Page 13 of Pucked Up Plans
“Oh my god, he’s right there. As if he’d let her fall,” Tate mumbles, confirming the aversion to my lack of helicopter parenting isn’t her.
“So it’s not just me who can’t stand being judged?”
“Gosh, no. I try to have a tough skin and let things roll off my back, but I don’t get why people can’t mind their own business.”
There’s clearly a story—or several—inferred by her reply. And she’s not referring to just the current situation.
“We’ll have to compare notes one day.”
“It’ll take more than a day,” she deadpans. I kinda get stuck on her comment, the nonchalant way she tosses it out there, still being affected by it.
Rather than rush to catch up with the three of them, I linger behind. To ogle Tate’s ass. As much as I really shouldn’t. But it’s right there. In plain sight. I may have some willpower, but at the end of the day, I’m a guy. One who hasn’t been laid in a while. When presented with an opportunity, I’m not ashamed to notice.
I only look away when pressure ignites at my zipper.
Down boy. She’s not here to play with you.
Oh, but if she was…
Snapping out of thoughts only leading to problems, I fall into step with them, my stride being double or triple theirs. Especially Lennon’s.
The loaf of bread dangles from her fist, swaying side to side. She wasn’t kidding when she said she brought the entire loaf.Minus the one piece she nibbled on during the drive. I shouldn’t let her waste an entire loaf of edible bread on fowl, but she’ll have to face the consequences of Millie Keeley, not me.
Lennon leads the brigade to the pond. We come here enough, she has a favorite spot. Once in place, she struggles to open the bag, though the determination set on her face is quite endearing. Frustrated, she hands it to me with a huff. “Keeley, open this.”
“Manners, Lennon.”
“Please.”
I should correct her use of “Keeley,” especially in front of strangers. Perhaps this is the thing Tate will judge me for.
The bread clip off, I hand it back to her. “Remember to share.” She shoots me a stank visage, one I’ve seen all too often with her mother. On my five-year-old, it’s not as repulsive. With the parts of my disposition Lennon inherited, hopefully it will stay that way.
She offers two pieces to Aubrey before taking two for herself, then she demonstrates how to rip the bread into pieces, which is best for the ducks. I can’t stifle my laughter.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize to Tate. “She can be a bit bossy and a little overbearing sometimes. Feel free to reprimand her if she’s too much.” My eyes cast to hers, our gazes locking. The midday sun reflects in her brown orbs, the color bolder.
“No need to worry. She’s adorable. Aubrey’s always been more of a follower and tends not to stand her ground much, and she seems quite enamored with Lennon.” A tinge of pink heats her cheeks. Immediately I wonder why. “So, Keeley?”
Oh, right. I owe her an explanation.
Before I begin, I sit on the grass, knowing we’ll be here a while. Because Aubrey seems to be amenable to whatever Lennon chooses. For as much of my personality she inherited, it’s my greatest fear she’ll grow up to be a “mean girl” like her mother can be. I’m constantly trying to counteract it, vigilantto step in before things escalate. I won’t be able to control that forever, but if she learns from a young age how to treat people, it will carry over as she grows up.
Hopefully.
Tate follows my lead, although she doesn’t sit as close as I would like.
“For as long as I can remember, I’ve gone by Keeley. To everyone but my parents and most of my teachers. Lennon’s first word was ‘Dad’ and not because she was babbling the ‘d’ sound. If there was any way for her to understand what she was doing, she totally did it to piss off her mother.” Saying it aloud always makes me chuckle at the absurdity of my thinking. But I’ll swear she did it on purpose until my dying breath. Without a glance in Tate’s direction, I shake the comment away. “Maybe she was two when she first called me Keeley, repeating it after hearing someone else. Maybe I reacted too over the top to it. I can’t remember anymore, but ever since then, she’s done it. Now it’s beyond the point of her doing it to get a rise out of me. It’s almost second nature. And while I’m her dad first, as long as she doesn’t abuse the privilege, I’ll let it slide.”
I glimpse Tate’s way for her reaction to the story. Quiet throughout my explanation, her expression bears no air of judgment. And the way her lips turn up into a half smile is charming.
“From a stranger’s perspective, you two seem to have quite the relationship.”
“Thanks. Just doing the best I can for her, which isn’t always easy.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
She fuses her lips, almost as if she wants to say more. And I wish she would. I want to know so much more about her. Exactly how old she is. What her story is. Her likes and dislikes. What turns her on.
