“I’m sorry.”
“Do you make the weather like my mom makes my lunch?” he asks. “Because you should make it rain cats and dogs.” Henry starts laughing and slaps his hand down on his leg.
“You’re a funny guy, Henry.”
“I know.”
So humble.
Henry decides to call the entire playground over by telling everyone that I can make it snow or rain. The kids find it fascinating, while the parents use the free time to their advantage and check their phones. Honestly, I don’t mind talking to them, but I hate disappointing them when they think I can change the weather.
The alarm on my phone goes off. I’m one of those people who sets reminders to do things, like eat lunch. I give myself an hour and a half to figure out what I’m going to do. Lately, I’ve made this my big meal during the day because the break between the evening news and night news is often too busy. I tell the kids that I have to go. Some scatter, but a few linger. Glancing around the park, I scan the space looking for Julius. He’s over by the fence that keeps people from going into the river. I look down at Roxy and hold my hand out to her.
“Come on, I’ll take you to your dad.” She takes my hand without reservation and follows me toward her dad.
“Do you want to skip wif me?”
Hell yes, I do. “Let’s do it.”
Roxy and I start skipping until we reach Julius. He smiles, and my heart stops. Deep down, I know it’s because his daughter is with me, but I swear he looked right at me when he did.
“I have to go,” I say when we reach him. “I didn’t want to leave her on the bench by herself.”
“I appreciate that.” He takes Roxy’s hand. “She likes to wander off sometimes, as you can see.” He looks down at this daughter, who is beaming up at her father.
“She’s sweet, Julius. I enjoyed my time with her.”
“What do you say to Miss Autumn?”
“Fank you for bisiting wif me.”
I crouch down, so we’re level. “You’re welcome, Roxy. I hope we can hang out again real soon.”
“Me too.” She wraps her arms around her dad’s leg, suddenly shy.
“Have a great day, Julius. It was nice to see you.” It wasn’t, but I’m a firm believer in killing people with kindness. I leave them there and head back toward my apartment. I’m tempted to look over my shoulder to see if he’s watching, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I care whether he’s paying attention to me or not.
Once I’m back in my apartment, I head to the sliding glass door and step out onto the balcony. I find myself surveying the area for Julius, wondering if he’s still out there or if he’s left. I’m curious where he lives and why he would be in this neighborhood. According to Peyton, most of the guys live in the suburbs, at least the ones with children, while a few of the guys live in the same building as her and Noah. When I don’t see him, I step back inside and head for the shower.
One thing is for sure—the Julius Cunningham I’ve met and encountered since moving here is not the same man I spoke with today. When his daughter is around, he’s soft and vulnerable. The bad attitude, the snark, and disparaging comments don’t exist, and that is something I could definitely get used to.
Twelve
Julius
After practice, Noah and I head to the golf course. The sun is shining, and we want to get as many rounds of golf in as we can before the course closes for the winter. Granted, we still have time, considering it’s only mid-September, but with our schedules, it’s hard to say when we can come out again.
I tee off from the fifth and watch my ball sail through the air until it lands approximately one-hundred and fifty yards from me.
“Not bad,” Noah says as he pushes his tee into the ground and sets his ball on top of it. He takes a few practice swings and then finally centers his driver behind the dimpled ball and swings, hitting the stupid white orb about twenty yards farther than mine. I’m starting to think there isn’t anything Noah Westbury isn’t good at. I’ve seen him play baseball when he volunteered for the Pioneers for a charity game. The dude can not only pitch lights out but is a beast with the bat. And he can even sing, but it’s a rare day he belts out a tune.
“Did you get good grades in school?” I ask as we head back to the cart.
“What do my grades have to do with golf?”
I slide into the driver's seat and wait for Noah to sit down on the passenger side before taking off toward my ball. “It doesn’t. I’m trying to find something you’re not good at.”