Of course he’s stressed. His brewery just exploded. Rusty’s final custody hearing is Tuesday, and his sea-hag of a babymomma claims she’s got something on us.
And then there’s last night, when I didn’t think a single thing through, I just did, and it could have fucked us both over. What if he’d pulled out half a second later? What if it hadn’t been Officer Sherman? What if the landowner had come down there with a shotgun?
Actually, I think Daniel would have preferred the shotgun over getting arrested, at least with the hearing on Tuesday.
Suffice it to say, I feel guilty about the whole thing, and will never be more than an arm’s length from a condom again.
Also, I won’t trespass.
Finally, Daniel nods, a smile twitching at his lips.
“Right, of course you can,” he says. “Just don’t forget Astrid.”
“I would never.”
“Rusty’s in my office,” he says, then digs in his pocket, comes out with his keys. “Just take my car, it’s already got the booster seat.”
We swap keys. I head to his office and grab Rusty, who hops off the chair, shoves her coloring books into her rainbow backpack, and practically bounces out the door.
“Can we go to the waterpark?” she asks as we wind between massive tanks, something bubbling in all of them.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“Can we go to the beach?”
The beach is four hours away.
“Probably not,” I tell her.
She huffs. We turn a corner, and there’s Daniel again.
“Can we go to the sliding rocks?” Rusty asks me. “Please?”
“No,” Daniel says, frowning.
“I asked Charlie,” Rusty points out.
“He’s the authority here,” I say. “Sorry, kiddo.”
She sighs dramatically and rolls her eyes. Daniel and I exchange a look.
“I never get to do anything,” she mutters, kicking at the ground.
“Well, have a fun day with Charlie,” Daniel says, leaning down and kissing the top of her head despite the sulking. “If I’m not back, she’s gonna put you to bed, okay?”
“Fine,” she mutters, still not looking up.
“C’mon,” I say. “We’ll find something fun to do. Bye,” I say to Daniel, lean in for a quick kiss.
It’s a second longer than quick. It’s perfectly chaste and appropriate, but we linger. When we pull back, I look down.
Rusty’s making a half-grumpy, half-grossed-out face at me, and it takes everything I’ve got not to laugh.
“Bye,” he echoes as Rusty precedes me to the parking lot.“Come on,” she says from the backseat, where her small, still-slightly-grumpy face is in the rear-view mirror. “The sliding rocks are no big deal. Everyone goes there. Valerie goes there all the time and she can’t even do a cartwheel.”
I reach below the driver’s seat of Daniel’s car and slide it about a foot forward, then flip the lever on the steering wheel and adjust that, too.
“Your dad said no,” I say, even though I secretly agree with her.
The sliding rocks are exactly that: a bunch of big, flattish rocks in one of the mountain creeks that form a natural slide. As long as you wear sturdy shorts over your bathing suit, it’s pretty harmless, and it’s really fun.
“Dad thinks I’m a baby,” she huffs. “He won’t even let me cut my own sandwiches. With a butter knife.”
“Want to go to the park?” I ask.
“I guess,” she mutters.
“How about the one in Flintburg that’s shaped like a castle?” I offer, even though that one’s an hour away.
Rusty just sighs.
“The one near my house is fine,” she says. “Even babies go to the sliding rocks. I know first graders who go.”
“Nope,” I say.
“We don’t have to tell my dad,” she says, leaning forward. “Charlie, I promise not to tell him if we go to the sliding rocks. He’ll never ever know. Cross my heart and hope to die. Uncle Eli brings me wedding cake from his job all the time and my dad has never found out.”
I glance in the rear-view mirror at her small, earnest face.
Daniel knows about the wedding cake. He’s known for ages. I don’t have the heart to tell Rusty.
“I never told about the rides at the state fair,” she cajoles.
“Rusty, knock it off,” I say, sighing.
I’m bummed, because I’d also like to go to the sliding rocks instead of the park. It’s hot out. They’re fun. The park is kind of lame, and besides, Rusty won’t get hurt.
She’s silent for about five minutes, just looking out the window, thinking to herself.
Then, at last, she speaks up again.
“Are you and my dad sleeping together?”
To my credit, I don’t react. I don’t jerk the wheel to one side, I don’t shout what? I don’t even suck in a breath, despite being unprepared for that question.
Instead I pause. I remain steady. I look in the rear-view mirror at her incredibly serious face, and I decide that Rusty is a young woman deserving of respect and straight answers.
“Yes,” I say.
“Huh,” she says thoughtfully, then looks out the window again.