I threw the pillow over my head and groaned. Like clockwork.
I swore she had some kind of radar for when I was starting to wake up. Truth was, I hadn’t slept well in the last nine years, but I wouldn’t change it for the world.
“He’s not here. Check the neighbors’,” I mumbled, hearing her approach my bed.
Her hands grabbed the pillow and threw it on the floor. I was exposed to the bright light beaming into the room. She was far too strong for your average nine-year-old. Which wasn’t all that surprising since I did teach her to be tough. Call it a consequence of being a solo dad to a daughter.
I always worried that I was messing her up—making her too tough, too masculine.
“Daddy, I need help with my braids for art class. Jessica is doing a Dutch braid.” I could practically hear the eye roll she gave me.
Hell, she scolded me yesterday that I fucked up her French braids. I never could get those right. My hands weren’t supposed to cross in directions I didn’t know existed.
I could make all sorts of different concoctions behind the bar. I even dabbled in home repairs, but braids were my kryptonite.
I never could have dreamt my life being like this.
In my mid-thirties, I worked long hours at a bar and spent every spare minute I could trying to be the best single parent to a daughter who was my entire world. Everything I did was for her.
Even though her mother didn’t stick around long enough to learn how she liked her grilled cheeses cut (in quarters) or find out what her favorite activity was (painting) or what her biggest fear was (clowns), I never once questioned my decisionto be a single dad. Her mother never fought for custody or even visitation rights for Noelle. I selfishly felt lucky because ultimately, I knew that was the best decision for my kid. But the situation made me sad for Noelle. She was barely six months old when her mom said she “couldn’t handle it anymore.”
“Okay, I’ll watch the YouTube tutorial again,” I promised as I rose from the bed.
“I don’t know if that will help. Can we stop by Grandma’s?” she pleaded, clutching Mr. Snuffles, her favorite stuffed elephant.
“No, Grandma is at the gallery. She had an early meeting with some people from the city. You’ll see her later for your art class,” I informed her, hugging her good morning.
My mother was a fantastic artist who owned a gallery in town. She was finally able to live out her dream after years of working mindless jobs to pay bills and support me.
“Hopefully they aren’t brats like the last people she met with.”
I cocked an eyebrow and fought the urge to laugh. The people from New York City were different from the small-town culture Noelle was used to in Grand Haven. It was hard not to see the differences when city folk visited our small town.
Grand Haven’s population was a little over three thousand. It was the kind of place where people waved at each other even if they didn’t know your name, where the coffee shop filled up before sunrise, and where the same three older men played chess outside the general store every morning except Sunday when they went to church. There was one bar, one diner, one pizza joint. It was small by comparison to the city, but it was home.
“Let’s not say shit like that about city people, okay?”
“What about The Grand? Can we stop there? Even Fiona does better braids, and she says she’s practically blind.”
Fiona was my mother’s best friend and owned The Grand, the local bed-and-breakfast.
I cringed, realizing I’d cursed again. For years, we’d been trying to implement a swear jar and I was pretty sure between the regulars at the bar and myself, we’d already saved enough for Noelle’s college fund.
I was trying so hard. I guess braids weren’t my only kryptonite.
“You forgot my art supplies at home,” Noelle announced as she rifled through her backpack. Once I put the car in park, she jumped out of my pickup truck and pranced around the sidewalk. She had her long, brown hair—just a shade lighter than my own—twisted into two messy braids, one already starting to unravel as she skipped over to the coffee shop.
Nuts About Coffee was a spot on Main Street run by one of my mother’s best friends and pseudo aunt/grandmother to Noelle, Ms. Kenzie, and her daughter Jena. They baked the most delicious pastries and bagels; you name it, they baked it. And the coffee … the coffee was out of this world and exactly what I needed after staying up too late last night.
I exhaled and rubbed a hand over my scruff. “Iforgot? Pretty sure you packed your own bag this morning.”
She rolled her eyes and stressed, “You’re the dad. You’re supposed to double-check.”
I opened the door, ushering Noelle inside, and was greeted with the most amazing smell of fresh bread and other baked goods.
We took a seat at our regular table in the far-right corner. After getting situated, I leaned back in my chair and smirked.“Damn. Guess I’ll just have to quit my job at the bar and be your full-time assistant.”
She grinned. “Dad, you know Max can’t do it alone. Nicky would murder him if he was left alone with him for too long.”
