Page 7 of Bedtime Stories
I take another gulp of water, adjust my bunny slippers under the desk, and click open the manuscript draft. Hedgehog’s snack hoard will just have to shine brighter than my very obvious distraction.
Still, my fingers hover over the keyboard. The words don’t come easily. They’re too tangled up with Keane’s voice in my head, with the warmth of his praise sinking all the way down into me.
And I wonder, just for a reckless second, if Molly might deserve her own Daddy figure too.
Two hours later, I’m halfway through my second caramel-drenched cold brew when my phone buzzes. It’s the group chat.
Theo: Oren. Tell me you’re going to camp this year.
God, not again.
Jury’s still out.
Theo: The jury retired last summer. This year you’re coming. Period.
Heat rushes into my cheeks even though I’m alone in my kitchen. Everyone justassumesI’ll magically show up, as if my social anxiety has an off switch hidden under the couch cushions. Every time they mention the trip, ants skitter up the inside of my pants.
I toss the phone down, pace the kitchen, and try to shake off the itch. What if they all stare at me? What if they see how obvious I am? What if I trip over my own shoelaces and end up withCamp Disaster Boyas my legacy forever?
The phone buzzes again. This time it’s Keane.
Keane: After lunch, I want you to step outside. Five deep breaths in the fresh air. Then come back in.
I roll my eyes, glancing at the iced coffee in my hand that was gonna count for lunch a moment ago, until my online Daddy made me feel guilty for not taking proper care of myself as I promised I would. It sounds so simple, but he says it as if it matters. As ifImatter. And damn it, I already feel better just reading his words. Keane’s reminders make me feel as if I’m tethered to him. As if he’s reaching through the screen, wrapping that calm voice around me, holding me close.
I text back.
Grilled cheese and grapes today.
Three dots dance across the screen.
Keane: Good choice. That’s my boy.
I sink into the couch, heart pounding. A smidge of praise and suddenly, the water, the fresh air, the socks—they’re not enough. Not nearly enough. I don’t just want tasks. I don’t just want little jolts of praise. I wantmore.
More of him. More rules. More voice. MoreDaddy.
The ants in my pants settle for a moment, but the ache in my chest only grows sharper. I need to do the hard thing and ask for what I want.
I need to have a conversation with my Daddy.
