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“Hey, wait for me, kid,” Mickey says, cursing as Brit takes advantage of her new freedom to jump down from the car. He fumbles with the now-loose straps of her carseat as she stumbles through her landing.
“That’s what you get for—”
Brit ignores him, as per usual, and is gone before he can finish.
“Why do kids gotta—” He grunts, finally gives up and tosses the straps in a heap so he can slam the door shut. “Fuckin’ run everywhere?” he finishes, turning just in time to see Brit dart toward the front doors of the school.
“They ain’t gonna feed ya ‘til I get there!” he calls after her, but her little head doesn’t even turn before it’s distorted behind thick glass. He sighs, and tilts his head up, wondering how he ended up here. Ian was supposed to be the one showing up to this weird breakfast thing, not him, but Debbie had called in a favor and Brit had looked so fucking sad standing at the door when he left. Sad enough that Mickey had given in before he even really considered it, and resigned himself to sitting with annoying kids and even worse adults eating donuts in a school cafeteria at an ungodly hour of the morning.
Mickey grumbles to himself, and makes his way slowly after her, ignoring the looks he’s getting from the other parents in the parking lot.
“Like to see you handle a real kid,” he mutters at a woman that shakes her head at him as she herds three small children, all with straight backs and impeccably clean clothes, through the lot. “A lot harder than those fucking clones you’ve got.”
She doesn’t hear him, which is probably for the better. A different woman does, snorting as she hefts a screaming toddler onto her hip, and Mickey nods to her. She knows what’s up.
He’d almost rather linger there with the other adults than make his way through those wide double doors of the school. It always feels a little wrong, coming here, though he’s been doing it for years—first with Franny, now with Brit. But he pushes himself through, ignores his reflection in the glass and how wrong it looks superimposed over the bright but austere space inside.
“Oh, you must be Brittany’s father!” he’s greeted as soon as he walks in, an immediate distraction that he would be grateful for if it weren’t so disconcerting.
His surprise must have shown on his face, because a young woman steps forward with a half-raised hand and a small smile.
“Sorry, was that rude?” she asks, sounding like she’s actually concerned about the possibility. “It’s just that I saw her come in just now, and you do have rather distinctive—”
“Tattoos?” Mickey finishes with a grimace, lifting his hands to show them, but she just blinks at him.
“I was going to say boots, actually,” she corrects. “Brittany likes to feature them in all her pictures.”
Oh. That…made sense, actually. Considering she’d tried to fit into his boots and walk off with them three of the last five days, like he hadn’t spent a ridiculous amount of money on the light-up sneakers she’d been gaga over in the store.
“Uh,” he starts, rubbing his nose and letting his hand fall to his side. “Sorry, I just—”
“Oh, it’s nothing!” the woman informs him eagerly. She reaches forward as if to take his hand, then drops her own before she makes contact. “I’m just so happy to meet you!”
It’s Mickey’s turn to blink.
“Really?” he asks. That was a new one.
“Yes, of course,” she confirms, head nodding almost comically. “Brittany is like an entirely different child now that she’s with you, she’s really opened up this year.”
“Really?” Mickey asks again, a tad more incredulous. “She barely fucking talks.”
“Oh, she talks plenty,” he’s told. “In her own way, of course. And she’s always sharing stories about her dad: the games you play, the stories you read…” She trails off. Probably because Mickey can feel his own mouth twisting.
“I, uh…” he mutters, scuffing his shoe against the floor. He winces when he notices the mark it leaves, rubs at the same spot to clean it. “Uh, I think you mean my husband, Ian. I’m the other one.”
“No, I mean you, Mr. Milkovich,” the woman says, frowning. “Mickey, right? That’s what it said on your registration for today.”
Mickey shrugs.
“Yeah, but Ian—”
“You took her to the zoo last weekend while your husband dealt with family troubles, right?” she asks, and Mickey nods.
“I mean, yes?” he agrees. “But Ian came later, and then they—”
“And you made her that necklace,” she interrupts. “The one with the key, so she never has to worry about getting stranded?”
Mickey bites his lip.
“That was before we were officially fostering, she wasn’t really supposed to have that…”
“Well, she loves it,” the woman assures him. “And she shows it to me every day as soon as she comes in.”
Mickey swallows.
“Really?” he asks one more time, quieter.
“Really,” comes the answer, full of a warmth he’s not sure he deserves.
“But enough of that,” the woman says suddenly. “We can chat later. You’re here for our special parent breakfast, so you better not keep your daughter waiting any longer!”
Mickey takes that in, that word. The way it feels, the way it fits. He looks past this stranger, this woman who only knows him through the eyes of a child that barely speaks, and sees Brit watching him from her place in line.
“Yeah,” he says, and starts moving, not even looking at the woman as he passes her. “Guess I gotta go be a dad.”
And for once, the word doesn’t scare him. Doesn’t make him wonder what he’s doing, what he’s thinking, taking any of this on. Because Brit is watching him, eyes bright, holding the key around her neck and swaying back and forth on glittery shoes. Her hair is braided, her clothes are clean, and she’s smiling.
At him.
He takes a breath, and goes to her.