Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
And then she literally guts me. Cuts me off at the knees. Puts my heart in a vise. “I think anything you have to say is important.”
“Jesus,” I mutter, placing my utensils on my plate and rubbing my hands over my face. I lock eyes with her across the table and take a deep breath. “Okay… here goes. I wanted to talk to you about dating.”
“I’m too young to date,” she deadpans, and this is exactly how I know she’s mature enough to talk about the subject. Because she’s so fucking quick-witted and confident, plus she’s already shown resiliency and strength the last two years that her mom and I have been divorced.
I roll my eyes, realizing that I’m mimicking Mazzy because I’m not sure I’ve ever done that in my life. “I’m talking about me dating.”
“You’ve never wanted to before,” she points out.
“I’m thinking I do now.” Why are my hands sweating? “And I want to know how you feel about it in general, because it’s clearly not been a good experience with your mom dating Chet.”
Bowie Jane ponders that a moment. “I don’t think I have a problem with mom dating, it’s just the person she’s dating. It’s Chet I don’t like or the way she changed when she started seeing him. And I don’t like how he talks to me.”
That’s definitely a relief since I know it won’t be an issue with Mazzy. At least I know that Bowie Jane adores and respects her, and I know Mazzy will treat Bowie Jane as if she were her own.
But… that doesn’t alleviate my worries. “So, here’s the thing,” I say, pushing my plate to the side so I can cross my arms on the table. “I was thinking about…”
My words trail off, another wave of nerves closing my throat. There have been so many times in my life when I’ve had to ask permission for things—asking my parents for the keys to the car, proposing to Sandra, asking her permission to go out with the guys at night—but nothing is as daunting as needing my daughter’s approval right now.
I’ve never had to ask for it before, and she’s my toughest critic and the most important thing to me. If anything I want conflicts with Bowie Jane, I don’t get it. It’s that simple.
“Dad,” Bowie Jane says, the corner of her mouth curving up. “Just get on with it. My pancakes are getting cold.”
A tiny burst of confidence prompted by her demand hits me and I blurt, “Do you mind if I ask Mazzy out on a date?”
Except each word runs into the other, overlapping and slurring, so it sounds like, Dyu mindisks mazzeow date?
Bowie Jane frowns. “What?”
Slow down, asshole. I let the words out slowly, and probably over-enunciate so it sounds even weirder. “Do you mind if I ask Mazzy out on a date?”
My daughter’s mouth forms into a surprised O before dropping wide open. I can tell this is something that has never once crossed her mind, not that I expected it to. But the fact she’s so stunned tells me this is a big freaking deal and I’m glad I decided to talk to her bluntly about it.
“I know this probably seems weird,” I continue, rushing to get the words out. “But… I like Mazzy. First and foremost, as a friend. But also in a different way. A romantic way. But she’s also your nanny. So that means she’s yours first. Not like you own her. Just that the first priority is you. And if this is weird or you’re adamantly opposed—adamantly means your mind won’t be changed—then I will accept that and move on. But if you’re okay with it, then… well, I suppose I will ask her out. I guess. I’m not sure.”
When I finish my ramble, I’m so relieved, I have the unbearable urge to take a flourishing bow. Instead, I wait expectantly to see what Bowie Jane will say.
What words of wisdom will she impart?
How deep will her questions go?
Will I need to soothe feelings or manage emotions?
Whatever she gives me, I’m ready and I’ll deliver so she gets what she wants.
Bowie Jane lifts a shoulder in a half shrug, stabbing her fork into her pancakes. “I don’t care if you ask her out.”
She lifts the blueberry fluffiness to her mouth, shovels it in, and stares at me as she chews.
“That’s it?” I ask in disbelief. “You don’t care?”
She shakes her head, giving me a cute smile.
I put on an aggrieved expression. “But why don’t you care? You should care. Don’t you care about me?”
Bowie Jane snickers, her closed-mouth smile getting bigger as she continues to chew.
“Seriously,” I say, dropping my voice to measured calm. “I need to know how you feel about this. I don’t want to make a mistake where you’re concerned.”