Page 95 of The New Guy
“I can find it!” she chirps. “Give me your phone?”
Once again the key to babysitting Jordyn appears to be handing over my phone. She finds the restaurant and reads me the menu. I make my choices, and she handles the whole thing. I don’t have to do anything, except pay. Which seems fair.
Then I put on the hockey game, and when our dinner arrives, we eat it in front of the TV. Jordyn applauds whenever the camera shows the bench—and the spot behind it where Gavin is standing.
I’m winning this babysitting thing.
Brooklyn is struggling, though, which makes me blue. And the stands are full of rainbow pennants for the LGBTQ event.
“I should have been there,” I mumble as the other team strips a rookie of the puck.
A very small hand pats my back. “Everybody gets sick sometimes. You just have to roll with it.”
I give her the side eye. “Is that something your daddy said?”
“Yep. Can we have ice cream? There’s some in the freezer. And I promise to brush my teeth after.”
Huh. Gavin didn’t say anything about dessert. “I think anything goes when you have the flu.”
She bounces off the sofa, and I help her put a scoop of chocolate chip into a teacup, and I get her a spoon.
Afterward, I tidy up Gavin’s kitchen a little bit as Brooklyn scores a goal to pull into the lead. But when I look over at Jordyn, she’s asleep again, her head at an awkward angle on the sofa’s arm.
Hmm.
I wait a few minutes to see if she’s going to wake up. But my neck is sore just looking at her. So I tiptoe over there and contemplate moving her. Is that a thing Gavin would do?
Yes. I think it is. He’d want her to be comfortable.
Okay. Fine. I squat five hundred pounds, right? This will be a piece of cake.
Gingerly, I lean down and spatula her small body off the sofa. She smells like toothpaste and fruity shampoo. I pick her up as carefully as I can.
But sleeping little girls are floppy. It’s like carrying an octopus, and I’m afraid I’m going to bonk one of her limbs into a doorframe.
We make it, though. I carry her into a messy room with fish on the bedsheets, and lay her head on the pillow. She rolls over and grumbles as I pull the covers up to her elbows.
Feeling pleased with myself, I text Gavin to let him know she’s in bed. The game is over now—and we won. I shut off the TV and contemplate my next move. I’m exhausted, so I walk into Gavin’s tidy room and stretch out on his bed.
When I wake up an hour later, though, Jordyn is standing over me, whimpering that she doesn’t feel good.
I put a hand on her forehead, and it’s hot. “Does your tummy hurt? Do you, uh, think you’ll be sick?”
She shakes her head.
“Tylenol it is, then.” I check Gavin’s texts for the dosage, and I give her the medicine.
But she doesn’t go back to bed. Instead, she climbs onto one side of Gavin’s queen-sized bed. “Why isn’t Daddy here?”
“He will be,” I promise. “It takes a while to pack up after the game. People need his help.”
“Butweneed Daddy more,” she whines.
Girl, I hear you. I stretch out awkwardly beside her, and then take her smaller hand in mine. “Listen, pumpkin. He’s not far away. Your daddy is really good at taking care of people. He wouldn’t let you go too long without him. And we’re not doingsobad, am I right?”
“I guess.” She rolls closer to me and snuggles up, her head on my shoulder. “You could tell me a story while we wait for him.”
Oh boy. That sounds like it’s beyond my pay grade. “What, uh, kind of story?”
