Single Dad Makeover by Brynn Hale

REGAN

Big green eyes, platinum curls, and a dimpled smile. She’s beautiful. A little ball of sunshine on any stormy day.

And she’s got to go to the bathroom.

“Logan, Princess here needs to potty.” I elbow him in the ribs, snapping him out of his daze. Something that doesn’t happen very often, he’s usually so engaged.

We’re supposed to be watching the game, but he’s been out of it all night. So much so that I have to remind him of the four-year-old that might poop her pants at any second. Logan shakes out of his trance, and Daddy-mode turns on like the flick of a switch. He scoops her up in an instant and they disappear down the hall.

I can’t blame him for being off his game lately. His wife left him a year ago. I’ve been pulling non-aunt, aunt-duty, but I hardly mind when the kiddo is as sweet as Olive is. It’s not like I’ve got kids of my own or even a man to dream of conceiving spawn for that matter. Unlike Logan, I didn’t get married right out of high school, I played the field.

Actually, I still play the field.

Since I was a kid, my parents put it in my brain that the man I’d want to be with forever would be like being with my best friend. So far, they’ve all felt like one-night stands, douchebags, and the occasional three-month relationship that fizzled out like a can of pop on the counter. Maybe my standards are too high, or maybe I’m just liking independence now.

I really like my space.

Maybe I should just get a dog. Olive would love a playmate.

I don’t know why his wife left. I didn’t really know her all that well outside the suburban housewife shell she pulled off flawlessly.

But really all I need to know about her is that she abandoned her daughter, and that was good enough for me to put her on my shitlist. If I ever see her again, she’ll learn that I take kickboxing classes real quick like.

At first, her absence caused Olive to regress. At two, she was completely potty trained, now at four, she wants help. For months, she didn’t touch toys or books or anything she related to her mother, resulting in a very generous birthday this year and a generous donation to charity as well. Thankfully, she’s doing better, even socializing with other kids again but we have to be careful because questions about mommy provokes breakdowns.

Logan returns alone, pinching the bridge of his nose, his metal-rimmed glasses pushed up his face.

Even I can see through my permanently rosy, gal-pal glasses that Logan is a good-looking man. Introverted and quiet, sure, but when he slides those glasses off you can really get a good look at those baby blues, with the tiniest hint of teal on the outer rim. His sandy blonde hair could use serious trimming and the beard really needs to go, patchy and unconnected as it is. Plus, it’s hiding the DNA divots —dimples— he passed onto his daughter. A touch of dadbod suits him, while growing up he never could gain an ounce of fat. But now, he sports a good portion of both cushion and muscle all brought to you by toddlers and a few beers.

And I’d be lying if I didn’t ever think about making my best friend a little something more. But after he found what he said was “the love of his life,” I really couldn’t even imagine us being more than friends.

“Bedtime?” I ask in a hushed tone. I hadn’t realized the time.

He gives a solemn nod and takes his seat back on the couch beside me, turning the volume down a few clicks and letting captions keep us more involved with the play by play.

There’s a stretch of silence. I’ve never been good with quiet. My whole job revolves around my innate ability to chat and keep a conversation going.

“What’s up with you?” I ask and cringe a little, I know what’s up. He’s been through hell.

Logan sighs, running his hands through the shaggy mess on his head. “Been wanting to ask you something.”

My heart jumps in my chest… and then again, like it’s suddenly picking up a game of double dutch. I want to desperately reach inside my chest and squeeze my own heart, anything to keep the organ from beating with an uneasy desire. Any feelings I have— no, had— for Logan are gone.

All…gone.

Gone.

Liar.

“Well, I’m here to answer,” I respond slowly.

There’s so much stretch on the couch, and yet we sit thigh to thigh. I shift to put a little more distance between us, bending my leg to create a barrier, anything to get my heart to calm.

He toys with a button on his shirt. “It’s been a year since…” He can’t bring himself to say her name. “Since she left.”

I can’t help but tease him because that’s what we do. “Not a question.”

He gives me a side-eye and shake of his head. “I’m getting to it.”

For a teacher, he sort of sucks at communicating. I’ve seen him teach, he’s amazing with his students. Whenever it comes to his personal things, he avoids talking about them as if he might get the plague. He vents in his own way. He can animated but never violent. “I downloaded one of those dating apps and it’s going terribly.”

I laugh. But then I realize he’s not joking…

Oh, shit.

“Well good for you, buddy,” I deadpan.

“That’s it? ‘Good for you?’ Regan, help me out here! I think I’m going to die of blue balls.”

I start laughing at his colorful desperation, because what else are friends for but to make light of hard… or unhard… situations?

“Let me see your phone,” I say, wiping away tears.

I wince at the sight of his dating profile. A short vague bio, the worst kind of selfies, and the profile half-filled out. No wonder it’s going terribly.

“You sound like a serial killer,” I point out, swiping through his photos. “And these pictures! What are these?!”

“All the photos I have are either family photos or from when I was in high school.” Which means most of them have she-who-must-not-be-named in them.

“Good thing your best friend is a photographer.” The photos weren’t the only thing he needs help with. “And you’re shaving that crazy hair-nest on your face.”

“You’re going to help me?”

His surprise is… well, surprising. We’ve been best friends for so long, why wouldn’t he think I’d help? Maybe I should’ve known he was trying to find someone new or at least someone for a night and reached out first to offer my help, rather than him barely bending to ask for help.

“Yes, Logan, I’m going to help. But you have to follow my every word, understood?” What looks good in person can be different or the same to what looks good in pictures, so I’m the one to help him with this in many ways.

He mockingly stands and salutes me. “Yes ma’am.”

Laughing, I manage to say, “At ease, soldier.”

Once I’m through with him, he’ll be beating them off with a stick.

I just hope the stick is plenty big and won’t hit me too.