Page 15 of Tempted By the Single Dad Mechanic
"This IS my inside voice!"
It absolutely is not, but I've learned to pick my battles.
I'm mixing in the butter and milk when I hear two sets of footsteps on the stairs. One thundering, one gentle, and thenRiley barrels into the kitchen with Morgan trailing behind her, looking apologetic.
"I tried to tell her I could wait until you were done," Morgan says. "But she insisted on making sure I knew where the kitchen was."
"It's IMPORTANT," Riley says, climbing into her chair at the small dining table. "What if you got hungry in the middle of the night and couldn't find it?"
"That would be a tragedy," Morgan agrees solemnly, and I catch the smile she's trying to hide.
She's changed clothes, now wearing soft-looking gray sweatpants and a worn t-shirt from some 5K run in a town I've never heard of. Her hair's down now, falling in waves past her shoulders, and she looks comfortable in a way that makes my kitchen feel smaller.
More intimate.
I focus very hard on the macaroni and cheese.
"Hope you're hungry now " I say, dividing it onto three plates. "Riley wasn't kidding when she said I make this every Monday. It's kind of our tradition."
"Traditions are important," Morgan says, accepting the plate I hand her.
Riley's already digging in, getting cheese sauce on her face within approximately three seconds, and I grab a napkin before sitting down across from Morgan.
For a moment, it's quiet except for Riley's enthusiastic chewing.
Then Morgan takes a bite, and her eyes widen slightly. "Okay, Riley was right. This is really good."
"It's from a box," I say again, because I feel the need to manage expectations.
"I don't care. It's perfect." She takes another bite, and there's something about the way she eats, like she's actually enjoying it, not just being polite, that makes my chest warm.
When was the last time I cooked for someone other than Riley?
When was the last time someone sat at this table who wasn't family?
I can't remember.
Riley launches into a story about Mr. Shellby and how he ate three whole pieces of lettuce today, which is "basically a record," and Morgan listens like it's the most fascinating thing she's ever heard.
I watch them while pretending not to, noting the way Morgan asks follow-up questions, the way she doesn't talk down to Riley, the way my daughter lights up under the attention.
And that's when it hits me.
Maybe Riley isn't acting weird because something bad happened. Maybe she's acting weird because something good is happening, right now, and she wants to hold onto it.
Maybe she's lonely not for a mom specifically, but for this. For someone else at the table. For the sound of adult conversation that isn't just me on the phone with a parts supplier. For the feeling of family being bigger than just the two of us.
"Daddy, you're not eating," Riley observes.
I pick up my fork. "Just thinking."
"About what?"
"About how you're getting cheese everywhere except in your mouth."
She giggles and makes an exaggerated show of taking a huge bite, getting even more cheese on her face in the process.
Morgan's laughing, and the sound fills the kitchen in a way that makes me realize how quiet it usually is.
