Can’t wait? Here’s chapter 1 of wild goose chase

“Chase! You’re going to miss the beginning!”

Violet’s insistent voice traveled from her living room to her kitchen. I stood at her counter, cutting garnishes for a tray full of drinks. It was fall in Tennessee, but her counter looked like Barbados in endless summer.

“I’ll be right there!” I hollered back appeasingly. I’d already hooked tiny umbrellas over the rims of five peach passion fruit daiquiris. Now, I was sliding in striped paper straws. In a few seconds, I’d pour virgin daiquiris from a separate blender into twin Paw Patrol cups—slushies for my godchildren, Bri and Trey.

Using a pair of kitchen shears, I snipped the ends of the last two straws, right-sizing them for their smaller cups, then balanced a toothpick speared with strawberries on the rim of Bri’s. After pouring the kids’ drinks, I dried my hands on a kitchen towel, threw it over my shoulder, and picked up the tray.

“What’d I miss?” I played a dangerous game, walking with the drinks while stealing glimpses at the screen. Man Enough was our Thursday night obsession—a reality show in which eighteen strapping singletons vied for one woman’s love. Entertainment Monthly called it the most egregious display of toxic masculinity ever to appear on network TV. I called it a fascinating study in gender psychology.

As the only man invited to girls’ night in, I took the predicted amount of shit about the shortcomings of my brethren. I’d also learned a few things. Watching an elimination-style dating show with Violet and her friends had been eye-opening. Thursdays were a highlight of my week.

“Adam is sulking over last week’s date.” Jules rushed into a blunt summary. “Eric’s in the gym. And Marcus is in the confessional going on about his feelings. Again.”

“Marcus is the best man in this whole competition,” I defended.

“Marcus won’t last another week.” Jules rolled her eyes.

“The others ought to take a leaf out of his book,” I preached.

“Which leaf is that?” Jules side-eyed me.

“Be nice,” Violet teased. “Last I checked, Chase was your ride home.”

“Yes, Jules, be nice,” I parroted.

I shot Jules a triumphant smirk as I handed over her daiquiri. Jules was perennially grumpy. She was also Violet’s oldest friend, though the two of them couldn’t have been more different. While Vi was sugar and spice and everything nice, Jules was just…sour. Her features were as sharp as her tongue—severe blue eyes and a diamond jaw defined her pale, slim face. She wore a permanent scowl, not unlike Clint Eastwood’s. The two of us caring about Violet so much was the only reason we put up with each other.

“This looks amazing, Chase,” the far more gracious Tatum offered when I handed her a drink. Tatum had what I thought of as a pageant smile—wide and toothy and bright-eyed; she was polished in a way that matched her coiffed blond hair. Tatum always looked like she’d just won something. Nikki—lipstick-free and perpetually in yoga pants—was far more understated. She threw me a smile as she took hers, then shifted her attention back to the screen.

“Here you go, bud. Drink it slow this time.” I waited for Trey to take his cup with two hands. When it came to not spilling, he wasn’t great. He also wasn’t great at avoiding brain freezes. Such was the enthusiasm of being four.

Seven-year-old Bri looked up at me with heart-tugging sweetness. “Did you remember the strawberries, Uncle Chase?”

I threw her a wink, then handed over her smoothie, complete with strawberries from my farm. I’d planted three rows of bushes just for her. This kid loved strawberry everything—strawberry milkshakes, strawberries in her oatmeal, strawberry preserves—tubes of strawberry lip balm were stowed in every bag she owned.

Setting the tray on the ottoman, I plucked up the final two drinks, handing Violet hers and settling next to her on the love seat. But I held off on watching the show. Violet’s raw appreciation of my mixology skills was the reason why I made drinks.

Her eyes fell shut upon her first, indulgent sip. It gave me time to look at her, unabashed. Violet LaRue’s beauty was rare. Her full lips were lush, with a natural pout. An expansive crown of ginger curls framed her face. Her skin was the tawny brown at the center of a perfect peach, with nutmeg freckles dropped across her nose. Her dark eyes—still so lovely in spite of the fatigue that came with parenting—sparkled with intelligence and wit.

“You know I love passion fruit,” she said in a contented sigh.

“I do know that,” I returned.

“I needed this today.” Her lips melted into the smile that got me out of bed in the morning. She reached to the table next to her and handed me a pork empanada. Finally at ease, I settled in my seat to enjoy Man Enough.

Today’s challenge was to cook a feast for Chelsea, the bachelorette. The suitors had all day to prepare a meal. At sunset on the beach, they would present their tables. Chelsea would go down the line, sitting with each suitor and tasting the meals speed dating-style. One suitor would be eliminated at the end of the night.

“That Eric guy is so smarmy.” Tatum spoke of the man currently on-screen who sat crouched in the jungle, hiding inside a bush. He’d used mud from a river to camouflage himself, held a knife in his teeth, and had a wild look in his eyes.

“What’s he hunting?” I asked Violet, still catching up.

“He thinks he’s gonna catch a wild boar.” 

I reveled in the way her voice lowered when she spoke only to me.

“Chelsea doesn’t eat pork,” I pointed out. 

“You’d be surprised how few men actually pay attention,” Tatum said sourly.

“Reminds me of my ex,” Nikki groused. “Brought me home roses every Valentine’s Day. Would’ve been sweet if I hadn’t told him ten times I was allergic.”

“Have you noticed that he never has a shirt on?” Violet chimed in. “And he’s always doing push-ups. Like, everywhere…in the kitchen, by the pool.”

“He’s shinier than decent people.” Tatum’s Georgia accent was thick.

“He’s clearly in it for the publicity,” Nikki opined.

“I don't know why Chelsea can't see through him,” Tatum grumbled.

A kind of sadness hit me in my gut. “People see what they want to see.”  I said it almost to myself. I ought to know, considering I was an expert in being second choice. All my life, I’d found myself in the friendzone. It turned out women went for alpha men.

I definitely wasn’t that—not big and boastful, not large and in charge. Instead, I was reliable and steady. You’d think that’d be worth something, I was living evidence it’s not. I was the guy who didn’t get the girl.

“What she should’ve seen was him hitting on all those women that one night at the club,” Jules came back.

For once, Jules and I agreed. Eric was a piece of shit.

“It’s not okay to hit people,” Trey informed the room after taking a loud slurp of virgin daiquiri.

Trey was smart for four years old, and he looked the part owing to his green, plastic-framed glasses.

“Hitting on someone isn’t the same as hitting someone.” Bri spoke to her little brother with the authority of a kid twice her age. “Being hit on is like playing tag, except for grown-ups, and they use compliments instead of hands. When you want to date someone, you say nice things.”

“I thought Eric liked Chelsea.” Trey seemed confused.

“Eric likes a lot of women,” Jules explained.

“I think Eric likes himself best,” Trey concluded.

Bri nodded, seeming to accept the explanation. Violet  and I exchanged a look. How the hell did they figure out this shit?

“Uncle Chase, can I sit in your lap?” Trey asked.

“C’mere, bud.” It was way past his bedtime, but Violet let him stay up each week for girls’ night in. I took a long sip of my drink before lifting him up. Five minutes later, he was fading, his eyes drooping and his glorious mess of deep brown curls brushing my chin as his cheek lay on my chest.

“Momma, can Uncle Chase read us stories?” Bri whispered, perhaps sensing that Violet would send both of them to bed.

“Uncle Chase is watching the show, honey,” Violet answered at the same time as I said, “Only if we can read The Lorax again.”

“You don’t have to,” Violet whispered as Bri gave a little squeal.

“I know I don’t have to.” I put my hand on Violet’s shoulder to keep her in her seat. She seemed a second away from getting up. The look she gave me struck up one of our silent conversations.

Chase, you do too much.

                I have a promise to keep, Vi.

You spoil my kids rotten.

                Kids deserve to be spoiled.

You know I can never repay you for this.

                Good. You’re not supposed to.

I ended our silent argument by turning back to Bri. “Go on and brush your teeth, shortcake. And get your book ready. I’ll be up there in five.”

“Night, Momma! Night, everyone!” Bri scurried away before Violet could protest.

I rose with a sleeping Trey on my shoulder and walked him up the stairs. His was a Star Wars-themed room I’d fixed up myself. Above pale wainscoting, the walls were painted dark blue and dotted with stick-on gems that looked like stars. Bright-glowing light saber fixtures flanked his bed. Lamps that looked like storm troopers sat atop his desk and a Chewbacca beanbag chair sat in the corner.

It was easy to deposit him on his bed. Easy for me, at least. He was getting too big for the petite Violet to carry.

“Night, buddy.” I knew he wouldn’t hear me, but said it anyway as I placed his Baby Yoda stuffie in his arms. Carefully, I removed his glasses and placed them on the nightstand. A minute later, I was on Bri’s floor with my back against her bed.

The Lorax was her favorite everything—her favorite book and favorite movie. She was such a good reader we took turns, me reading the odd pages and her reading the evens. The book was propped up on my knees, and she lay crosswise behind me, reading over my shoulder.

I could tell she was getting tired when she tapered off in the middle of a page. I looked back to find her breathing even and her eyes shut. Bri was unmistakably Violet’s, right down to the freckles on their nose. Her curls were looser, her skin was a lighter brown, and her hair was more dark auburn than dark ginger—other than that, they were twins.

After closing the book, I rose from the floor, walking lightly, so as not to make noise.

“G’night, shortcake,” I whispered only once I’d gotten to the door. She had bionic hearing. Any louder and I’d wake her up.

“G’night, tallcake,” she whispered, half asleep.

This little girl killed me. I looked down at her sweet, pudgy face for another long moment before backing out of the room, closing her door and leaving it open a crack. Sometimes, I loved Bri and Trey so much it hurt.

“Uncle Chase?” her small, sleepy voice called to me as I made my first step down the hall. I backtracked and opened the door.

“Yes, darlin’?”

“We forgot something,” she said sweetly.

“You need to use the bathroom?” I asked.

From the faint glow of her purple night-light, I saw her shake her head.  “We forgot to say night-night to Daddy.”

Something tightened in my chest again, but it was a different kind of something. Not love this time, but guilt. Todd may have died in the line of duty, but he would always be their dad.

“We did forget.”

I strode back into Bri’s room, my voice light, even as I was gutted. On the far side of her bed, a framed picture of a very small baby Bri being held by a beaming Todd was on the table.

“Night, Daddy,” she said in a voice that broke my heart, not because it was sad—because it was earnest. Todd was as real to Bri as he was to me and Violet.

“Night, brother,” I said next.

I would do well to remember that. That Todd had been my best friend and that I’d made a promise to take care of his family. That I needed to find a way to do that without wishing I had his life. I would do anything to bring him back, and to not be in love with Violet. Easier said than done.

I know. You want to read the whole thing now.

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