“You remember how the school said you couldn’t come because you don’t have a daddy?” I said. “Well, these men heard about that. And they disagree.”
Before she could ask another question, one of them stepped forward.
Navy blue suit that pulled a little across his shoulders. Beard down to his chest. Tattoos curling over his collar.
He looked like every stereotype the world had ever stuffed into the word biker.
Then he smiled.
“Ms. Patterson?” he asked, voice surprisingly gentle.
“Yes,” I said.
He nodded once, then turned to my daughter with a kind of careful reverence I had never seen before.
“You must be Sita,” he said, kneeling down so his eyes were level with hers. “My name’s Robert. I’m going to be your dad for tonight, if that’s okay with you.”
She stared at him.
At the suit. At the beard. At the corsage trembling just a little in his big hand.
“Are you a real biker?” she asked, because subtlety is not one of Sita’s God-given gifts.
He grinned.
“Yes, ma’am. Real as they come.”
She threw her arms around his neck.
“I have the coolest date here!” she yelled.
Somewhere behind me, someone sniffed.
The DJ turned away and wiped his eyes.