Getting a kid into and out of his winter-wear was a painstaking process. Michael was just thankful Dylan didn't have one of those full-body snowsuits like Randy in A Christmas Story, because that would have been impossible. This puffy winter coat was hard enough.

"Turn around," he instructed, squatting down in front of the little guy.

Dylan did as he was told, but he stuck his arms out to the sides. "Hey, Micho?"

Michael put his arms down so he could tug his coat off. "Yeah?"

"Where's Mommy?"

"Uh, your mommy is working the early shift at the Crashdown today. So that's why I'm droppin' you off at daycare." Ugh, daycare. That many kids with so few adults to supervise? It was like its own kind of hell-zone. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Nope." Dylan turned back around, smiling at Michael. "Hey, do you—do you think—do you . . ." He frowned in frustration as he tried to come up with the words to say. "Think they like it?"

"Like what?" he asked as he took off his little boots and set them in the midst of all the other kids' shoes beside the door.

"This." Dylan tugged at the collar of his football jersey.

"Oh, yeah," Michael assured him. "You look like a stud." From what Maria told him, Dylan had a hard time making friends, so he was hoping the jersey would cause some of the other boys to take notice of him, maybe invite him to play with them or something.

"Cool."

"Yeah, it's pretty cool, huh? You've been wearin' that thing a lot, though, lately. We might have to give it a wash, or else you're gonna stink. You don't wanna stink, do you?"

Dylan shook his head emphatically. "No."

"No, that's no good." His mom would do laundry over the weekend. They'd throw it in then, maybe try to shrink it a bit. For now, it still smelled fine. "Alright, well, you have a good day, buddy."

"Pway with me," Dylan pleaded.

"I can't. I gotta go to school." Given the choice, he would have gladly stayed and played with Dylan, though. Maybe outside, away from all those other annoying little brats. "I'll see you later, though, okay?"

"Okay." Dylan waved, and as he was sprinting into the playroom, he hollered back, "Bye, Daddy!"

What?

Michael just stayed right there, still squatting down, watching him go, a well-meaning little boy who was completely unaware of the significance of what he'd just said. But Michael was aware of it. Daddy. Daddy?

Since when was he Daddy?

Oh, crap.

...

By the time Michael got to school, the first bell was already ringing, so he quickly stashed everything in his locker and hurried out to the cafeteria to see if he could catch Kyle. He found his best friend surrounded by dozens of people, almost all of whom appeared to be asking him to sign something. Really? Autographs?

"Alright, guys, I'll do more at lunch," Kyle assured them. "Let's go."

There were a few groans of disappointment, but gradually, the crowd dissipated, and everyone headed off to class.

Michael approached his friend, joking, "Will you sign my ass?"

Kyle chuckled, shaking his head in astonishment. "Isn't that crazy?"

"You're famous."

"No, not really."

"Well, you might be someday." Couldn't really blame those people. Someday, when Kyle was making millions of dollars in the NFL, they'd have his autograph on their binders and notebooks . . . well, it looked like one girl was having him sign a glue stick.

"It's still crazy," Kyle said, sounding like he was determined to remain humble.

"Yeah," Michael agreed. "Hey, I'm glad I caught you, though. Can I . . . can I talk to you about somethin'?"

"Right now?" Kyle asked. "I gotta get to class."

"Come on, man." Class? Who gave a shit about class?

"Ah, fuck it," Kyle decided, sitting atop one of the tables. "What's up?"

"Well . . ." Michael sat beside him, wondering if he even needed someone else's opinion on what had happened that morning. It wasn't a big deal. Not really. Right?

No, he needed advice on how to handle it, and this was one of the few things he wasn't sure he could talk to Maria about.

"Alright, so this morning I was droppin' Dylan off at daycare," he explained. "No big deal. I've done it a couple times before. But as he was headin' on in there, he said . . ." Trailing off, he laughed nervously. "He said . . . 'bye, Daddy'."

Kyle's entire body stilled, and he just stared at him.

"To me." Was it a big deal? Wasn't it? He needed to know if he was just overreacting.

"Hmm." Kyle folded his arms over his chest, nodding slowly. "Can't say I didn't see that comin'."

"What? What do you mean?" Why wasn't he surprised, too?

"Well, you spend a lot of time with the kid. You're about the same age as his mom. He's just a little guy; it's natural for him to get confused."

"Well, yeah. Right." That was all it was, confusion. "It's not his fault."

"No, it's not," Kyle agreed. "What'd you say to him?"

"Uh . . ." Was he supposed to have said something? What the fuck? Was there some kind of handbook for this kind of situation? "Well, I couldn't really say anything. He was walkin' away."

Kyle cringed.

"What? Should I have said somethin'?"

"Probably."

"Well, what should I have said? 'Hey, Dylan, I'm not your dad. But I sure as hell know a lot more about you than the guy who's only spent a half hour of his life with you.'"

"You probably should've called him back," Kyle described as the tardy bell for first period rang, "explained it to him in a way he could understand."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"I don't know. Just say, 'Dylan, you know I care about you a lot, but I'm not your dad, so you better just keep calling me Michael.'"

He took a mental note of that, so if he did have to have a conversation with Dylan, he'd know what to say. "Actually, he calls me Micho. He can't pronounce my name."

"See, the thing is, you should've done it right then and there, 'cause he's not even gonna remember sayin' it if you bring it up now."

"Well, I can talk to him about it when we get home."

"No, I wouldn't," Kyle advised. "Just don't even bring it up again unless he does. It'll confuse him even more."

"Alright," Michael registered. Perfect. He didn't want to talk to Dylan about it unless he absolutely had to. He wasn't good with words, and even though he was good with Dylan . . . he'd probably screw it up.

"That's gotta feel weird, huh?" Kyle asked.

"Uh, well . . . yeah, kind of. I don't know." It had caught him off-guard, sure, but . . . it was sort of a compliment, in a way. Dylan liked him. Dylan felt . . . cared for and appreciated enough to bestow that title on him. "I think if . . . you know, I don't really think it's a big deal, actually."

"You don't? The kid thinks you're his dad and you don't think it's a big deal?"

"Well . . . he doesn't think I'm his dad; he just called me Dad." He made a face once he was done saying the words. There wasn't really that much of a distinction. "Look, it's . . . it doesn't really matter to me."

"What do you mean it doesn't matter?"

"I mean . . . if he calls me Dad . . ." Oh god, he had no idea what he was trying to say, but he just kept saying stuff anyway. "Like, he can call me that if he wants. It's okay, I don't care."

Kyle's eyes widened, his expression growing more serious. "Uh, you should."

"But it's just . . . just let him."

"No, you can't let him do that," Kyle warned.

"Why not?"

" 'cause you're not his dad."

"Yeah, so?"

"So . . . that'd be like me calling Amy DeLuca Mom."

"Oh, come on, that's different." Amy DeLuca was a raging bitch, for starters.

"Listen to me, you can't let him do that," Kyle cautioned. "I know you care about the kid more than his actual dad does, but . . . you're on pretty thin ice here. This whole situation with Maria and Dylan and Isabel . . . you gotta have boundaries."

Boundaries? Those things he didn't have since he was sharing a bed with Maria and everything? Great.

"And you also gotta respect the fact that, as Dylan's mother, Maria might not be comfortable with him calling you that," Kyle pointed out.

"Yeah." He didn't intend on mentioning this to her. Didn't wanna freak her out. "I just . . . I don't know, it was weird, but it was kinda . . ." He couldn't help but smile, hearing Dylan say it in his mind over and over again. Bye, Daddy. Bye, Daddy. Daddy.

"I think I get it," Kyle said. "Your relationship with your own dad isn't exactly . . . ideal. And now you've got this relationship with Dylan, and it's like you have this chance to give him all the things your dad never gave you. Am I right?"

Michael just stared ahead blankly, considering it. He wasn't self-reflective enough to have given it a whole lot of thought. But it made sense. In a way, he and Dylan were both missing father figures. But Dylan had . . . other options.

"Listen, you didn't do anything wrong, either," Kyle assured him. "You care about the kid and that's good. He needs that. But you can't let him keep . . . 'cause that's a slippery slope you're on there, and you could end up seriously confusing him and even hurting his feelings in the long run. So the next time it happens—if it happens again—you gotta nip it in the bud. Alright?"

"Yeah." It'd be hard. In fact, it would suck beyond the telling of it. But he'd do it if he had to. Because, as usual, Kyle seemed like he had it all figured it out. It was probably best to take his advice, even if it wasn't what he wanted to do.

...

By far, Isabel's least favorite thing to cheer for was wrestling. Even though the Comets team was pretty good, those wrestlers were so damn ungrateful for the support. All they did was complain that the cheerleaders were "annoying" when they slapped their hands on the mats. Never mind the fact that they sat at those things for hours on end practically every Saturday, cheering them on and never expecting any thanks for it in return. It hadn't been so bad last year when Michael had wrestled and Isabel had gotten to see him at some of the bigger invites and the annual East vs. West Roswell dual. But this year, without him on the mat, Isabel felt like she had no one to cheer for.

Saturday was their annual Pin Tournament, which was quite the extravaganza in the wrestling world. Only pins counted for team points, and their team usually faired pretty well, due to a few heavyweight wrestlers who almost always won their matches with a pin. Pretty much everyone who was anyone came to watch.

Michael was floating around there somewhere. He'd brought Maria and Dylan with him. Of course.

Isabel sat with the other cheerleaders in between matches, doing her best not to roll her eyes at the stupidity of their vapid conversations. She was the acting captain for the day, because Tess was accompanying Kyle on a campus visit to Alabama. Every hour, though, she was texting, asking if there was any drama going on between the girls.

As she was just about to attempt jumping into a conversation about the merits of body glitter, Isabel thankfully felt a tap on her shoulder. She looked around, and there was Alex, having climbed halfway down the bleachers to get her attention.

"Hey!" she exclaimed. Thank God, a distraction. Something to get her away from her fellow squad members.

"Hey," he returned. "You look nice."

She plucked at her cheerleading skirt, not about to launch into how much she'd always hated it and how she wished they'd ordered new ones for her senior year. "I'll be back, girls," she excused herself, eagerly getting up to leave. They didn't even have a wrestler up on deck yet, so she probably had plenty of time.

She and Alex walked out past the concession stand and past the TV that was broadcasting a college basketball game for those fans in attendance who had a little less of an interest in wrestling. It was hard to find a quiet place, one that wasn't overflowing with people, so eventually they just went outside. He offered her his coat right away, but she declined since it wasn't super cold out.

"I didn't expect to see you," she said. "You know, if you keep showing up around here, people are gonna start to assume you're a student."

"Well, I got a cousin who's a freshman at Mayfield High School, and he's wrestling varsity for the first time today," Alex explained. "In the 113 weight class. He's kinda puny, but he's quick."

"And he's a freshman."

"Yeah, he'll fill out. Anyway, I just thought I'd come and cheer him on, you know?"

"That's nice of you." Alex was just a nice guy all-around. As a college student, he had to be plenty busy, but it seemed like he never really thought about himself as much as he thought about others.

"And I also wanted to see you," he made sure to add. "I read your book."

"Really?" That was a good sign that he'd gotten through it so quickly. Maybe it was a page-turner.

"Yeah. It was good. I typed up some, uh . . . feedback for you." He reached into his back pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. Several pieces of paper stapled together, actually. "Some of it I just jotted down as I was goin' along, and then some of it I wrote after I finished the whole thing."

She scanned over the paper, looking too quickly to read what he'd written. "Wow, thank you, Alex." She hadn't been expecting that. But then again, she probably should have from someone who was studying to be a teacher. "That's really nice of you." She refolded the paper, figuring it would be better to look at it somewhere quieter, when she could focus and didn't have to rush through it. "So what'd you think?"

"It was good," he told her. "It was really good. It kept my interest throughout, and . . . I mean, you write really confidently for such a young person. That's pretty rare."

She couldn't help but blush at the compliment.

"And there were certain parts where I just like . . . wow. I mean, it resonated," he went on. "And there were a few lines where I was just like—yes, that's so good. I mean, honestly, Isabel, I'm not just sayin' this 'cause you're my friend; you've got talent. You gotta pursue it."

"I plan to." As much as she loved hearing all this praise, she knew it wasn't a perfect novel. No novel ever was. And since this was the only one she'd ever managed to finish, she wanted to know more. "So is there anything you didn't like?"

"Well . . ." He scratched the back of his neck, stalling for time. "It's not that I didn't like it."

"What?"

"Just . . . the ending."

She frowned. The ending? She had known how she'd wanted the story to end before knowing how she wanted it to progress or even begin. Out of all the things he could have pointed out as needing improvement, that was the last thing she would have expected. "What's wrong with it?"

"It just . . . it wasn't what I was expecting. You know, it was very . . . happily ever after."

Well, yeah, that had been the idea. But she obviously hadn't used those exact words.

"And I feel like your writing's stronger than that."

"So you think it should be . . . like, what? A cliffhanger or something?"

"No, not even that. Just . . . different."

She frowned, totally not understanding.

"Don't get me wrong, I've got no problem with a happy ending," he assured her. "I'm hoping to get one myself in my own life. But . . . it just felt forced to me."

"Why?"

"Because, throughout the whole story, you've got this couple who just can't get it together. They're so dysfunctional, and they keep lettin' all these little things get in the way. And your male lead—who's a real jerk, by the way—is clearly not as invested in the relationship as his girlfriend is. Yet, by the end of it, we're supposed to believe that, all of a sudden, he loves her just as much as she loves him? It's not realistic."

She felt a lump forming in the back of her throat as she tried to defend her storyline and her characters. "But that's what the whole story's about," she insisted. "He changes."

"When?"

"Throughout the whole thing."

Alex shrugged. "Didn't really seem like it. I mean, in some ways, he was treating her worse by the end of the story than he was at the beginning. Now maybe this is just my point of view—and keep in mind, this is just constructive criticism from someone who's read way too many novels in his lifetime—but . . . by the end, I was actually rooting against them. Or against him, at least. I thought the girl deserved better."

She shifted uncomfortably, not because she couldn't take the critique. It was just that it was making her . . . think. "I get what you're saying," she acknowledged, "but if they don't end up together, then the story's pointless."

"I don't think so."

"But the whole point is that, despite everything that's wrong with both of them, and despite all the obstacles they create for themselves, they're in love at the end. That's what it's about, the two of them finding their way back together."

"I disagree," he argued gently. "The way I interpreted it, it's about the two of them finding their way apart."

She inhaled shakily, trying not to read too much into it. Sure, it was a story she'd written, spent endless hours on, actually, but at the end of the day . . . it was just a story. Nothing more.

...

After being at the wrestling meet all day, Dylan fell asleep almost instantly that night. As much as Maria loved spending time with her son, she also relished any and all alone time with Michael. She sort of loved the fact that it was just sort of understood that they would go upstairs, lie down in bed together, and just talk, the way they often did.

"Tell me something I don't know about you," he said, probably hoping that she'd slip and reveal her favorite song. Fat chance.

At this point, he knew so much that she just blurted out the first random thing that came to mind. "I can read palms."

"Really?" He sounded skeptical.

"No, I'm serious. I had a substitute teacher show me how to do it once." She propped herself up on her forearm and ordered, "Let me see your hand."

He held out his left hand and said, "Alright, go ahead and bullshit me."

"It's not bullshit." She happened to believe a lot of silly things like this were pretty damn authentic. Palm-reading. Astrology. Not stupid. "Okay," she said, grazing her middle three fingers across his palm. God, she loved touching him, even just the simple touches like this. Really, all they got to do were the simple touches, the ones that never failed to get her fantasizing about what more involved touching would feel like.

"Wow, this is fascinating," he mumbled sarcastically.

"Sorry." She hadn't meant to space off, so she traced her index finger along the most noticeable line of his palm, the one that cut down vertically just left of the center. "Okay, this is your life line. And it's pretty long, so that's good. And then this . . . I don't remember what this is."

"You're really good at this."

"Shut up. Then there's . . ." It'd been so long since she'd done this to anyone or looked up anything about it, she could hardly remember. "Your marriage line."

"I don't have a marriage line," he denied immediately.

"Yes, you do. It's right here." She pointed out a small horizontal line just below his pinky finger. "And you have a money line, but I hate to break it to you . . . it's not too noticeable."

"Dammit."

"And then this . . ." She traced a vertical line slightly below his middle finger. "This is your sex line."

"Ooh." Suddenly, his interest was piqued.

"And it's kinda jagged, so I guess that signifies you've been with lots of women."

"Huh, maybe you know what you're doing after all." He lowered his hand and said, "Your turn."

"You're gonna read my palm?"

"Yeah."

She lay back down again, extending her right hand outward, letting it rest on his chest. He put his hand behind hers for a moment, covering her fingers with his, and then started in. "Okay, life line. Long like mine. Good. And . . ." His fingers roamed over her palm aimlessly, because clearly he had no idea what he was looking for. "Oh, you've got a marriage line, too. But see, I think you were wrong about this one. I don't think it's a money line. I think it's a . . . it's like a family line, and that's why yours is kinda noticeable. Because of Dylan."

She smiled. He was a pretty damn good bull-shitter.

"And it means that you're gonna have more kids, too. And then there's your sex line. And—yeah, see how they meet up like that? More kids."

She laughed a little. Hmm. Maybe he was right. Someday way down the road . . . anything was possible.

"And judging by the various . . . grooves and indentations," he went on, trying to sound all knowledgeable, "you're gonna have . . . you're gonna have a great love."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah."

"Any idea when this great love's gonna show up?"

He stared at her, his fingers lazily intertwining with hers. "I don't know," he replied, quieter. "Could be any second now."

She felt her breath catch, and her heart sped up. And she wasn't even sure why. Maybe it was because of what he'd just said, or maybe it was because he seemed to have no desire to let go of her hand. For a few seconds, she just gazed at him, wondering if it was painfully obvious just how much she wanted him; and then she let her eyes fall closed, thinking that maybe—just maybe—he'd lean a little bit and kiss her. Even though he shouldn't.

But suddenly, the door opened, and Tina came into the room, ruining the moment. Maria tore her hand away from Michael's and sat up.

"Sorry," Tina apologized.

"You're fine," Maria assured her. Nothing going on there.

Michael sat up slowly, pointing out, "Teenie, you should really . . . knock."

"Sorry," she repeated. "Just wanted to let you know, Dylan woke up and he's all scared 'cause he thought he saw a monster."

"Oh, no," Maria groaned, running one hand through her hair. He'd gone through the monster phase a few months ago, but mercifully, it'd been pretty short. She was hoping that had been the end of it, but apparently not.

"I got this," Michael said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"You sure?"

"Yep." He strode out of the room, slipping past his little sister and messing up her hair on the way out.

When he was gone, Tina hesitantly stepped into the room, asking, "You guys weren't, like . . . doing stuff, were you?"

"No," Maria told her emphatically. "No, we don't . . ." Oh god, was that the kind of impression they gave off? That probably wasn't setting a good example for this little girl.

"But he does that stuff with Isabel, right?"

"Oh, he . . ." Unfortunately. "I don't know if . . ." She totally didn't want to have a conversation about sex with a fifth-grader, so she settled for the truth, figuring that if she didn't lie about it, Tina wouldn't ask as many questions. "Yeah."

"I knew it." Tina skipped forward and hopped up on her brother's bed, taking his spot. "Isabel's really cool," she raved. "And pretty. She's a cheerleader."

"Yeah. Lucky her."

"They've been together a really long time."

Maria nodded silently, resenting that fact.

"My mom and dad hope they'll get married someday."

"Hmm." She tried to smile, but inside her, bitterness was rising. Mixing with envy. "Maybe they will." After all, he did have a marriage line.

Tina hesitated a moment, then angled her body towards Maria, looking at her with utter questioning. "I don't get it, though," she said. "If he's with Isabel, then why is he always around you?"

Maria clutched the bedspread tightly, feeling like she was being put on the spot here, not sure how to answer. Especially since she didn't even know what the answer was.

...

Since the monster had apparently peeked its head out of the small closet in Dylan's room, Michael made a spectacle out of getting rid of him. Gave him a chance to flex his acting chops, be a little over-dramatic, and most importantly, put the little boy's mind at ease.

He stood in the closet doorway, pretending he was taunting the monster as it retreated into the darkness. "Yeah, you'd better run!" he warned. "And don't come back, you hear? If you ever do, I'll kick your ass." Oh, crap. Forgot to censor himself. "I mean, butt. I'll kick your butt, you got that? Dylan's under my protection, and there's no monsters allowed here, so stay out!" He shut the door, satisfied that Dylan would be feeling much better now, and walked back over to the bed. "He's gone," he announced.

Dylan looked so fretful, holding his blanket up over his mouth.

"Don't worry, I got rid of him," Michael assured him.

Slowly, Dylan lowered the blanket, relaxing again. "Tank you," he squeaked out.

"You're welcome. And listen, he's not gonna come back now, 'cause I think I really scared him. But if any of his monster friends ever make the mistake of showing up, all you gotta say is, 'Get outta here. Michael's taking care of me.' And they'll know to back off, 'cause they know not to mess with me. Okay?"

Dylan nodded, smiling contentedly.

"Alright. Get some sleep." Michael bent down and gave him a quick kiss on the head, then turned to leave.

" 'Night, Daddy."

He stopped dead in his tracks when he heard that word again. Oh, no.

He turned back around, watching as Dylan snuggled back into his covers, hating that he had to do this, that he had to say this. But it had to be done. He couldn't let the kid just keep calling him that. He had to set him straight.

"Hey, you know, that's the second time you've called me that now," he pointed out, trying to be gentle.

"I know."

Oh, so innocent. So unknowing. Michael re-approached the bed he'd helped make, kneeling down next to the side, trying to remember what Kyle had told him to say. Oh god, his mind was blank. This wasn't going to be easy. "Hey, Dylan, listen, I don't . . . I don't know if you should be callin' me that."

"Why not?" His eyes were wide with confusion.

"Well . . ." This sucked. This sucked so much. "I'm not your dad. You know?"

"You're not?"

"No." It was amazing that this boy even had a mental concept of what a dad was, though, considering he'd never even really met his. "I care about you a lot, and I have a lot of fun with you, but . . . I'm not your dad; I'm your . . . I'm your friend." He made a face as he said the words. It just didn't sound right, so it sure as hell didn't feel right. He wasn't about to go around admitting it, but he did feel kind of fatherly towards Dylan a lot of the time. And when it came to taking care of him . . . shockingly, he wasn't half bad at it.

Dylan's bottom lip quivered, and Michael worried he was getting upset when he whimpered, "I sorry."

"No, it's okay," Michael quickly reassured him. "You're not in trouble. You didn't do anything wrong. I just . . . I want you to know that you should keep calling me Michael instead of calling me Daddy, okay?"

Dylan's sad face intensified into a pout, and then he complained, "But-but they all . . . got one."

"What?" Time to put that through the toddler-translation filter. "Who?"

"They do."

"They all . . . have a dad?"

"Yeah."

Michael nodded, piecing together that Dylan was probably talking about the other kids at daycare, many of whom, unbeknownst to him, probably didn't have dads, either. But in his mind, he was the only one without one. In his mind, he was different. "Look, I know it may seem that way . . ."

Dylan flipped over onto his other side, growling into his pillow, "I don't got dad." And then he started to cry.

"Ah, buddy . . ." Michael reached out to put his hand on his shoulder, feeling awful for upsetting him, and his fingers brushed against the last name on the back of that jersey he was still wearing. Guerin. He was wearing a last name that wasn't even his.

He needed to remember that just as much as Dylan did.