“Do you have any crooked toes?”
“Yeah, actually. My second toe is crooked. Thanks for that, by the way.” We both laughed, but then we got quiet again.
“What was he like?”
“Who?”
“Your dad.”
She looked me right in eyes, so brave, like her mom. “You’re my dad now . . . if you want.”
That was it. I started crying. I wasn’t sobbing, but there were tears running down my face, and my throat was so tight that I thought I would stop breathing. I reached across the table, took her hands in mine, and closed my eyes. I realized that I wanted Ash in my life. The pain of missing her childhood was killing me. “Yes, I want to,” I whispered.
She started crying, too. We both cried together, surrendering to the reality that we had to accept. No one could change the past or give us back the time we had lost, and there were no words to make everything better. We just had to accept the present for what it was.
We stood and hugged for a long time, and I was surprised that it didn’t feel foreign to me; she didn’t feel like a stranger.
There were a few stares from café patrons, but eventually everyone ignored us and went on with their conversations as I held my crying daughter. Gotta love that about New Yorkers. I felt bad for how things had worked out with Ash’s childhood, but I was still intensely furious with Grace and Elizabeth.
On our way back to Grace and Ash’s brownstone, she asked, “What’s going to happen with you and Mom?”
“There’s a complicated history there, Ash. I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
“She loves you.”
“I know.”
Once we reached the brownstone, she pulled her phone from her pocket. “What’s your phone number? I’ll text you so you have mine. You can call me if you want to hang out.”
I gave her my number. “You know, I don’t just want to ‘hang out.’ I want to be a part of your life. It’ll be weird at first, but I want this . . . if you do.”
She grinned and socked me in the arm, “Alrighty, I’ll see ya later then . . . um . . . what should call you?”
“Call me anything you want.”
She laughed. “Okay, see ya, George.”
I shook my head. “Silly girl.” I messed up her hair and then noticed Grace was watching us from the window. She looked terrible, and had obviously been crying nonstop. She was wearing a sad, small smile. I looked away.
“How about I call you Father for now . . . since you are my father.”
“That’s fine with me. Do you want to get breakfast tomorrow?” I didn’t want to be away from her ever again.
“I can’t, I’m going shopping with my friend.”
“Okay, what about the next day?”
“School, and then I have chess club.”
“Chess club?” I arched my eyebrows.
“Yeah, it’s my goal in life to beat mom. She’s so good.”
“Okay then.” I was starting to wonder if there was really room for me to step into her life.
“Dinner on Tuesday?” she asked.
“Perfect,” I said. “Wear your pajamas. I know a great place.”
“You’re weird.”
“You are, too.”
“Cool.”
I walked home, hoping, sadly, that Grace would be able to stop crying.
I honestly didn’t know what I was going to do except try to get to know Ash while I was in New York and be a dad, even though I knew nothing about what that entailed.
On Monday, I went to the library and read every parenting book I could get my hands on.
I texted Grace that night.
ME: I’m trying to wrap my head around all of it.
GRACE: I understand.
ME: I’m going to see Ash on Tuesday night for dinner.
GRACE: Okay.
ME: I want to see her regularly.
GRACE: Of course.
ME: Does she have a college fund?
GRACE: Yes.
ME: Can I give you some money?
GRACE: That’s not necessary.
ME: I want to.
GRACE: Okay then. You can put it in her college fund. I’ll get the account info for you.
A part of me wanted to say more, but I wasn’t capable of talking to her about anything beyond the logistics of coparenting.
The next day I was slammed with work stuff but I managed to get out and have lunch with Scott. When he started talking about Singapore, I told him about Ash. He didn’t say anything; he was just shocked. He told me to take the rest of the week off. I didn’t realize I really needed to until that moment.
When I returned to my building, I found Monica sitting on a bench near the elevator. She had the family bassinet balanced on her lap.
Her eyes were full of compassion, but her nostrils were flared and her jaw was set in a rigid line.
“Monica, don’t say it.”
“I was going to stab her in the eye with my heel.” I looked down at her five-inch stilettos. Yep, those would get the job done. “I’m so sorry, Matt. Andrew’s in Tokyo, otherwise he’d be here. I came in his place.”