Page 2

James

“ D ad, have you seen my phone charger?” Mia yells from her bedroom.

Sighing, I lean back from where I’m fiddling with the coffee machine and call back, “What’s the rule?”

Silence is my answer.

I swear, it was only yesterday she was tottering around on chubby toddler legs, her blonde hair in pigtails and her adoration for me more than obvious. But today she’s on the cusp of sixteen, and I can’t remember ever being as frustrating when I was her age.

Maybe I’ve spoiled her.

For her whole life, it’s just been the two of us together against the world. My little princess and me. I’m not going to pretend that it’s been easy, but I was pretty proud of myself for how well I’ve managed.

Until now.

Now, my kid rolls her eyes when I talk, assuming she really listens at all.

I miss the little girl who used to hang on my every word.

But kids grow up. My parents love to remind me that I wasn’t much older than her when I became a parent myself.

I’ve decided they’re evil, too. Like I need an extra layer of paranoia in my parenting, especially now that Mia has started dating.

Ugh.

However, that’s not what I’m stressing about this morning. No, this morning’s focus is on the appointment Mia and I have with a local private school. Mia’s been on the waiting list to enrol for Years Eleven and Twelve since she started high school. Apparently, Winchester College has the most prestigious Performing Arts department in the state and, as an aspiring actress with her sights on NIDA, she has to get into this school or her life is over .

Yes, those are her words. No, I won’t be arguing with her about them. She’s doubled down on her studies to make the cut for Winchester, and I promised her that I would do everything in my power to help her achieve her goals. I’m all she’s got, and that means I have to be her biggest supporter. Besides, what kind of shitty parent would I be to not even try when she has worked her arse off at school for the past three years?

“The rule is that things need to be put back where they belong,” I mutter to myself as I head into the living room. I find the charger plugged into the wall socket closest to the recliner. There are dents in the worn beige carpet from where the chair was positioned prior to my teenager wanting to charge her phone and scroll through it at the same time. With a sigh, I pull the cable and the wall plug from the socket and head down the hallway. I don’t bother to knock on the open door, just clear my throat.

Mia, who is currently on her hands and knees with her tartan-covered butt in the air, searching under her bed for the item in my hands, shoots to her feet and spins around to face me, her hair wild from her exertions. “You found it!” she cries, blue eyes lighting on the cable in my hands. She doesn’t even look at me, just lunges for it.

I pull it back and tsk . “Seriously, Mimi, what’s the rule?”

“Stop calling me that,” she rolls her eyes, then folds her arms over her chest. “I’m not five anymore, Dad.”

Please don’t remind me.

Arching an eyebrow, I wait expectantly.

Mia huffs, then with as much put-upon teenage attitude as she can muster, drones, “Put things away where they’re s’posed to go.”

“And where does the charger live?”

Another eyeroll. “In the kitchen drawer.” Before I can respond, she practically whines, “Can’t you just buy me a spare for my room?”

“You can buy a spare for yourself.”

“With what money?”

“The pocket money you earn for doing your chores.”

Even though she’s old enough for a part-time job now, I agreed that her studies were more important, and taking up any spare time with work seemed cruel.

She pouts. “I need a raise.”

I can’t help but laugh at that. “We can talk about that after this meeting. Which,” I check my watch, “we’re going to be late for if you’re not ready to go in ten minutes.”

Squawking, Mia nabs the charger from my hands and presses a kiss to my cheek. “Thanks, Dad. I’ll be ready to go in five.”

We make it out the door twelve minutes later, which is actually a record for us.

***

I have never felt as judged as I do in this moment. Sitting in the extremely posh school’s office, it’s all I can do not to twiddle my thumbs and fidget. Mia sits beside me, dressed in her current school uniform blouse and skirt, and I thought I was presentable enough in my corporate wear of black slacks and a blue business shirt, but the grey-haired woman at the desk turned her nose up at me when I told her that we were here for a pre-enrolment interview with the principal.

She sniffed haughtily and asked, “Will Miss Durant’s mother be joining us?” and the look she gave me when Mia breezily told her that her mother has always been out of the picture suggested I’d already failed some kind of test.

I’m aware that there’s a whole group of misinformed people out there who believe a child needs a mother and a father to be raised ‘properly’, whatever the fuck that means, but I’ve done a fan-fucking-tastic job on my own, thanks very much.

I might have been frustrated with Mia’s lackadaisical approach to looking after her things this morning, but my daughter is the best thing to ever happen to me, and I am so proud of the young woman she is growing into.

She’s no less well-rounded just because she was raised by a single dad. She’s bright, and talented, and driven, and kind and…yeah, okay, maybe the woman behind the reception desk was judging me, the thirty-four year old single dad to a fifteen-year-old more than she was judging my kid.

But fuck that, too.

I’m a good dad. A great dad, even. I have been my child’s biggest advocate and defender since before she was even born. She became my priority the moment her mother told me her period was late and I just knew my life was changing. I have never resented the choices I’ve made for Mia. I’ve never once regretted taking on the responsibility of sole custody. And she has wanted for nothing.

Hell, I was even prepared for teaching her about puberty and her menstrual cycle and all the things women seem to think men freak out about and can’t handle. I did it all with zero freaking out, mostly because I had no other choice, but that doesn’t matter.

While Mia was growing up, I played dolls and tea-parties and dress-ups with her. I let her do my makeup and paint my nails. I even wore the messy pink slashes on my fingers to work with pride.

As far as I’m concerned, Mia hasn’t missed out on anything.

But the look the woman behind the desk keeps throwing my way suggests that she believes otherwise.

Great. Just great.

I would hate for Mia to miss out on this opportunity because of some ill-informed prejudice. It’s bad enough that my job is more middle-class than the general populace of this school’s parents, but if Mia is turned down because she doesn’t have a mother, I’ll—

“Mia?” A tall, stern looking woman stands at the opening to the hallway leading to the area beyond reception. Her auburn hair is secured on top of her head in a tight bun, slicked back with so much product that it almost looks like plastic.

My back straightens and I stand immediately, my anxiety at being judged overshadowed by the disturbing feeling of being in trouble and called to the principal’s office.

Mia is much more casual about rising from her seat, tucking her phone neatly into the pocket of her green tartan skirt.

The stern woman’s expression softens ever-so-slightly with the smile she bestows on my daughter. “Follow me, please.”

I allow Mia to step in front of me, feeling the burn of the receptionist’s stare on my back the entire way to the office at the far end of the hallway. We’re led in through the door, and the principal shuts it behind me, then holds out her hand. “Bronwyn Michaels,” she introduces herself crisply. “You must be Mister Durant.”

“James, please,” I say as she shakes my hand and then turns to Mia with her hand outstretched.

She really does seem friendlier as she smiles and says, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mia.”

Mia smiles back, “And you as well, Ms Michaels.” Bronwyn gestures to the two timber and leather chairs in front of her desk as she makes her way to her own high-backed leather seat on the other side of the dark timber monstrosity. “Thank you for considering my application,” Mia adds.

Bronwyn smiles at her again and nods, tapping her index fingers on the manila folder on the desk. “I’ve read your transcript and the reference letters from your teachers. You’re a model student,” she says, and I begin to let go of the tension in my shoulders.

Mia ducks her chin. “Thank you.”

“Tell me, though, why you want to attend Winchester College. In your own words, if you please.”

Mia launches into her rehearsed response to this question, citing the school’s academic record, its resources and outstanding reputation, and its unmatched drama program. I sit back and watch her with pride, wondering once again just when my pigtailed toddler turned into this mature near-adult.

Of course, that’s when she chooses to throw a curveball.

“…but, maybe most importantly,” my daughter says, pausing dramatically as she looks my way. She pauses for effect, biting her lip and smiling sheepishly before turning back to the principal, “I know you’re a proudly inclusive school.”

My heart hammers. What…? Why would she say that? She’s not coming out, is she? Here? Now? I’ll love her and support her no matter what, but this moment seems—

“Which is really important to me,” Mia continues, and her voice even wobbles, breaking my heart because surely she knows her sexuality is not going to make any difference to how much I love her, “because Dad is gay. Um, and engaged, actually.”

Wait… what?!

***

“ What the ever-loving fuck, Mia?” I demand once we’re in the car. My fingers flex on the steering wheel, but I haven’t made any move to start the engine.

“So, don’t be mad, but—”

I can’t help scoffing as I whip my head around to face her. “Mad? Why would I be mad? You only just knowingly lied to your potential new principal about my sexuality and my lack of a relationship for reasons only known to you.”

And I didn’t call her out on it, because I didn’t want to tank her chances of getting in. If she is accepted, I’ll have to explain that it was a misunderstanding…or something.

“I found out that they’re doing this whole PR push on how inclusive they are,” she explains. “So they’re more likely to offer placements to families who make them look…well, more inclusive. And just saying you’re gay didn’t feel like enough, you know? So…I made up an engagement.” Widening her eyes and smiling brightly, she spreads her hands out and wiggles her fingers. “Congratulations?”

I’m torn between laughter at the absurdity of her scheme and frustration that, on some level, I can see her logic.

It scares me that I can, actually. Should my brain really be able to understand a fifteen-year-old’s mental gymnastics?

Finally turning the key in the ignition, I sigh. “Well, it’s not like they’re going to ask me to prove it, right?”

***

Wrong . I was so very wrong.

Two days after that supremely uncomfortable meeting in the school’s principal’s office, they call me to request a follow-up interview. With my fiancé.

My fiancé whom my daughter invented.

My male fiancé whom my daughter invented.

“What am I supposed to do now?” I demand of her after explaining the situation she’s gotten us into. A situation I’m aware I could have prevented if I’d called her out on her lie at the time, I know. But, sue me, I didn’t want to ruin the impression she was making on the principal.

I still don’t want to ruin that for her.

Because in the days since that ridiculous moment in that office, I’ve had a chance to think about why Mia said what she did. I agree that lying is bad, but if the school really is cherry picking enrolment applicants for purely PR reasons and not on the aptitude of the students in question, then maybe I don’t feel as gross for going along with the lie.

This is one of those morally grey situations, I think, because pretending to be a minority group for benefits is bad, but using minority groups to make themselves look better is worse, right? Plus, once Mia’s enrolled, I can stage a breakup with my imaginary fiancé and the whole thing is no longer an issue.

Except they want to meet my imaginary fiancé.

“Tell them he’s out of the country,” she shrugs.

“Well, that would have been the smarter option, but I panicked and said I’d talk to him when I saw him tonight.”

Mia snorts. “Have all the years watching me do improv taught you nothing?”

“Uh, excuse me? I used ‘yes, and’, which is why I’m in this situation now.”

My daughter chortles and even though I’m back to being frustrated at the whole problem she’s created, her joy is infectious. “Ask Evan, then,” she suggests simply and flops back onto the couch, rolling her wrist at me. “You’re always telling me that you guys used to get into all sorts of mischief at my age. This can be like reliving your glory days, just on a bigger scale.” Her eyes light up and she sits up straighter. “Actually, that’s pretty genius. Because nobody knows you better than Evan, and I already think of him as my backup dad anyway…”

“Gee,” I feign insult and lean forward on the kitchen counter on my elbows, propping my head on my hands, “thanks. Good to know you have a backup parent in mind.”

“Oh, please. He’s my Godfather. You literally named him in your will as the person I’ll go to if you die before I’m eighteen.”

“It sounds really morbid when you put it that way.”

“It is really morbid,” she acknowledges. “But, come on, admit it: Evan’s the best choice for this.”

She makes very valid points. Ev and I have known each other since we were little kids. I know everything about him and he, in turn, knows everything about me. Faking an engagement to him will be ridiculously easy. Hell, I don’t even mind the idea of kissing him if it comes down to it. I mean, it would be weird because he’s my best friend, but not because he’s a guy. Not that I think Bronwyn Michaels is going to sit behind her desk and force us to kiss. That would be weird.

With our dinner simmering on the stove, I pull my phone from my pocket, acknowledging, “Fine. You’re right. Now, make yourself useful and stir the risotto while I arrange to meet up with your backup dad.”