And, despite how much I wanted him to, Sketch couldn’t either.
“You don’t know that she’s yours,” I whispered.
His eyes were determined. “Yes, I do.”
“You can’t.”
He leaned in closer to me. “I can. I know it down to my fuckin’ soul. That girl is mine.”
I had no clue what to say, but Sketch didn’t wait for me. He laid a quick kiss on my unmoving lips and went to the kitchen.
Just after he disappeared, I heard his voice. “Eat up, princess. You need your energy for the zoo.”
“Zoo!” Emmy cheered.
Right. Apparently, we were going to the zoo.
The Oregon Zoo was back in Portland, a two-hour drive. We had lived less than twenty minutes from it all of Emmy’s life, but I’d only been able to take her once. Now, with that distance so much greater, she was getting her second chance.
Emmy slept for about an hour of the drive, which was beyond awkward for Sketch and me. The other hour was spent telling Sketch how excited she was, how she couldn’t wait to get there, how she wanted to see everything, how she’d only gotten to go the one time before.
Her joy drove the pain that I hadn’t been able to provide that more often deeper. I knew Sketch noticed, and the concerned way he looked over at me told me he wasn’t judging me for it. I filed that away into the ever-expanding folder of things I wasn’t going to think about.
Sketch bought our tickets, something he had laid down the law about before we’d even left. Seeing as I had no job and the funds in my account were going to dry up fast, I wasn’t exactly going to argue with him about it.
Once we were in, I unfolded the map we were given, and asked, “Where should we start?”
Sketch, who had been carrying Emmy on his shoulders since we got out of the car, patted her thighs. “Princess, what’s your favorite animal?”
“Otters!”
“Which way to the otters?” he asked me.
“They have two types. We’ll go left up here first,” I instructed.
“Which otters come first, Momma?”
“River otters, sweetheart.”
Emmy proceeded to tell Sketch everything she knew about the difference between sea and river otters. This was really just that river otters were smaller and “not as fluffy”. Still, she explained this distinction like it was the height of scientific knowledge.
We walked through the crowds, looking like many of the families wandering about in some ways. Mom, dad, child, just a normal family outing to the zoo—except the picture wasn’t necessarily ordinary. Emmy in her pink windbreaker—there was still a bit of a chill in the spring air—was the quintessential three-almost-four-year-old in her exuberance. Sketch was anything but the typical dad. The Disciples’ logo on his back, the tattoos on every visible bit of skin aside from his face, and the way they contrasted with the innocent girl on his shoulders, were garnering him a lot of looks. Some were merely curious, some appreciative, and others openly wary or judgmental.
I hated that. Growing up with the club, I’d experienced it plenty. People used to judge my dad for the way he looked. Dad was not completely covered in ink the way Sketch was, but he’d had more than a few. His arms were clearly inked, even from a distance, and he always wore his cut.
People were writing a narrative in their head of a dangerous man, a man unfit to raise a little girl. They were probably wondering what I was doing with him, if he treated me well. They were likely even casting their judgments my way for making a family with such a man. They had no idea Sketch was one of the most caring people I’d ever known. They didn’t know he was an artist. They had no idea he was sweet enough to plan the trip to the zoo for Emmy.
They had no idea we weren’t a real family, and that was in no way Sketch’s fault.
We came upon a little children’s play area between two exhibits and Emmy begged to be set loose. She took off while Sketch and I stood a bit away with the
“You don’t know that she’s yours,” I whispered.
His eyes were determined. “Yes, I do.”
“You can’t.”
He leaned in closer to me. “I can. I know it down to my fuckin’ soul. That girl is mine.”
I had no clue what to say, but Sketch didn’t wait for me. He laid a quick kiss on my unmoving lips and went to the kitchen.
Just after he disappeared, I heard his voice. “Eat up, princess. You need your energy for the zoo.”
“Zoo!” Emmy cheered.
Right. Apparently, we were going to the zoo.
The Oregon Zoo was back in Portland, a two-hour drive. We had lived less than twenty minutes from it all of Emmy’s life, but I’d only been able to take her once. Now, with that distance so much greater, she was getting her second chance.
Emmy slept for about an hour of the drive, which was beyond awkward for Sketch and me. The other hour was spent telling Sketch how excited she was, how she couldn’t wait to get there, how she wanted to see everything, how she’d only gotten to go the one time before.
Her joy drove the pain that I hadn’t been able to provide that more often deeper. I knew Sketch noticed, and the concerned way he looked over at me told me he wasn’t judging me for it. I filed that away into the ever-expanding folder of things I wasn’t going to think about.
Sketch bought our tickets, something he had laid down the law about before we’d even left. Seeing as I had no job and the funds in my account were going to dry up fast, I wasn’t exactly going to argue with him about it.
Once we were in, I unfolded the map we were given, and asked, “Where should we start?”
Sketch, who had been carrying Emmy on his shoulders since we got out of the car, patted her thighs. “Princess, what’s your favorite animal?”
“Otters!”
“Which way to the otters?” he asked me.
“They have two types. We’ll go left up here first,” I instructed.
“Which otters come first, Momma?”
“River otters, sweetheart.”
Emmy proceeded to tell Sketch everything she knew about the difference between sea and river otters. This was really just that river otters were smaller and “not as fluffy”. Still, she explained this distinction like it was the height of scientific knowledge.
We walked through the crowds, looking like many of the families wandering about in some ways. Mom, dad, child, just a normal family outing to the zoo—except the picture wasn’t necessarily ordinary. Emmy in her pink windbreaker—there was still a bit of a chill in the spring air—was the quintessential three-almost-four-year-old in her exuberance. Sketch was anything but the typical dad. The Disciples’ logo on his back, the tattoos on every visible bit of skin aside from his face, and the way they contrasted with the innocent girl on his shoulders, were garnering him a lot of looks. Some were merely curious, some appreciative, and others openly wary or judgmental.
I hated that. Growing up with the club, I’d experienced it plenty. People used to judge my dad for the way he looked. Dad was not completely covered in ink the way Sketch was, but he’d had more than a few. His arms were clearly inked, even from a distance, and he always wore his cut.
People were writing a narrative in their head of a dangerous man, a man unfit to raise a little girl. They were probably wondering what I was doing with him, if he treated me well. They were likely even casting their judgments my way for making a family with such a man. They had no idea Sketch was one of the most caring people I’d ever known. They didn’t know he was an artist. They had no idea he was sweet enough to plan the trip to the zoo for Emmy.
They had no idea we weren’t a real family, and that was in no way Sketch’s fault.
We came upon a little children’s play area between two exhibits and Emmy begged to be set loose. She took off while Sketch and I stood a bit away with the
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