Stuck With the Grumpy Single Dad

18. Chapter Seventeen Matt

Chapter Seventeen: Matt

A n entire day passes from the moment I let Mabel walk away from me. A whole day of cowardice, of refusing to acknowledge that I should have gone after her.

She is Maple Leaf. My best friend. I care about her. I love her.

I could very easily be in love with her.

I have been dreaming of the day I might actually meet her in person, but when the time came, everything was all wrong. Thoughts of what I should’ve done consume me.

In the meantime, I go through the motions. I pick the girls up from their sleepover and then take them out for lunch. I walk through the manor and update my personal to-do list, then answer a couple emails from Joe and the consultant he mentioned. On the surface, I act normal.

But, at the end of the day, the stillness and silence that washes over me is enough to make me feel like I’m on the verge of losing my mind. Even the ocean seems to have quieted, giving the cliffside a rare reprieve from its constant pummeling. the kind of stillness that comes only after a long day.

I sit in my bedroom, the soft glow of a lamp casting shadows against the walls. It’s late, and the girls are in bed. I should be sleeping, too, but instead I’m sitting here, staring at an old shoebox that I used to keep in the closet back in Maine, and has since then sat in one of the last remaining unpacked boxes piled in the corner of the living room. I hadn’t meant to go looking for this box. I just thought it might be a good distraction to finally unload the final batch of our belongings.

This is the box that holds all of Maple Leaf’s letters—twenty years’ worth of words exchanged between two people who never met, yet shared everything as if they were thick as thieves. I haven’t gone through it in a while. Most of the time, I keep the box closed, tucked away, and let her more recent letters pile up in a drawer until it comes time to file them away with the rest.

I set the box on my lap. The lid puffs out a little cloud of dust as I pull it off.

And then, there they are: neatly folded letters, all in the familiar handwriting that I’ve come to know as well as my own. I dip my hand into the box and pull one out at random from deep inside. The paper is slightly more brittle, indicating its age.

I unfold it slowly, carefully, knowing that I am handling something fragile in many senses of the word.

Dear Cal , it begins, as most of them do.

But I can see it so clearly now—Mabel’s smile, her laughter, the spark of her personality that jumped off the pages even before I knew who she really was. I can practically hear her voice as I read through the lines, can feel the energy she could only ever barely contain as she wrote to me. She was always so open, so genuine, and endlessly funny. Her letters always made me smile.

Did you know that in ancient Greek mythology, sirens are actually half-woman, half-BIRD? I don’t know how that term became synonymous with “mermaid,” but I fear I’ll never be able to erase this unsettling knowledge from my brain. I don’t know how I’ll ever go on, Cal. Everyone in Mermaid Shores refers to the sirens in the sea as half-woman, half-fish creatures. WE’RE LIVING A LIE!

I snort out loud. From the date at the top of the page, I estimate she was about seventeen at the time she wrote this one. She always had this way of making everything seem brighter, lighter, and sillier than it really was. She made me feel like I wasn’t alone, even when I was. She gave me reasons to laugh, to joke about things, to not be so serious about the tough stuff.

I realize that I’ve been fooling myself. I told myself I hated the beautiful redhead when I first saw her at the Siren & Sword, but deep down, I knew there was something about her. Something that, if I had been brave enough to look under the surface, I would’ve seen.

I unfold another letter, this one even older.

I had the strangest dream last night. I dreamed we were sitting on a porch swing, but I don’t have one of those, so it must’ve been the Dechaines’ house we were at. Which wouldn’t be that weird, because the Dechaines are nice people with an open-door policy, but you don’t even know them, so I don’t quite know what you were doing there in the first place. It was nice, though. We were talking, and I don’t remember exactly what it was that we were talking about, but I knew that your words made me feel all peaceful and warm inside like a cup of chamomile tea.

But then, suddenly, we weren’t on the Dechaines’ front porch anymore. We were still in the swing, but we were way up high in the stars. The stars weren’t like how they teach us about them in school—they weren’t violent balls of fire. They were like little fireflies, just sort of blinking and floating around our heads. We should’ve been terrified to be up so high in the night sky that we couldn’t see the ground, but all we did was laugh and then carry on our conversation.

My chest tightens. Over the years, I’ve had dreams about her, too. Even though I never knew what she looked like or sounded like, I somehow always knew that the hazy person by my side in the world of dreams was her . It was like an instinct.

I keep reading, letter after letter.

With each one I unfold and then set aside, everything becomes clearer. I see Mabel in every word, every sentence. Her bright green eyes twinkling with humor. Her warm and friendly approach to people, even when they’re practically snarling in her face. Her honesty and boldness, both of which never waver.

It’s all there. It’s been right in front of me this whole time.

Do you think it’s weird that we’ve known each other for so long, but we’ve never met? To be clear, I don’t think it’s weird. I think it’s nice. It’s special.

I should have been honest with Maple the moment the attorney called me about the inheritance. I should’ve told her that I was moving to Mermaid Shores, should’ve told her that I’m Matthew Callum Morgan, not just some guy named Cal. But I didn’t. I let it spiral out of control because I was scared.

And now, I’m pretty sure it’s too late to fix it. I’ve messed it all up. I let her walk away.

I lean back in the chair, staring at the letters spread out in front of me. I’ve been thinking about meeting Maple for half my life, and when the moment finally came, I blew it .

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of soft footsteps padding down the hallway. The girls appear in the doorway, both in their fuzzy pink pajamas, their hair tousled from bed.

“Daddy?” Mia says, her voice groggy from sleep. “Why are you still up?”

I try to smile, but I know it doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Couldn’t sleep. Why are you up?”

Ava shrugs. “We had to pee, and we saw your light was still on. It’s midnight, Daddy.”

“I know, honey. You girls should go back to bed.”

But Ava frowns and steps closer, her eyes flicking to the letters scattered across the floor and my bed. “What are those?”

“Just… letters,” I say. “From an old friend.”

Instead of accepting the answer and shuffling back to their room, the girls step past the threshold.

“Why do you look so sad?” Mia asks.

I don’t know how to answer that. I don’t want to lie to her. If she can sense that something is bothering me and I’m not honest about it, that’ll teach both of them that it’s okay to shove aside their emotions.

“Because I am. A little,” I admit. “But don’t you worry. I’m okay.”

Ava sits down on the edge of the mattress, claiming a free space among the letters. She glances down at them, but she doesn’t read anything. They don’t know about Maple Leaf, obviously, and yet they don’t seem all that surprised that their father has been communicating with an unknown friend via an old-fashioned medium for longer than they’ve been alive.

Then again, the girls are a lot more perceptive than I often give them credit for. For all I know, they already figured out that I have a pen pal years ago and simply never considered it a big enough deal to ask me about it. Kids can be funny like that. Nosy, yet incredibly non-judgmental.

“Daddy, we’ve been worried about you,” Ava murmurs.

I blink in surprise. “Worried? What do you mean?”

“We think you’re lonely,” Mia says, perching nearby on the wide windowsill.

My heart clenches at her words. Lonely . I guess I have been, but I didn’t realize they could see it. Just like I thought—more perceptive than I realized. Still, I really believed I was doing a good job keeping myself together, for their sake.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” I tell them, reaching out to pat Mia’s knee. “I’ve got you two. I’m not lonely.”

Ava crosses her arms, giving me the look that says she’s not buying it. “We know you have us, but it’s not the same as…”

She looks to her sister for help.

Mia says, “It’s not the same as you having a girlfriend. Or wife. We don’t remember Mom, so it’s hard for us to understand what’s missing, but you do remember her, so…”

I swallow hard, the twelve-year-old ache of Lindsay’s loss stirring deep in my chest.

“I didn’t want to confuse you by bringing someone new into the family like that,” I try to explain. “I didn’t want to make things harder for you.”

“Dad,” Mia says, her voice full of patience like she’s the adult here. “We’re not little kids anymore. We’re totally okay. We just really don’t want you to be alone forever. That would make us feel totally not okay.”

I stare at their serious faces, and it strikes me just how much they’ve grown.

When did that happen? When did they stop being the little girls with scraped knees and training wheels and frizzy braids? Now they’re almost thirteen, bickering over lip gloss and using mobile phones and talking to me about mature things like their late mother.

Ava looks down at the letters again, her eyes narrowing in thought. “Is this about her ?”

I stiffen. “Who?”

“The lady you’ve been writing to for forever. Maple?” Ava asks.

Mia barely stifles a giggle. “We know about her, by the way. I mean, we’ve never read any of the letters. Never, ever. We promise. But we have noticed when you get mail from her. You don’t exactly hide it away. Did something happen with her? Is that why you’re sad?”

I shake my head, letting out a long breath as I try to process this. “It’s complicated. How do you know she’s a she anyway?”

Ava rolls her eyes. “Because letters are romantic , Daddy. And we’re pretty sure you don’t like boys like that.”

I snort loudly. “Letters aren’t necessarily romantic.”

“When you write them for as long as you two have, it seems that way,” Ava argues back.

“Alright, then,” I reply. “Fine. I don’t think this is an appropriate conversation for me to be having with you girls, but since you’re both being so insistent, I will admit that Maple is someone I have considered in a romantic way before.”

Mia grins. “Well, what’s the problem, then?”

I try my best not to outwardly cringe. “It’s complicated. I don’t think we’re as compatible as I thought.”

“Okay, fine,” Ava says, with a matter-of-fact shrug. “Even if you’re not into Maple, we think you should start dating. ”

Mia nods. “We want you to be happy. We want you to find someone. And we’d also really like to have a stepmom. Not because you’re not enough for us, but because we just think it’d be really nice.”

I stare at them. “A stepmom?”

Mia shrugs, glancing at her sister. “Why not? We think it’d be cool.”

“Cool?” I repeat, dumbfounded.

Ava grins now, a mischievous look on her face. “And we think we know just the person.”

“Oh?”

In unison, their voices cut through the peaceful night to shout, “Mabel Lee!”

The name hangs in the air between us. My stomach drops. They don’t know, of course. They don’t know that Mabel is Maple, and so they definitely don’t know how truly complicated things are right now.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I answer, shaking my head.

“Why not?” Mia presses. “She’s nice. And she’s so pretty.”

“Don’t you think she’s pretty?” Ava adds. “You’d have to be blind not to, Daddy.”

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “It’s not that simple, girls.”

Mia pouts. “Why not?”

I open my mouth to answer, but I can’t find the right words. How do I explain to them the mess I’ve made? How do I tell them that Mabel isn’t just some woman from Mermaid Shores, but the same person who has written all of these letters to me? The same person I’ve been in love with, in some way or another, for years?

“It’s just not, honey.”

They groan at the same time, clearly frustrated with my lack of explanation.

“Dad,” Ava says, crossing her arms again, “you need to stop overthinking everything. Just go for it. What’s the worst that could happen?”

I glance at the letters again, feeling the weight of her words. What’s the worst that could happen?

I already know. I’ve been living it.

But, as I look at my daughters and their hopeful, determined faces, I wonder if maybe their na?ve outlook on life might be a more promising path forward.

Maybe it’s time I stopped running from the things that scare me. Maybe it’s time I stopped hiding. Maybe, for the first time in two decades, I should finally start living .

I take a deep breath.

“Okay,” I tell them, giving them my best attempt at an optimistic smile. “Okay, girls.”