Marcus, with a scar across his eyebrow and hands that looked like they’d broken more than a few things, held out his arm for Sofia, seven, whose real dad was in prison.
“You want to dance, princess?” he asked.
“My daddy’s in jail,” she blurted, because kids don’t do small talk. “He said he’s sorry.”
Marcus blinked.
“My little girl used to say the same thing about me,” he said. “I did some time too. I was stupid. Hurt people. But I loved my kid. Sounds like your dad messed up, not that he stopped loving you.”
Sofia’s shoulders relaxed.
“Do you think he’d want me to dance?” she asked.
“I think he’d want you to have the best time ever,” Marcus said. “So let’s make it worth writing home about.”
Thomas, salt-and-pepper hair tied back, danced with Jasmine, whose father had died in a car accident two years before.
“My daddy’s in heaven,” she said, looking up at him.
Thomas swallowed hard.
“So is my little girl,” he said quietly. “She was six. Leukemia. I never got to take her to one of these things.”
Jasmine slipped her hand into his.
“Maybe you can dance for both of us,” she offered.
He smiled through eyes that suddenly shone.
“I’d like that very much,” he said.
And then there was Sita.