“She looks twelve.”
Ryke doesn’t understand the attacks. He didn’t grow up as The Giraffe, the tallest girl in the grade, towering above all the boys.
I did.
“She’s not twelve,” I interject, twenty-times less hostile than Lo and Ryke. “She’s just tall for her age. I’m five-eleven and my husband is six-three. She’s genetically tall.” Can’t he leave it at that? Children are often labeled as cruel and unthinking, but adults can be just as vicious.
“It’s not fair to the other kids,” he tells us. “You should pull that Bigfoot out of the meets.”
Ryke is about to stand up in defense, his nose flaring, and Lo is the one to plant a hand on his shoulder, keeping him down. Connor is usually that person, but Lo can be too on occasion. Especially when Connor Cobalt is missing in action.
Which only happens when he has more important things to do.
You should pull that Bigfoot out of meets.
People suck. A foul taste fills my mouth, and I feel myself cringe. Lily is gaping like he’s insane to argue about the height of a child. I don’t want to ruin Sulli’s meet by fighting with another parent. We just need to leave this situation.
So I stand up. Lily stands up. Lo and Ryke stand up, our young babies in arm.
Just as we leave, Ryke turns around and tells him, “Sullivan beat your fucking kid because she wakes up at four-thirty every morning to practice. That’s it.”
He huffs like yeah right.
We don’t waste time convincing him of anything more. We just put distance between him and us.
*
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Ryke mutters under his breath. We just entered The Fixings, a little burger joint in Philadelphia, and the “Bigfoot” douchebag is seated at a long twelve-person table towards the back, beneath the flat-screen televisions that play baseball and tennis.
Where we have to go.
“What?” Sulli asks, catching Ryke’s words. After the meet, she dressed in sweat pants and a loose-fitted tee, her wet brown hair tied in a high bun. Ryke adjusts her swim bag on his shoulder, and Winona wiggles in my arms, pouting at me to set her down.
I brush my nose with hers, and she kicks her legs and tells me, “Down.”
I have to tune her out while I listen to Ryke.
“Do you know that fucking man?”
Sulli follows his harsh gaze. “He’s Courtney’s dad, I think.” We’ve never seen that guy before, so we didn’t think he was part of the same swim club. Four of the girls from the Philly Aquatic Club wanted to meet for dinner, and another parent made reservations for twelve and invited us.
I don’t want to make eye contact yet, but I stare long enough to take in his suit and tie, brown parted hair, and entitled attitude. He never drops by practices with his wife, but it’s not like we’re overly friendly with the other parents. We don’t do much small talk, and we try to keep to ourselves.
“Don’t fucking talk to him,” he tells Sullivan.
She never questions the request. There are many more people she shouldn’t talk to than there are people she should. Sulli touches Winona’s tiny hand as she squirms in my arms. “Is this okay?” She means having dinner in a public place.
Sometimes we have to dip out early if crowds are bad, but usually that’s if we’re with Lily and Lo.
Price and Ryke’s bodyguard have already claimed a table nearby, and no one’s really aware that they’re with us. They blend in well, just wearing shorts and plain gray shirts.
“It’s totally okay. We want to celebrate how you want to celebrate.”
Ryke adds, “If you’re fucking stressed or feel unsafe, we can leave at any time, Sul.”
She nods, keeping this fact close, and then she’s the one to head to the table first. Sitting at the end with all the seven and eight-year-old girls.
As we trail Sulli, Winona shrieks to be let down, tears building. I try to coo and make her cries shush, but she’s not giving up.
Ryke must feel my frustration because he picks Winona out of my arms and tells her, “You’re fucking trouble.”
Winona sniffs but stops screaming. I have this theory that she prefers being in his arms because he’s taller than me, so she’s up high. Ryke only agreed when we were in our bedroom last week. He raised her in the air—she stopped crying—and then he dropped her to his side—and she wailed.
I love the way Winona rests her chin on his shoulder and stares out at the great big world. We take seats in the middle, away from Courtney’s dad. Neither of us acknowledges him, and we try to focus on our baby while the table fills with parents and kids.
I undo one of her droopy pigtails, letting half her light brown hair hang free.
Ryke’s muscles coil. I bet he’s replaying what that guy said.
“Hey,” I whisper.
He stares down at me, beyond brooding, but he’s the first to say, “I’m not talking to that fucker.”
What if he talks to you? It’s a possibility, but I try to think positive thoughts and smile at Winona. “A getaway baby is trying to crawl over your shoulder.”
Ryke effortlessly slides Winona back down to his chest. She plops on his lap with a frown. “No fun.”
“I’m fucking fun,” Ryke refutes.
“No.”
Ryke blows a raspberry on her cheek, and Winona shrieks with laughter, more piercing than Sulli’s. I hide behind a plastic menu, and when I pop out with cross-eyes, Winona screams with glee. “Mommy!”
I hide behind the menu again, but this time, I hear that male voice from earlier.
“Our girls stand no damn chance against her. She’s taking medals away from them.”
I lower the menu with a weak gasp at Winona. She still giggles like I performed the funniest trick. Ryke is texting, and my legs bounce so much that Winona scoots over to my lap so she can go up and down with them.
I hold onto my one-year-old and risk a glance at the man. He sits at the end of the table, close to another thirty-something father, and he barely makes an effort to whisper.
“Maybe she’ll slip and fall.” And then his eyes swerve to mine, but he wears no remorse or guilt in what he just said. “We were talking about the Riley Park Club. Beast of a girl on that team. You know the one?” The way they say beast, it’s not an endearing term.
“No.” My voice is stilted. No confrontations. It’s easier for me than for Ryke. He taps out words on his cellphone, venting to someone.
“The beast is four inches shorter than your girl.”
Ryke looks up.
Both men shift in their chairs, sitting straighter.
The waitress thankfully comes around, and tension spools as we all go quiet. “Can I take your orders?” The big menus dwarf the little girls, but they all try to pick out what they want. Sulli’s brows bunch, fingers to her lips.
I whisper to Ryke, “She doesn’t know what she wants.” I hold the menu out to him, and we both scan the items for something our daughter would actually eat.
Salad? It’s a vegetable, so no way.
Burgers? Maybe if they trash everything but the bun.
Chicken fingers? She’ll take one bite and spit it out.
“Maybe they have a breakfast menu?” Sulli likes most breakfast foods, but mainly waffles, pancakes, French toast, and donuts, all packed with whipped cream and syrup. At home, we try to find creative ways for her to include vegetables and healthy food in her meals, but we still give her children’s vitamins because we don’t think she gets enough with what she eats.
Ryke turns the menu around, but it just lists out desserts: hot fudge brownie, banana split, and milkshakes.
“What would you like?” the young waitress asks Sulli, her smile bursting with her next words, “Can you sign this?” She holds out her notebook with scribbled orders.
“Uh…” Sulli dazedly looks to Ryke and me for approval. I can tell she’s still stuck in thought about what to eat.
“We can sign it,” I suggest and wave the girl over with a friendly smile.