Page 131 of Pucked Up Plans
The doors to the school open, shortening my wallowing time. I’m in the middle, so I don’t expect Lennon right away. I haven’t spied Tate’s car yet, but she was at the floral shop not long ago. I hope she’s driving safe.
The urge to protect her is something fierce, a feeling I’ve only ever experienced with Lennon and when Megan was pregnant. I’ve given up trying to explain it. This last week has only proved how much I love Tate. I don’t know what I’ll do if the baby’s mine. And in some ways, Tate’s the least of my concerns.
Lennon.
Her name conjures up my girl at the door, holding onto Hannah’s hand. Or more like Hannah assuring Lennon doesn’t let go. It’s for safety only, but Lennon knows not to run away from the teacher, and to stay on the sidewalk, but I’m not one of those parents who would go against the rules enforced by the teachers. Except maybe with the coat. We can be a little laxer with the coat.
Pulling up in front of the door, Lennon’s not her usual self, and it raises my fatherly instincts. “Hey, Squirt,” I exclaim, rounding the front of the truck. “Why the long face?”
She shrugs, half-hearted. “I’m sad, Dad.”
“I can see. You want to tell me about it in the car?” I grab her hand, give Hannah a nod, and walk her the short distance to the back door of the truck.
“Can we go skating now? I think that would cheer me up. It would cheer me up a lot.” She pauses, then adds, “No, a ton.” Her door open, she faces me, wanting to be excited at the prospect of skating but whatever’s eating at her is too big to combat.
“Maybe tonight. I have practice, but maybe Mimi can swing open skate at Nordic.”
“That’s a long time from now.” Her usual spunk is missing, the sass behind her words barely there.
Instead of getting into everything now, I shut the door as she buckles up. When I’m in the front seat, I make sure it’s tight before driving off. And then I ask again.
“Want to tell me why you’re so sad?”
“I miss Tate.”
Shit.
As much as my girl loves Tate, I didn’t account for how much not seeing her this past week affected her. We’ve gone a few weeks without seeing them before, but ever since Thanksgiving, there’s been a change in Lennon, a stronger bond between the two of them, forged completely by my five-year-old. I’m grateful Tate indulged her, sharing the same sentiments.
“It stinks, doesn’t it?”
“Can’t you just call her and tell her you’re sorry? And whatever you did, you won’t do again?”
“I wish it were that easy.” I aim to keep the words in my head, but the response escapes.
“Dad, we need to stop at the flower store.”
“Wow, two ‘Dads’ in less than ten minutes. Are you sick?” Again, not to indulge her wish, I park a few doors down from Whispering Petals. I could convince myself I had to stop in, but I never let Jenny know when I’d be by. Of course, I won’t apprise Lennon her idea was a good one, but the way she claps her hands once lets me know she approves.
By the time I get around to the other side of the truck, she’s unbuckled. I don’t even bother with her coat, just lift her and tuck her into my arms. She shields her face from the elements.
The bell to the store rings as we step inside, Lennon scrambling to get down.
“Don’t touch anything, Lennon. Look only with your eyes.” I wait for some smart response, but nothing comes.
“I’ll be right with you,” Jenny calls from the back where she must be working.
While we wait, I search around the store at the updated displays after the holiday season. A blue, white, and silver bouquet catches my eye. Its simple color tones beckon me.
I don’t know the first thing about flowers, but I’ve learned some since I’m here at least once a week. And the occasional pop-in to see what’s new. No clue which type make up this arrangement other than white roses. These others don’t grow the color we see, can they? Flower dyeing is a thing, right?
“Oh, Walsh. Hey.” Jenny’s voice greets my ears, her upbeat tone a salve for my miserable heart. “It’s not ready yet. There’s one flower I need I couldn’t get today, but my supplier assured me she’d have it tomorrow.”
A nod to Lennon, I turn to face Jenny. “My daughter requested a visit. Results are still not in.” I don’t mean to sound so bitter, but the waiting is getting old.
And ridiculously overrated.
“This is madame Lennon?” Jenny walks over to Lennon, who seems the least bit interested in any of the merchandise. “It’s so good to finally meet you. What brings you by today?”
