divorced dad!simon riley, save me.
his daughter, charlotte, more commonly known as lottie, was born in the spring of 2019, the product of an exceptionally toxic relationship between simon and some waitress who used to serve his drinks at his local pub. it wasn’t supposed to be anything serious — at the time, he cared for little else but his duty, and he considered her too immature, too needy, to handle long-term — but, when she fell pregnant, simon did what he thought was right, and married her. he didn’t want his kid growing up like he did, feeling unloved or unwanted. but it came back to bite him in the end, as she proved to be, what price called, a raging fucking cunt. she berated him and manipulated him, cheated on him, claimed that the distance was too much, that if he really gave a damn about lottie, he’d retire from the service.
so he did. and then he divorced her, took her to court and got partial custody of his baby, who was three years old at the time. he’d get her every other week, on father’s day, christmas eve, and his birthday. he would’ve preferred to never have to see his ex-wife again, of course, but wouldn’t rob lottie of a relationship with her mother unless it was absolutely necessary. he wasn’t cruel, just bitter. he lets her have the house, and the car, for their daughter’s sake, he moves out and finds a new place, a quaint two bedroom with a big yard for lottie to play in, and makes peace with his new reality. at the end of the day, he would be happy so long as he had his girl.
you move into the house next door three years after the divorce. this wide-eyed, honey-toned thing, with a dog near the size of you, and a shitbox car whose breaks squeal obnoxiously the first time you make it into the driveway. he reckons you’re fresh out of university, or close to it, you’ve still got that sweetness about you that tells a tale of hope and youth and things he’s long since lost.
simon, with a child of his own and too much time on his hands, sees you struggling to carry your boxes inside and offers to help. to him, it seems quite simple. to you, it’s this big, mean-looking man, who you imagine has every capability of ruining your life, wearing a white wife-beater that does nothing to hide his soft tummy and bulging muscle, calling you kid and offering to install a second deadbolt on your front door. you’re a goner.
over the next few weeks, juggling the new surroundings and new job, you see him occasionally. in his driveway, working on his motorcycle, listening to the same 90s rock your dad used to blast while grilling in the summertime. or he’ll be on the front porch, smoking, sometimes arguing with someone on that archaic, deteriorating cellphone. if you manage to catch his eye, he’ll offer a wave, his fingers perpetually oil stained and permanently crooked, and ask if you need anything from him. you could think of a thing or two but nothing you dare say aloud.
you’re walking your dog one day when you turn the corner, headed to your house, and find simon helping a little girl out of his truck. you’ve no doubt who she is to him, as she looks just fucking like him, blonde curls, brown eyes, and a resting scowl. you didn’t know had a kid, but seeing him, with all his tattoos and bulk and scars, cooing at this little creature does something to you that cannot be undone. lottie squeals when she spots your dog, and almost sprints down the street, asking to pet him.
simon thanks you for indulging her, inviting you to have dinner at his place, because he’s noticed how often you come home with takeout and says that you need real sustenance, you’re practically withering away. you’re not. but you accept anyways, because you’d have to be mad to turn down that offer.
simon’s house is intimidatingly clean, like one would expect of a man who spent most of his life in the military, but traces of him and lottie are everywhere. pictures of her on the walls, alongside a few of simon with a group of unfamiliar men, her drawings and report cards on the fridge, handmade toy-chests in the living room. it’s a real home, with a heart and soul of its own.
lottie shows off her impressive collection of barbie dolls and RC cars, keeping you entertained while simon cooks, and the man watches on with something both amused and curious. he admits, when she goes to wash her hands for supper, that she’s not always so open with new people, that she must like you. you beam at that praise, to his blatant humor.
when dinner is done and lottie is tucked into bed, after she made you promise to come play with her again, and to bring your dog with you, you stick around long enough for a drink. simon asks about you, why you moved here, why you’re living alone. you tell him that you went to school to be a nurse, and got a job offer from the local hospital which you couldn’t refuse. his secondary question, you shrug off with a grin that doesn’t meet your eyes. too busy to date, you say. nobody’s ever seemed worth the trouble.
“smart kid.” he says to that. “men your age don’t know shit about shit—god knows i didn’t.”
then, he tells you about his retirement, and the divorce that followed, vaguely, admitting that lottie’s mother isn’t always the most gracious co-parent, but he wouldn’t change a damn thing if he could. he loves his daughter, wholly and relentlessly. you admire that, if nothing else.
after that, he becomes a more permanent fixture in your life. dinners, drawn-out conversations when you happen to be coming or going at the same time, play dates with lottie and your dog, wesley, and, once, even a ride to work when your car breaks down. by the time you came home, he had it fixed and running better than it has since you got the damned thing. your infatuation festers like an infection in an opened wound. simon notices, as there’s very little that escapes his attention.
he teases you for it, good natured but somewhat patronizing in a way that thrills you more than it should. “i’ve got tattoos older than you,” “did your mama not warn you about guys like me?” “keep it up, and you’ll end up bitin’ off more than you can chew.” unfortunately, all he manages to do is feed into it. still, you take his scolding as disinterest, and, at the risk of ruining what’s turned out to be a decent friendship, you move on with your life. or you try to, at least.
it all comes to a head when he finds you sitting in your car one night, miserable and dejected, with tears in your eyes, despite the fact that you’re in your best outfit, looking heartbreakingly lovely. you confess, when he comes and knocks on your window, that you were meant to meet a coworker for drinks, but had been stood up. he only sighs, his eyes gleaming with fury on your behalf, and says, “thought i told you men your age ain’t shit.”
you remind him that he said the same thing about older guys, and he scoffs, calling you a cheeky brat, and practically manhandles you out of your car. he wipes your tears, graceless but thoughtful, and orders you to give him ten minutes—he returns in fresh jeans and a tee shirt, corralling you towards his truck.
“you look too good to waste it your night crying over some cunt who didn’t deserve your time in the first place.”
