Page 132 of Pucked Up Plans
Lennon sizes up Jenny, who’s crouched by her side, giving her a wide smile when she passes her assessment. “Flowers for Tate. Because Aubrey says she’s so sad. And since Keeley still can’t fix whatever he did to make her sad, I want to send her some to make her smile.”
Her words power me into action. Not sure which part of her comment affects me more, I eliminate the distance between us. “Youare sending Tate flowers? On whose dime?”
Without missing a beat, my five-year-old sasses, “Hey, Dad, can I borrow like ten bucks to send Tate flowers?”
After a moment of pure shock, Jenny covers her chuckle with a cough.
Before I answer her, I address the other part of her statement. “What did Aubrey say exactly?”
“She’s sad,” she repeats as if I didn’t hear her and wasn’t asking for clarification.
Helpful.
“And who says it’s on me to fix?”
“Mimi.”
Of course.
“You are incredibly sweet, Lennon.” Jenny stands up, grabs Lennon’s hand, and walks to another part of the store. “Tell you what. If Daddy won’t buy them for you, I will.”
I go to protest—Jenny owes me no favors. Quite the opposite. She does so much for me, I’ll be making payments on my tab for about as long as my student loans.
“If you’re okay with this kind,” she points to a vase holding a myriad of different colored blooms, “I’ll let you pick out the colors.”
Lennon doesn’t hesitate. “Yellow and orange, my favorites.”
“Perfect. Let’s see what we can put together.”
While the girls busy themselves with a bouquet, I dig my phone out of my pocket and refresh my email. It takes forever to load, but once it does, there’s one from the testing lab.
Finally.
My heart kicks up into a rhythm similar to when I take the ice in an important game, the beat strong and unsteady. I take three deep breaths, closing my eyes as I exhale the last one slowly, sending up one last prayer for good news. My finger clicks the email open, my eyes already scanning for the words to determine my fate.
“Come on, come on,” I chant under my breath as the words blur with my haste. Eventually, I decode them.
“YES!” My shout of glee ricochets off the walls of the small floral shop. “YES!” I repeat. Then I read the words four more times, to make sure my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me.
NOT A MATCH.
Pure adrenaline propels my feet. I grab Lennon in the air and swing her around, cognizant not to knock anything over in my excited state.
“Good news?” Jenny surmises with a smirk.
“Only the best.” I swipe one hand across my forehead. “Phew. Dodged a bullet.” I can’t even let my mind drift to the possibility of being the father.
And all I want to do is tell Tate. Tell her it’s over. Tell her we can move forward in whatever way she wants. Tell her I love her, and no matter what life throws in our path, I always will.
Setting Lennon back to her feet, I focus on my phone.
“No. Don’t let her know yet,” Jenny stresses.
My good mood instantly deflates. “Why not? She deserves to know. The waiting has tormented her enough. You heard the girl—she’s sad.”
Jenny and I enter a sort of stare-down until she relents first. “You could tell her the good news, or you couldshowher.” Confusion sets in. Show her how? The email on my phone? Jenny senses my bewilderment. “Flowers, dude. Show her with flowers.”
Oh right. But hadn’t I already planned for that?
