For Lucy

“Don’t what?” I hook her chin with my finger and force her to look at me.

Lucy has the poutiest frown. Full lips. Mischief-filled eyes that blink with perfect timing. It’s impossible to stay angry with this girl.

“Don’t be such a dad.”

Releasing her chin, I bark a laugh and back out of the driveway riddled with cracks and mounds of sand from an infestation of pavement ants. “But I’m so good at it. Wait until you start dating. I have all kinds of dad tricks up my sleeve to scare off any boys I don’t find worthy of my little girl.”

She snorts, head bowed to worship her phone. “Pfft … sorry to break the news to you, but I’m already dating.”

“Excuse me?” My head whips to the side as we pull up to a four-way stop three blocks down the street. Lined with drooping branches of oak trees, it’s one of the last few charming streets in our little town of Redington, Missouri. A few years ago, an F5 tornado, manifesting without any warning, ravaged Redington. Miraculously, Quail Street and its historic tunnel of oak trees somehow managed to emerge unscathed.

I was out of town when it happened, but I remember my heart crashing against my ribs when I heard the news. Our family had already experienced the unimaginable. The close call of losing Tatum and Lucy nearly stole my last breath.

“There you go again,” Lucy says ending in a sigh.

“There I go again, what?”

“Being overprotective.” Her words hit hard. Maybe it’s not her intention, but I read into it.

She can roll her eyes until they fall out of her head. Her sighs can shoot past her nostrils like the pulsing of a hot air balloon floating into the clouds. She can accuse me of being too much of a dad and overprotective, but I regret nothing.

I love Lucy more. That’s what Tatum asked me to do. And that’s what I did nearly five years ago. And that’s what I’m still doing.

“I love you.” She keeps her gaze forward, a tiny smirk playing with the corners of her mouth.

My grin swells to unnatural proportions. “I love you too.”

We share an unspoken bond. A secret.

Sometimes I see it in her eyes, and I have to believe she occasionally sees it in mine. There’s really nothing to say. That was the pact we made. “We never speak about this again.”

“How’s your mom?” I ask as we sip our milkshakes and wait for our burgers and fries in the diner a block from my office. When I clear my throat, she gives me a sheepish grin and clicks off the screen to her phone.

I don’t have to say it. She already knows I refuse to compete with her twenty-four-hour instant access to the rest of the world. In the divorce settlement, Tatum wanted full custody of Lucy, claiming I wasn’t fit to be a father. That hurt so fucking much. But I just sat there on the opposite side of the table as our attorneys disassembled our life and awarded pieces to the one of us they felt most deserving.

Nearly everything went to Tatum, and I didn’t fight her for any of it, except Lucy. That part required a judge. After my attorney pleaded my case, I managed to get one day a week with Lucy.

One.

Measly.

Day.

Not even a night. Ten hours to be exact.

On Saturdays, I get Lucy, except when she has plans with friends, which seems to happen more and more. Sometimes she gets invited to go to the lake and she cancels our whole day together. And sometimes it’s cut short by a few hours to accommodate sleeping in after a Friday night sleepover or skipping out early to go hang with her friends because … Saturday night.

I take what I can get. It’s how I love her.

“How’s Mom?” She manages to repeat my question. I’ll give her credit; she can rapid-fire off texts to her friends and listen to me. “She’s good.”

“How’s what’s his name? Josh?”

She shrugs, lips twisted as if she’s searching for the best answer.

The best answer is “Josh is great. He adores Mom.” I love Tatum. I love her now as much as I did the day I married her, so her happiness matters as much to me now as it did the day I married her. It’s just no longer me that makes her happy.

“He’s … cleanly.”

I laugh. “Cleanly? And that’s a bad thing?”

Lucy’s head bobs, contemplating her reply like a magic eight ball. “Not bad. Just … OCD. He’s always washing his hands. It’s like … Dude! You’re not going to have any skin left. I mean … sterile environments aren’t exactly good for building your immune system.”

As the waitress sets our plates in front of us, I smile and thank her. “He is a surgeon. Right? That’s what you said he does, right?”