Boxer

“You came.” My voice sounds higher pitched than normal, so I clear my throat to try again. “You showed up.”

Jocelyn, looking as beautiful as ever, tilts her head up, surprise glinting from her eyes. She’s holding a cake, and underneath, I catch the edges of a sheaf of paper. “Of course I did! It’s not a party without the cake.”

As if to prove her point, she extends a box toward me. I leap to attention, retrieving the box and pulling it close. The familiar scent of sugary sweetness fills the air, and I’m tempted to believe it’s coming from Jocelyn, rather than the cake in my hands. I wait to see if she’ll hand over the papers, too, but instead she’s tucking them out of the way in her purse.

I’d rather be holding Jocelyn, pulling her against my chest, but since that’s not an option, I glance down and make some comments on the rainbow of a cake that’s sure to make the girls hyper with energy.

“Come inside,” I offer, standing back. “If you still have time.”

“Of course I do.”

She moves a little stiffer than normal, as if she’s not quite comfortable here. Which is only natural, seeing how the last time we were together, I barged into her home and carried her off to the bedroom like a beast. I close my eyes for a moment, cringing internally with the memory.

It’s been playing over and over again in my head, and it’s damn close to the only thing I’ve been thinking about since it happened. If anything, the memories get clearer: my embarrassment, the inappropriateness of the action, the amazing way she felt underneath my hands. As much as I wish I hadn’t made her uncomfortable—pushed her too far beyond her comfort zone—I’m not sorry she knows how I feel.

I care about her, truly, and if she doesn’t want to get involved romantically, maybe we can make something work from a business standpoint. The way she’s acting today, it’s like she’s walking on eggshells. It’s probably best to let her take the lead on which direction she wants this to go.

“Where’s Charli?” she asks, glancing around. “Is she here? I can get her braided up while you put the cake in the freezer and bring out all of the decorations.”

“Charli,” I echo, annoyed at myself for nearly forgetting the main reason Jocelyn’s here in the first place. To make my daughter’s birthday party a special one. “She’s upstairs, let me call her.”

It takes a few tries, but eventually, she hurtles downstairs, curly hair bouncing wildly out of control.

“Joss!” she squeals. “You’re here!”

“Joss?” Jocelyn repeats, descending to her knees in order to catch Charli in a leaping hug. “I like the nickname. That’s what my dad called me when I was little.”

She giggles. “That’s funny. It’s what my dad calls you, too.”

My cheeks are probably red, so I turn away and mutter something about melting unicorns, leaving the two ladies to snicker with each other. I hadn’t realized the nickname I’d inadvertently given her—another notch in the personal column, a black mark in the business column. I’d never heard anyone call her Joss before, not even her assistant.

“Are you here on business?” Charli asks her. “Just like last time when we went to Monica’s and then the park? That was fun.”

I am being a major creeper, but I can’t resist. I move so that I’m standing just behind the doorway, listening with unrivaled intensity for Jocelyn’s response. When she speaks, it’s quiet, and I have to lean forward to make out her words.

“Yes,” she says. “Just business, I promise. I’m going to get you all set up for your party, and then I’ll head out.”

“You don’t want to stay?”

“I have a lunch...meeting.”

“Oh. With a friend?”

“Yes.”

Jocelyn’s voice is thin, and I sense she’s uncomfortable. I should stop Charli before she turns all Spanish Inquisition on Jocelyn, so I round the corner and force a smile on my face. Either I’m making up things, or Jocelyn’s expression is strained.

“Hey, what’s all the jabbering about? Why don’t you go put on your dress, Charli?” I say. “We’ve got some work to do down here.”

“Okay!” Charli twirls around and sprints up the stairs.

“We bought a princess dress,” I tell Jocelyn. “It’s pink.”

“I’m sure it’ll look great on her.” She stands, stepping toward me with a hesitant look in her eyes. “Boxer, I was meaning to talk to you about—”

“We don’t have to talk about it.” I raise a hand, giving her the pass she most likely wants. I hadn’t realized it when I’d been eavesdropping on their conversation, but now everything is clear. Jocelyn’s lunch meeting isn’t a meeting—it’s a date. That must be the reason she’s uncomfortable. She didn’t know how to tell me. “Let’s leave it in the past. Forget it happened.”

“Forget it happened?” She sounds surprised.

“Absolutely.” I nod, though it kills me to dismiss the moment like this. I’m still convinced there’s something special, but it has to be a two-way street. If Jocelyn isn’t interested, I have to let her go. “Business partners?”

“Business,” she says, giving a somewhat bewildered nod. “Sure.”

“Great.” My voice rings hollow. “Thank you again for coming today. Instruct me around, direct me, whatever you need me to do.”

“Why don’t you...” She trails off, as if distracted. It takes a long second for her eyes to focus on the bags of streamers, party favors, and poppers I’ve unearthed from the closet. “Right. Streamers. Can you hang this from the ceiling? Drape them something like this.”

She takes a roll of pink crepe paper and weaves her way through the kitchen until she finds the dining room. I follow, watching as she leans up to hook the roll of paper over the light fixture.

I may be a man, but I know how to hang a damn streamer. I don’t tell her this, however, because the view I have is too good to pass up. It’s not every day I get to admire the curve of her body as she leans on her tiptoes, her long legs peeking out from underneath a uniform of black.

Today her legs are bare instead of covered by the usual nylons she wears. This discovery has me so distracted I completely miss her question the first time around.

Her face turns pink as I flinch and ask her to repeat the question. She tugs her dress down. Clearly, she’s caught me staring. “I said, does that make sense?”

“Yeah, um. Yeah.”

Had I not just decided that we’d be business partners? Now less than a minute later, I’m staring at her thighs, imagining a hand sliding underneath to feel her soft skin, the brush of my fingers against her satin undergarments, and ... Shit. I’m doing it again.

“Sorry, what?” I ask.

“I said, can you hang these so I can take care of Charli’s hair?”

“Sure.”

She tosses me the roll, and I miss it completely. It thunks against my chest and drops through my arms to the floor where I’m stuck staring at it like a moron.

I fumble for an excuse, but there’s not much to say. I’m supposed to be an athlete. Athletes are supposed to be graceful. Then, there’s me—even though it’s not my fault the second she tossed it, she bent over to retrieve another roll.

Thankfully, this gets a laugh from her, and instead of throwing the next roll, she walks over and hands me the bag. We both pretend her fingers don’t brush against mine. I pretend I’m not wishing this moment turned into a kiss.

Before I embarrass us with another attempt to turn things awkward, I spin away from her and start throwing streamers in every direction. A vase clatters to the floor and shatters.

She clears her throat.

“What?” I growl. “Am I doing it wrong?”

“Oh, um...” She looks up, and I follow her gaze.

There are streamers in every direction. X’s, O’s, circles, tangles. It’s a big knot of mess and broken glass.

“I can fix it,” she says. “Why don’t you, uh... go outside and rake leaves.”

“Rake?”

“Or change your clothes?”

I look down, realizing I’ve got on lounge clothes—long shorts and a t-shirt. Not party material.

“Yeah, good idea.”

“What do you think?” Charli whizzes down the staircase, twirling and twirling in her pretty pink dress. “I used the makeup Uncle Steve gave me.”

“Oh—” I suck in a breath as she stops twirling for long enough to give us a glimpse of her face. “Oh, honey. What did you do?”

“You look beautiful!” Jocelyn saves the day with a smile that almost manages not to look fake. “You did that all yourself? My, you are a natural.”

“I know.” Charli curtseys, but the effect is ruined by the makeup. Pounds of it caked across her face. “It’s pretty.”

I don’t even know what or how she managed it, but she’s got enough junk on her eyelids that she can hardly open them. Her lips are three shades of purple and pink, and there’s a blue line across her cheek. I have no clue what that’s all about.

“How about we go upstairs to do your hair,” Jocelyn suggests gently, “and I can add a little of my makeup, too?”

“You have makeup?”

“It’s very fancy,” Jocelyn says. “But we might have to wash up first before hair. It’s easier to braid that way.”

I’m pretty much frozen in place. Makeup hasn’t entered the equation yet, and I hadn’t expected it to until Charli was what... twenty-five? When do women start wearing makeup? I don’t want my baby to wear makeup or talk to boys or any of it. But something needs to be done, stat, because she looks like a drugged-up clown.

“Thank you,” I mouth to Jocelyn over Charli’s head. “I’ll do the streamers.”

Jocelyn can barely hold back a laugh, but her smile is kind as she takes Charli by the hand and leads her upstairs. The water starts running moments later, and it’s not long after that I hear them laughing and yammering away.

I climb upstairs after cleaning up the vase, pleasantly surprised to find that I can spy on the pair easily from the staircase. Jocelyn left the door wide open, and together, they’re joking while Charli sits on the edge of the tub wrapped in a robe, and Jocelyn carefully peels back the makeup from her face with a washcloth.

I’m enamored watching it. I don’t understand it, what’s happening, but it’s some sort of girl bonding—and it’s something Charli’s never had before. Not in any meaningful way. She’s never met one of my dates for more than a few minutes at a time, and usually they’re busy sucking up to her with gifts.

My heart is full.

I thought I could be Mr. Mom. I thought I could do it all.

As much as Marie has been there for Charli all these years, she still goes home at the end of the night. She has a family of her own, kids of her own, and it’s too much to expect her to play mother, or grandmother, to my little girl, too.

As full as my heart may be, it cracks at the realization that after everything I’ve done, after all the times I’ve watched YouTube videos on braiding hair or played dress up with a crown and jewels on my head, I can never be both a mother and a father.

And that breaks my heart.