Page 67 of Sunny Goes Cold Turkey
“Ugh!” She tugs harder. “I can’t carry it. It’s too big. You have to help me.”
Eventually all of Immy’s tugging leads me to a breakfast tray for two on my parents’ kitchen island. There are two plates of her egg toast, two bananas freckled with brown spots, and two glasses of chocolate milk that slopped a little over the sides. I grab Immy under the arms and pull her up in a hug.
“Did you know that you’re the best girl in the whole world?” I peck a kiss on her cheek. “The very best.”
“Dad!” She giggles. “It’s going to get cold before Sunny can have it!”
“Okay, okay.” I take the tray and let Imogen lead me up the stairs. I hope Sunny slept better than I did last night because she’s about to have the earliest breakfast of her life.
I balance the tray on my side and move to knock on my old bedroom door, but Immy barges in before my knuckle hits the door, flicking on a dim yellow lamp.
“Immy, no—” I’m juggling a lot of food and can’t stop her.
“Sunny, get up! I made eggie toast for you and my dad!” She throws herself onto the edge of the bottom bunk, next to a sleeping Sunny.
The sight of her, sprawled across my bed, hair tangled around her face, with one foot flopping off the side, makes me regret my cold treatment of her the night before when my ego was bruised. She deserves so much better than me and my mess. I scan her frame in arespectful, gentlemanly way and when I see that she slept in my sweatshirt I realize something. This woman owns me. She deserves better, it’s true. But she owns me.
“What?” Sunny’s voice is rough from sleep, and she tugs the comforter up to her neck at the sight of us, squinting into the lamp light.
“Breakfast in bed!” Sunny cheers, then whispers to me. “Sit by her, Dad. Get in the bed.” She nudges my leg. “Sunny, you hafta sit up and make room for my dad.”
Sunny’s eyes are wide when she scrambles to prop herself against the headboard, leaving not quite enough room for me on the narrow bed. I can tell she’s half-asleep and numbly following my daughter’s bossy orders the best she can.
I love that my kid is giving me an excuse to get close to Sunny after things went south with us last night. I settle the tray on Sunny’s lap while I climb in beside her. I barely fit under the top bunk—we’re both half-hunched under here, following the orders of a five-year-old—but I’m enjoying the way Sunny is pressed against my side. I can feel her warmth through my sweatshirt she’s wearing and it’s a very good thing that my daughter is here to keep me in line.
“Thanks for being cool about this,” I murmur, taking the weight of the tray off of Sunny’s lap.
She clears the sleep out of her voice. “This is really nice, Im. I’ve never had breakfast in bed.”
“You’re going to love it. Normally my Morfie makes it, but he’s still asleep.”
I track Sunny’s gaze as it flits to the window and the darkness outside.
“Sorry,” I say under my breath. “It’s early.”
“It’s okay. This looks so good, kiddo,” she says to Immy before taking a sip of her chocolate milk. “Mmm. This is the best.”
“I know.”My daughter and her confidence. But she glows under the praise, watching as we both dig in. “Okay, I’m going to eat my breakfast. I’ll come get the tray in… thirteen minutes.”
I hear Sunny’s tiny snicker as Immy closes the door behind her, leaving us alone in the quiet room. I swallow. I want to make things right with us, but I don’t know how to start. She needs to know that I’m not blowing her off and that I want to talk, I just needed time to process. I can’t get the words to come out, though. I’m too distracted by Sunny and the fact that every point of contact from our shoulders to our hips feels magnetic.
“Thirteen minutes. We better get cracking.” She holds her chocolate milk aloft like she’s waiting to clink glasses for a toast.
I grab my glass and tap it to hers. “To breakfast in bed with a beautiful woman, even if it is at six a.m.” I regret the words immediately. I’m sure they won’t do much to convince her I’m anything but a philanderer.
She sighs. “To breakfast in bed with an incorrigible movie star.”
Joking. That’s a good sign. I take a bite of my egg toast, grateful to eat anything that isn’t served in a labeled, plastic container. I think about what to say while I chew.
“You’re right about me dragging Immy around, but I don’t know how to fix it.”
She coughs around her toast. “I wasn’t saying that. I—”
“I know it wasn’t you saying it, but it’s true, nevertheless.” I find her dark brown eyes. Man, she's pretty. “I’m thinking about it. I’m going to figure it out. I want you to know I love Imogen more than anything. There has to be a way for me to be a dad and… this.” I gesture to my body—to Anders Beck, the celebrity persona.
Her full lips turn up at the corners. “Millions of hot dads do it every day. You’ll find a way,” she teases.
I scoff. “Impossible. There aren’t millions of hot dads.”
