She punches me on the arm, both of us almost smiling.

“Yeah, I know.” I sweep her blond hair back, letting the heat of my hand seep through her T-shirt, rubbing my thumb along the ridge of her collarbone. “Does he know that? Does he know you like I do, Jenn?” I step closer, leaning toward her. “Does he know how much you like those long, wet kinds of kisses or how licking that spot behind your—”

Her hand covers my mouth. She peers up at me with patient amusement, like I’m an incorrigible adolescent. “That’s enough, you. He knows me—some things better than even you. What he doesn’t know, he’ll have plenty of time to find out.”

I stick out my tongue, licking circles on her palm.

She squeals and snatches it away.

“I want you to meet him, Stanton. He’s a good man. You’ll like him.”

I cross my arms. “If he’s breathing, there’s no way I’m gonna like him.”

Jenny jerks her thumb toward my truck. “C’mon, take me home. Presley will be done with cheerleadin’ soon.”

“Let’s pick her up,” I suggest as we walk side by side to the truck. “Together. She’ll like that.”

“All right.”

I reach out to hold Jenny’s hand, like I’ve done a million times before, but she moves it away. I frown. Then I snatch it, not letting her escape, purposely entwining all of our fingers.

She gazes impassively. “You done?”

Holding her eyes, I slowly bring her knuckles to my lips. “Darlin’, I have not even begun to start.”

She stares up at my face, looking like she can’t decide if she wants to laugh or burst into tears—maybe both at the same time. Her hand cups my jaw, her head shaking.

“Oh, Stanton, I know I’ve turned this whole thing into a shit-show . . . but I have missed you.”

12

Stanton

After I drop Jenny off at her parents’ house, I bring Presley to mine. She and Sofia seem to hit it off when I introduce them in my old room. Then the two of us head outside, tossing a football. My throw spirals through the air, arching midway, then comes to rest in her hands. A perfect pass.

It’s nice to know I’ve still got it.

She aligns her fingers on the laces like I’ve shown her since she was old enough to hold a ball and launches it back. She most certainly has her daddy’s arm.

It’s not that I want her going out for the football team or anything, but I think there are certain skills every girl should learn—if only so they’re not overly impressed when some cocky little prick comes along trying to show off. How to change a tire, throw a football, ride a horse, drive a manual transmission—how to change the oil in a car is important too.

Plus, our catches give us time to talk. To reconnect when I’ve been away for months at a time. I’ve always imagined having those chats when she’s a teenager—about drinking, smoking, screwing—will be less awkward if there’s a football between us.

“So . . . what do you think about this weddin’ business?”

She giggles as she catches. “Were you surprised? I was gonna tell you all about it last week, but Momma said to wait—she said you’d be really surprised.”

I force a smile. “Oh, I was surprised, alright.”

“I get to be the flower girl!” She practically bounces. “My dress is blue and satin, and I feel just like a princess in it. And Granny got me blue slippers to match. Momma said I can get my hair done up and I can wear lip gloss!”

Her enthusiasm loosens my lips into a more genuine grin. “That’s good, baby girl.”

Presley’s next pass is wide, and I jog to grab it as it bounces on the grass. “And this JD guy . . . you like him?”

My daughter nods. “Yeah, he’s real nice. He makes Momma all giggly.”

Giggly? Wonder if she’ll fucking giggle when I remove his head from his shoulders.

“What, ah . . . What are you gonna call him . . . if he and your momma get married?”

She holds the ball, her tiny features scrunched in contemplation. “Well, I’ll call him JD, o’course. That’s his name, silly.”

My breath comes out in a quick relieved burst, sounding like a gravelly chuckle. I catch Presley’s pass, then ask, “But you’re sure you like him?”

She stares at me for a moment.

Thinking.

“Do you not want me to like him, Daddy?”

Times like this never cease to amaze me. All the things we don’t say in front of children to preserve their innocence, the words we spell, the actions we hide so they don’t copy our bad habits. Like the way my father used to smoke behind the barn, out of view. But we could still smell it on him.

They don’t listen to what we say—they look at how we say it, picking up on the undercurrent of emotion like a sixth sense.

And they just know.

I don’t want to share my daughter’s affection with another man. But I also don’t want to tear her in half—make her choose between the two people she loves most in the world. It’s not her job to protect my feelings or her mother’s. It’s our job to protect hers.

And I hate myself just a little bit for the fact that she felt the need to ask.

I walk to her and kneel down so we’re eye level. “I want you to be happy, Presley—you and your momma. And I want you to tell me if the day ever comes that you’re not. But I never want you to feel that you can’t like him, or anyone, because of me. Does that make sense?”

“Will you be sad when Momma and JD get married?”