If I'm supposed to make a resolution about the man who isn't ready to be my friend, it'll have to wait until tomorrow.
Mateo doesn't answer when I call, maybe because he's busy partying in all the ways I'm not. Maybe it's because he's already asleep. A moment later, I swallow hard and wonder whether I'mJamieorJameson SinclairorHarper's Dadin his phone, and why he’s ignoring every version of me. Whatever the reason, he's telling me to leave a message, and I do exactly that.
Hey, I—it's New Year's Eve. Well, technically, it's New Year's Day, I guess? But it's the middle of the night, and I need to tell you—fuck—it's—you said youmissme. On Christmas. You said you miss me, and you can'tdothat. I miss you every fucking day, but I will deal with it and pretend to be okay with waiting, but I need you to pretend, too. I need to believe you're okay. Because it hurts so much, and I don't want you to hurt like this. And I know—Iknowyou do. We had one perfect night, and I was ready for a lifetime of everything else, but I can't—you can't remind me you feel thesame way. It hurts. You miss me, and it hurts. I'm sorry. I don't think that's why I called you, but it's fine. Happy New Year, Mateo. I miss you, too.
By the time I wake up, I remember little of what I said, and he hasn’t called back to fill me in. At Harper's next game, I get the same careful hello, and it's still enough to be near him for now.
My birthday comes and goes after Harper and I celebrate with dinner at my favorite seafood restaurant. As her soccer season winds down, she gets more playing time, even starting twice. Danielle reappears when they make the playoffs, a habit I'm familiar with from years ago. When she sulks at their defeat, that's familiar, too. I shrug her off from where I stand, closer to a few parents I've started talking to, and further away from my ex and the man who just feels like one.
Harper is upset by the loss in the way most competitors would be, but she's proud of everything she’s learned. I'm proud of her too, and selfish when I count the nine months we’ll wait to start again. It would be a good time to take Mateo skating, but my leg throbs and my chest tightens. A couple of weeks later, on the night of the soccer banquet, I do everything wrong. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last.
The banquet is an opportunity to recognize the team and everything they've accomplished over the past several months. Everyone gets a little dressed up, and there's a nice catered dinner, and the coaches give out awards. I take pictures of Harper with her teammates, and of Harper with Mateo. When she runs off for selfies with friends, I shake Mateo's hand and congratulate him on a successful season. His thumb brushes against my skin like it had on the bench, and I pull away before I can ask him to meet me there again. Then I find myself in a conversation with Melanie Bishop, the gorgeous single mother of the team's leading scorer.
We've talked at games, but there's something different in her eyes now. She's intent when she wraps her small hand around my elbowand laughs at something that isn't all that funny. Women have flirted with me since long before it was appropriate to do so, and I recognize it easily now. When I flirt back, I swear it's because I want her to be someone else.
And not because that same someone else is watching.
Nothing really happens—not there in the middle of my daughter's high school soccer banquet. But Melanie wants me to text her sometime, and she wants me to meet her for drinks sometime after that, and she's told me enough about where she lives for me to know she wants me to take her home sometime afterthat.
Nothing really happens, but ten minutes later, when Mateo barely waves goodbye to Harper from across the room, I think maybe I flirted enough to ensure that two of us will have trouble keeping dinner down.
There's no good excuse for me to see him after I leave that night. I only hear about his English class and consider revisiting the classic literature I dodged in my youth. With soccer behind us for now, I find myself waiting for a formal email requesting an in-person meeting about my daughter's academic performance, but none come. I hope for the kind of holiday when he might miss me again, but a look at the calendar confirms none of those are coming either.
If he finds a way to yell at me for talking to Melanie, that would be okay, too. Mateo doesn't pick that fight, and I don't know how I'd defend myself if he tried. I'd just be happy to hear his voice.
In the coming weeks, the mildly cool weather turns mildly warm. Los Angeles is making a playoff run. I've spent hours in my pool because it's the clearest overlap of what I should do and what I want to do. The only drinking I've done has been with Kai. I've got coffee in my hand now, and I'm in my backyard just to stare at the ocean I've seen a million times before.
"Dad, will you drive Lizzie and me to the carnival?"
I turn my back on the Pacific and look at Harper, just barely out of bed on her first morning of spring break, her eyes half open and ready for adventure. Danielle is taking her for a spa retreat in a few days, but she's all mine now. Well, except for wanting to ditch me for some thrill rides and junk food.
I take a sip and smile. "The one at her church?"
"That's the one," she says. "Her sister can pick us up later tonight, but if you could just drop us off—"
"What ifIwant to eat my weight in deep-fried Oreos and be flipped upside down while listening to Metallica from beneath a questionable harness?"
"Then you'll have to bring one ofyourfriends. I'm a bratty teenager, remember? Way too cool to be seen with my dad."
"You know, about ten years ago, I was way too cool to be seen with you. It didn't stop the paparazzi from getting decent pictures of the time I won you a giant stuffed polar bear at the Orange County Fair."
She laughs. "And then when I tried to share my cotton candy with it, I added sticky pink streaks to the white fur."
"You sure you don't want me to win you another bear today?"
"I think the ride'll be fine, thanks."
It's a few hours before she's ready to go anywhere, so I work out and shower and mess around on my phone and make myself lunch. When I get dressed, I grab an old t-shirt, old briefs, and my favorite jeans, my service as a chauffeurrequiring nothing fancier than that. Harper, of course, has made an effort, and I don't torture myself with the possible reasons why. She's a good kid with a good head on her shoulders, and she talks to me without much of a filter. Will she screw up a few times? Almost definitely. But I don't expect a crisis at a church carnival.
She does make a face at my clothes. "Are you ever gonna throwthat shirt away, or are you waiting for it to disintegrate while you're actively wearing it?"
"It's comfortable and clean, and it won't disintegratetoday," I argue, adding a worn baseball cap for good measure.
Harper shakes her head, but I don't think I'm embarrassing enough for her to find a different way to the carnival. We pick Lizzie up on the way, and I make the quick drive to the Catholic church that's hosted these carnivals for years, even if I was too busy to slow down for one until recently. The parking lot is expectedly full, and I'm not interested in being the asshole who blocks traffic. I mumble something about parking long enough to be out of the way and—
"Oh, hey, we're right next to Mr. Z," Harper says. "Hi, Mr. Z!"
I cut the engine and look through Harper's open passenger-side window because, yeah, we're right fucking next to him. Mateo's just getting out of his car, and I have no doubt he recognizes Harper's voice. Then he turns with the teenage-friendly smile he's usually paid to wear.