointedly angle my body away from Nightmare Corner and feel the bench swing sway under me. “So, how are you enjoying your summer?” I ask, hoping the neutral question will launch her on another tangent and I can avoid any awkward conversations.
She purses her ice cream covered lips and looks at me shrewdly, “Are you really my mom’s friend?”
“What else would I be?” I ask back after swallowing an admittedly delicious bite of ice cream. I suppose I can ignore the horrifyingly large teddy bear for this. Maybe I’ll bring Summer here one night on a date. I glance again at the gargantuan bear and I swear it moved positions since I last looked at it.
Okay, maybe we can get our ice cream to go.
“Her boyfriend?” Her retort comes quickly and ends with a titter I was not expecting. Oh god. I do not want to lie to this kidthe first time I’m officially meeting her. That sounds like a recipe for disaster.
I gracelessly switch topics, “So, what’s your favorite part about gymnastics?” I breathe out a sigh of relief when she brightly discusses the balance beam, bar, and bouncy floors to practice tumbling. Her favorite skill is doing a cartwheel on the balance beam even though she was scared to try it at first. I’m about to ask a follow-up question about a bar maneuver she called a “backward hip circle” while scraping the edges of the cup to get one last bite of soupy deliciousness when the door bangs open. In storms an irate-looking Jared.
“What. Are. You.Doing with my daughter,” he growls, approaching like a storm cloud. The last bit is said so quickly that the words bleed together, but I get the gist. He walks over to Emma’s side of the table and wraps a protective arm around her. A little much if you ask me, since we’re clearly enjoying some ice cream, but whatever.
I feel my eyes go wide as I look at him glowering over the table and realize he’s serious, “Um, what you told me to?” I say like a question, because I am genuinely confused right now.
