Cowboy Baby Daddy

“They’re still after me,” I said, wanting to avoid having this conversation within earshot of any of my co-workers. Tony’s idea of what swingers did was based on out-of-date stereotypes and internet porn, and it often irritated me when he brought the subject up.

“Yeah, but that wife is smokin’ hot, man!” Tony said, lowering his voice. “I’d hit it if it wasn’t for her old man.”

“And the fact that you love your wife,” I said with a wry grin.

“Yeah, well, there’s that, too,” Tony grinned. “But seriously, what a bunch of weirdos, right?”

“Dude, I’ve explained this to you a million times,” I sighed. “Swingers aren’t the weirdos you imagine them to be. They’ve got their kinks, but a huge part of the whole thing is based on consent and communication. It’s not the pill-popping hippies you think you remember from the life you never lived.”

“Harsh, man,” Tony said, giving me a fake hurt look. I laughed and slapped him on the back before I climbed up into my pickup and backed out of the parking lot.

It didn’t take long to get to Remy’s since nowhere in Waltham is more than a short drive, but by the time I was pulling into the drive, my phone was blowing up with messages from Remy asking where I was and when I would pick Nina up. I took a deep breath and reminded myself not to lose my cool in front of my daughter.

I was halfway up the walk when Remy whipped open the front door and started in on me.

“You were supposed to be here 45 minutes ago, Blake,” she said, in the disapproving tone that made me simultaneously cringe and want to tell her where to shove her superiority complex.

“It was the last game of the season,” I said, knowing that this would not be enough to ward off her disapproval.

“Oh, I see; so a touch football game is more important than spending quality time with your 16-year-old daughter?” she asked. Her know-it-all tone made me grind my teeth as I tried to look past her to see if Nina was ready.

“No, Remy, it’s not more important than Nina,” I sighed. “It’s a commitment I made to the guys I play ball with, and I was following through on it.”

“Unlike you do with other things…” she muttered under her breath, but still loud enough for me to hear what she’d said.

“Remy, I’m not going to fight with you tonight,” I said wearily. “I’m tired, and I just want to get Nina and go home and shower.”

“Why? Do you have a hot date or something?” she sneered. “I don’t know why you’d pick Nina up on a Saturday night if you already have other plans.”

“Yes, Remy, I have a hot date planned,” I said, knowing I was baiting her, but unable to stop myself from doing it. That was one of our biggest problems; she’d accuse me of something I hadn’t done, and I’d take responsibility for doing it in a way that taunted her for accusing me. We were on a collision course with divorce from the day we got married.

“Who is she, Blake? Someone from the department?” Remy demanded. “Who is your hot date?”

“Hey, Punkin!” I called, as Nina emerged from behind her mother carrying a purple backpack and dragging a rolling suitcase that looked like it was filled with enough stuff for a month-long trip.

“Dad, don’t call me that,” Nina said, rolling her eyes almost all the way into the back of her head. I often forgot that she was a teenager now, and not the sweet little girl I’d carried around on my shoulders or helped bait a hook on summer fishing trips out at the Cambridge Reservoir.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize we were in teenager land today,” I said, grabbing her bags and quickly kissing her head before she ducked away and climbed up into the passenger seat of my truck.

“Who is your hot date, Blake?” Remy persisted.

“My hot date is a pizza and the most recent episode of The Walking Dead,” I said with a shit-eating grin on my face, knowing that it would piss Remy off. “I hope you’re satisfied.”

“You’re such a smart-ass, Blake,” Remy shot back, as I waved goodbye and gunned the truck’s engine just to piss her neighbors off.

I drove back toward home, stopping to pick up the two large pizzas I’d ordered on my way to pick Nina up. She didn’t say much as we drove, and that worried me.

“You okay, kiddo?” I asked, trying to play it cool and not dig too hard or too deep and cause her to clam up. Navigating the landscape of a teenage girl from the inside was a whole new world for me, and I’d learned from experience that it was better not to wield a heavy hand or ask too many questions.

“Yeah, fine,” she said unenthusiastically, as she stared out the window.

“How’s school?”

“It’s fine,” she said unenthusiastically.

“Did your old man do something wrong besides calling you by the hated nickname?” I asked. “If I did, I’m sure I could apologize and then do penance.”

“Dad, don’t be ridiculous,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You didn’t do anything. I just don’t feel like talking.”