Not So Nice Guy

In response, she mumbles, “Ma ma ma dog dog.”

Obviously, she’s speaking in some advanced code. Any robot would be able to decipher her speech and come up with solutions to the world’s major crises.

Then she burps and gets distracted by a piece of lint on the floor.

“So wise.” I nod, taking the glass of wine he’s holding out for me before he turns to grab Violet’s cup. “Are you thinking Columbia, Princeton, or Harvard?”

Ian shrugs. “She’ll have her pick of the Ivies, but who knows, she might just join the Peace Corps—or a traveling circus troupe.”

“Let’s not talk about it. It makes me sad.”

“That she’s going to join the circus? I really doubt that’ll happen.”

I reach down and pick her up. All I want is one decent cuddle, but she’s at the age where she wants freedom, room to roam. She wiggles free and goes back to playing on the floor. “It’s just…I don’t like thinking about her growing up. She’s too little to join the circus.”

Ian takes a seat beside me on the couch and tugs me close. I nuzzle into his chest and close my eyes. I can hear the deep breath filling my lungs, my husband’s steady heartbeat, my daughter’s playful babble—all the sounds of a life I couldn’t have dreamed of just a few years ago, mostly because I was busy dreaming about Lieutenant Ian banging me in an army barracks.

“I feel like you’re really homing in on the circus thing.”

I ignore him. “Today she’s babbling at our feet, tomorrow she’s swinging from trapeze bars, traveling the country in a train car.”

“Again, probably not going to happen.”

“Promise me she’ll always stay this little.” I sound desperate.

He rubs his thumb back and forth on my shoulder. “No can do.”

“Promise me she’ll always be a mommy’s girl.”

“Ehhh, is she though?” he teases. “Her first word was Dada—that can’t be a coincidence.”

I have a real, ludicrous urge to cry.

“What can you promise me?! Sheesh, my heart is breaking here.”

He chuckles and reaches over to tip my chin up so my face is tilted toward him.

“Sam…Samwich…Sam and cheese…”

I blink my eyes open. His blue eyes are inches from mine.

“I can’t make promises about the big things, but I can promise you we’ll always watch West Wing on Wednesdays.”

“Obviously.”

“I can promise that as long as you’re the head of the Oak Hill Gazette, I’ll read every issue.”

I grip his shirt with a wild plea. “You have to—you’re our most devoted reader.”

“I also promise to send you the most Valentine’s Day bears out of every teacher at the school.”

Our tradition still stands. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“So does the choir director. I think we make up half of his annual fundraising revenue with our antics.”

I grin, and then it fades as I realize something.

“You’re leaving out one thing,” I prod.

He frowns. “What?” Then an idea hits him. “Oh, right: I’ll always love you. Is that what you were after?”

I sigh with feigned exasperation, like, Ugh, you idiot. “No. Love shmove—I don’t care about that. Promise me you’ll always be my best friend.”

He laughs, tips his head down, and kisses my cheek.

“I thought that was obvious, Hot Lips. Best friends, forever.”