Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Not here, under the Christmas tree, as if the rest of the world has gone to sleep, and it’s only us.
A little later we’re in bed, under the covers, her fuzzy socks on as she rubs her feet against my leg. Snow falls gently beyond the cool glass of the window.
“Remember that first dinner?” she asks, her voice fond as she reminisces about an event that was only a few weeks ago.
“Of course,” I say. I remember everything about her.
“I can still hear what you said about snow when you look out the window,” she says.
“Tell me. Tell me what I said.” I remember it too, but I want to hear the words crossing her lips.
She turns to face me. “It’s romantic. When you look out the window and you see the flakes falling and everything goes hush, it makes you want to spend the day, and the night, with…that special someone.” Her voice catches on those last three words, and her mouth is soft.
My heart is beating so fast, so loud. She has to hear it.
“I feel it,” she adds in a bare whisper.
My brave woman takes the first step.
I cup her cheek, look her in the eyes, and say, “There’s nothing fake about us.”
42
THE CLEVEREST WINGWOMAN
Wilder
The thing about kids is they rarely outgrow the desire to make snow angels. So I’m up and at ‘em at eight in the morning thanks to a text from Mac that consisted mostly of emojis of snowflakes, angels, and prayer hands.
Spy code, she’s called it.
But I was able to decipher it, so here I am behind the porch of the cabin, lying in the soft blanket of fallen snow on the ground. I’m waving my arms and legs back and forth right next to my daughter when the tromp of boots catches my attention.
I turn to the sound. It’s Fable’s cousin Troy trudging closer to us, wearing black jeans and a black hoodie. No coat because of course he doesn’t get cold. He’s licking a candy cane.
“Hey,” he grunts, stopping when he reaches us, his tone flat. He’s the king of monotone.
“Good morning,” I say, then push up to my elbows in the snow angel mold I’m in.
Troy wastes no time. “If you wanted to date a girl, would you take her to see the new horror retrospective at the local movie house or invite her over to listen to a true crime podcast about unsolved murders?”
This feels like a set-up. Still, as Mac watches our exchange with avid eyes, I ask, “Is this hypothetical or about someone in particular?”
“No. I met a girl at the tree thing yesterday. She told me she has a black tree with ornaments of fictional serial killers on it, so naturally, I want to ask her out.”
“Naturally,” I say.
Mac pops up. “Troy! It’s obvious. Ask her which she prefers. Also, do it now!” She gestures like she’s shooing him off.
“Really?”
“Yes. She might be leaving town really soon.”
He licks the pointy end of the candy, then nods. “If you say so.”
“I do. Go,” Mac says.
He trudges off and frankly, the answer’s obvious for me too. If Troy can do it, I can. I stand, dusting the snow off my ass and legs and back. “Mac, I need to do something.”
Her eyes are inquisitive. “Is it…ask out Fable on a real date? Because I’d highly recommend taking her to the pottery-making workshop at the Art Center For You in the city and then dinner at her favorite restaurant, which incidentally is Happy Cow in Hayes Valley. I’d be happy to arrange a res. Or if you want to go for the extravagant thing, you could suggest a private rooftop dinner, then a helicopter tour of the city. That would be fab for your first real date.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop my smile. “I take back what I said about you going to law school. You clearly need to go into theater and become a director. Or go into sports and become a head coach. Or enter politics and become a chief strategist.”
“Those are all excellent ideas, Dad. But for now, I’ll be the chief strategist for you,” she says, then stage whispers, “Now go. Make your fake romance real!”
I can’t believe my daughter is my wingwoman. But really, there’s no one better. As I head up the steps with Mac beside me, I ask, “When did you start planning that?”
“Planning what?” she asks innocently.
“Planning how to make everything real,” I add.
She gives a cheeky smile. “Chief strategists never tell.”
As I stride across the deck, I spot Fable in the kitchen, pouring coffee. She’s wearing jeans and a soft red sweater, her hair piled on her head in a beautifully messy bun. I absolutely should have asked her out last night. But I was too caught up in the snow, in the moment, in the words. Now I need to act. If my own daughter engineered an entire set-up with Fable’s candy-cane-licking cousin just to make a point, then, well, I need to make a point.