Page 80 of Single Dad Dilemma
Lily:Fuck off, I just wasn’t sure how you meant it.
Me:I meant it how I said it. No ulterior motive.
Lily:Huh. What a novel concept.
Lily:So ... did you win your game today?
Me:We did.
Lily:No wonder you’re in such an accommodating mood.
Me:Now would be the time to ask me to shovel the driveway. I’d probably say yes.
Lily:I can clear my own driveway, thank you very much.
Me:. . .
Lily:I swear, if you’re smiling right now ... You know what I mean.
Me:Indeed I do.
Lily:I’m not even sure you’re capable of a smile.
Me:Is that your way of asking for a picture?
Lily:Fuck. Off. Like I’d give you the satisfaction.
Me:Does that mean I can’t ask for one?
To my delight, Lily attached one. I could see her eyes, staring dark and direct into the camera. The rest of her face, though, was obscured by her middle finger.
In the dark of my office, with no one to see, I smiled, laughing under my breath as I saved the picture to my phone.
Chapter Nineteen
Lily
It was possible I needed therapy. A lot of therapy.
Though that was nothing new; it had been an errant thought over the years, but I’d dismissed it easily because, ugh, then you need to sit and unload all the big bullet points in the first hour.
An expensive hour that could be titledWhat’s My Villain Origin Story?
But I was considering it again, as I found myself lying belly down on the floor, trying to hand-feed my dog, who hates me. It was expensive food, the kind that had to be kept in the fridge and was supposed to cure everything that could possibly ail him. Except, in my case, his horrible disposition—that wasn’t going anywhere. Much like me, in that way. Cookies hadn’t cured my bad attitude, either, so I guess we were even.
“Come on, Larry,” I coaxed gently, easing my hand closer to his mouth. “Even I think this smells good.”
He leaned forward, sniffing the food balancing on my outstretched fingers. He gave it a half-hearted lick and then retreated again, laying his head down between his paws with an old-man groan.
I sighed, flicking the food back into his ceramic bowl. It had his name on it and everything. Teeny black paw prints painted on therim. It was cute. And expensive. And he still didn’t want to eat out of it. “Fine. Be that way,” I said, wiping my fingers off on a piece of paper towel.
Unable to stop the worry creeping steadily through my veins, I chewed on my bottom lip as I watched him fall asleep in a small patch of sun he’d found streaming through one of the front windows. He was fine, acting normal, other than not eating as much.
My phone buzzed, andfuck.ing.hell, I got a flutter of something in my chest. Could’ve been fear. Might’ve been excitement. To err on the safe side, we’d call it general nausea, because honestly, both of those feelings fit within that umbrella.
A football field heart-to-heart and one measly little text exchange with mildly flirty undertones, and I’d turned into an absolute overthinking wreck.
Had he sent anything else since then? No.
