“I’m notnota feminist. I’m an ‘I can do it myself’ guy.”
“I know you are.” My head cocked to the side. “I just don’t care.”
“No,” he said, mouthing the word with extra intensity.
“No wonder your daughter’s got such a hard head.” The night before, she’d insisted we tuck each of her stuffed animals into bed, and when I told her we didn’t have the time for that, she gave me a Yoko-and-John level of peaceful protest until I relented.
“We know what we stand for,” he said with a grin, and since I honestly hate using the lawnmower, I didn’t protest any more.
However, this has gone on long enough. I’m afraid I won’t see his house from the street anymore if he doesn’t do something about it.
I knock at his door, then stand back. The weather this morning is my favorite: a dry, warm day that promises heat in the afternoon, but that’s still chilly enough to enjoy without needing any shade. It’s the kind of morning where Eli would’ve woken me up at six-thirty to drive further down the coast to a less crowded beach with his surfboard thrown in the bed of his dad’s pickup—when he got old enough to get his permit, that is. Before that, we’d just walk to the closest beach, and I would spend hours watching himon his board while jumping in and out of the water to keep cool. I’d snack on Sour Patch Kids and drink lemonade, soaking up Eli as much as I did the sun.
The door opens, showing a bare-chested Eli in loose shorts. My lips part, and my brain short-circuits for a second. I lose track of where to look when there’s so much I want to take in. The deep groove between his pecs, the dusting of hair across his chest, the two birthmarks on his stomach I feel like tracing. Why the hell would I think about tracing his birthmarks?
“Hey,” Eli says with a small but cocky smirk that makes me want to dig a hole and disappear into the ground forever. “What’s up?”
I clear my throat. “I’m coming over to take care of Zoe so you can mow your damn lawn.”
“I don’t—”
“Yes, you do. Your lawn is turning into that of a frat house.”
His cheek twitches. “What are you, the lawn police?”
“Want me to call the lawn police?”
“Isthere a lawn police?”
“Want to find out?”
He laughs, then opens the door for me. “Knock yourself out.”
I’m almost taken aback he didn’t fight me on this more. We’re making progress, it seems.
“Thank you. I plan to.” As I pass him, the subtle scent of his Irish Spring mixed with fresh ocean air fills my nose, and I’m taken back to all the times I just wanted to bury myself in his neck and smell him forever.
But that’s in the past.
I move past him, then shout, “Zoe, want to show me your baby pictures album?” Lower, I tell him, “I’ve never seen a teen dad outside of television.”
Three hours later, Zoe and I have ridden bikes, swam in the inflatable pool they’ve got out back—she swam, I kept her from hyperventilating by doing too many handstands in a row—and gone through all her baby photos. I had to force my face to remain neutral and not to ogle Eli too long, but Jesus, that man must have won awards for being the hottest baby dad on Earth. Mostly, though, he looked so freaking happy in all the pictures. Exactly the way I imagined he’d be with a baby in his arms, or a toddler on his shoulders. I patted myself on the back once we were done for going through that entire album without feeling sad. It seems I’m making progress, too. Eli checked on us a few times, always rapidly disappearing after I berated him that we were fine and he needed to get things done.
Later, while Zoe plays with Fish—don’t ask me how they play—I pull a laundry basket I’d spotted in the hallway to do some folding.
The amount of Care Bear merch you have is concerning, to be honest.
I sent a picture of five-year-old undies. One bear is deformed from being overwashed.
Eli: You make me sound like someone the FBI should put on a watchlist.
Eli: FBI agent, I’m not a creep, I swear.
Eli: Also, STOP DOING MY LAUNDRY!!!!
And miss all this leverage opportunity? Never.
So, we’ve still got some work to do on him accepting help.
