Inked By My Best Friend's Dad

But whatever it is their mumbling about must be big by the grins on their faces. They’re suddenly best friends all over again.

Hours I’m probably the bad guy for pushing my daughter out the door but I want my Abby back plus it’s time for Tasha to go home to Brad.

“What were you two on about?” I ask Abby as we’re waving Tasha goodbye from the front porch.

“Oh, just best friend stuff,” Abby says cryptically, poking her tongue out and walking back inside.

The screen door slams and I wonder if this is the end of a problem or the beginning of a new one. But if the unexpected is what I have to look forward to then I don’t mind one bit, not with her.

I shrug it off, and head inside, closing the door and bolting it behind me.

Closing up for the night.

Abby is waiting for me though.

Right by our bedroom door.

I watch as she braids her hair into two pigtails, then snaps open her shirt revealing no bra, asking me if she looks adult enough.

I feel my jaw drop, but remind myself not to be so easily distracted.

I growl my intentions unbuttoning my jeans and slipping off my boots. Feeling like a bull about to charge. Aiming for my girl. Already aching to feel that body against mine.

She doesn’t put up much of a struggle and in no time we’re both laughing, half-naked on the bed. Taking turns to kiss each other in various places.

“Seriously though, Abby. What was with you two?” I ask her, wondering if there’s anything Tasha isn’t telling me I should know about.

Abby bites her lip, chewing at it while she thinks.

“Abby?” I ask her again, feeling like there’s more than just one thing being kept from me.

“I can’t,” Abby says, looking torn, but I guess I have to respect that. Even though we tell each other everything.

“Okay,” I tell Abby, nodding. Not over the moon about it, but I’ll let it slide. I’m not gonna argue over—

“I can’t speak for Tasha, I mean,” Abby says.

Her eyes grow round and her breath catches like she’s about to cry, laugh or faint.

Or maybe all three.

“Abby, what is it?” I ask, taking both her elbows in my hands.

Worried now.

“I’m… we…” she stammers.

“That night. Our first time… I’m pregnant, Slade,” she tells me, rubbing her bare belly.

“I’m gonna be a mom… We’re gonna have a baby.”

EXTENDED EPILOGUE

ONE YEAR LATER

Abby

“I was gonna tell him, Tasha. But I remembered what you said,” I remind her, asking if she has a spare diaper close by.

“You wet again?” she asks, and I smile.

“Yes, we are,” I say, lifting up little Birdie. Knowing the face she makes when she’s either wet, dirty down there, or both. I know my baby girl.

I wince a little and sigh.

“What is it?” Tasha asks, setting down her own baby, Blake, who’s finally settled after fussing all afternoon.

“It’s nothing. Just… How long did your dad say it would be until it wouldn’t hurt?” I ask.

Tasha rolls her eyes. “Ugh. Gross,” she murmurs and looks away with feigned disgust, which makes me giggle.

“It depends how big it is,” she blurts out with an air of drama.

“Go on,” she says as loud as she can without waking little Blake. “Go on! Show it to me…again.”

I figure Birdie can live two more seconds with a wet diaper, and I’m always eager to show her anyway.

“Here,” I tell them both, unbuttoning my shirt. Not minding a bit because Tasha and I now share something else in common, baby weight.

I call it something worse when Slade’s not around, but he says it turns him on, and from experience, I can say he’s not pretending either.

He must see the world in a very different way but he loves me, all of me, and shows it every chance he gets.

Sometimes several times a day.

The clear dressing over my tattoo is still on, and the image is still a little red in places, but I just can’t help looking at it.

Showing it off every chance I get.

“He’s such an artist,” Tasha sighs, shaking her head with envy until I remind her that he has one of her on his arm from when she was a baby.

“I know. But he didn’t do that one, how could he with one hand?” she says, but with a touch of her hand on my arm, she tells me it's okay. She’s not really that cut up over it.

She still thinks tattoos are gross.

“I just think it’s beautiful, like you Birdie girl,” she tells my daughter in her best baby talk voice.

“See?” I ask her, sitting her up to see. “Who’s this, Birdie? Who’s on mommy’s side?”

Birdie blows a bubble, but then hiccups and laughs, her hands both crashing down on my side where the tattoo Slade did of her is healing up nicely.