Triplets Make Five

“Really?” I looked up, surprised. Aaron nodded.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he added quickly. “Fatherhood isn’t easy and things have been especially tough since everything that went down between Morgan’s mother and I.”

He was referring to his messy divorce from Morgan’s mother, a former supermodel whom Aaron had loved and adored, right up until he found her in bed with another man. The divorce had left Aaron cynical towards love, but had only strengthened his resolve to be a good father for Morgan. He talked about her all the time.

“Anyway,” he said quickly, “I always thought you’d be a good dad.”

“Why?” I ask, stunned.

“Just a hunch,” Aaron shrugged. “Some people seem like they’re cut out to be fathers and you always seemed like one of those guys to me.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. I was surprised, maybe even partially flattered. But there was something about raising kids that also made me a bit nervous.

The idea of fatherhood has crossed my mind a few times, but after growing up and watching my family shatter, I never trusted myself to start a family. I didn’t like making promises that I couldn’t keep, and I felt like starting a family was the ultimate promise. I wasn’t sure I could trust myself to make a promise that big.

“Maybe you’ll feel differently once you’ve met the right person.”

Immediately my mind went to Daisy. I remembered how stunning she looked the other night, her blonde hair in loose waves and her blue eyes reflecting the want that I felt for her. I remembered how she felt in my arms, how her lips tasted. I felt myself get hard just imagining how good her body would taste. I shifted around on the weight bench awkwardly.

Maybe I should have used more restraint that night. Maybe I should have held back, or kept things platonic between us. I was tempted by beautiful women on a daily basis, and I have no problem saying no. I don’t know what made Daisy Wright any different. I don’t know why I couldn’t keep my hands off of her. Why I felt so certain that I needed her. And I don’t know why watching her rush out of my apartment left me feeling so confused and conflicted.

All I knew is that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since then.

I had to see her again.

8

DAISY

By the time Friday rolled around, I somehow rebranded Caleb’s dinner invitation as a ‘teacher meeting.’ You know, the sort of meeting that a concerned parent (or, in this case, emergency custodian) arranged with a sympathetic teacher (in this case, me) to discuss the academic future and developmental well-being of their precocious child (in this case, Emmy).

During my tenure at Bellamy Day, I have played the role of sympathetic teacher at plenty of these dinner meetings. I’ve listened compassionately as housewives fretted about their child’s pending admission to prep school. I’ve soothed absentee fathers who wondered why their kid had turned into a playground bully.

These meetings usually took place somewhere sterile and uninspired; over bento boxes on Lexington Avenue, or bodega sandwiches nibbled on a bench in Central Park. These ‘meetings’ definitely did not take place in a Michelin-star rated restaurant, and definitely not over a bottle of Jacques Selosse champagne that cost more than my monthly share of the rent payment back in Williamsburg.

As soon as I reached the doors of the NoMad Hotel to meet Caleb, all of my carefully crafted convictions of this being a strictly-business ‘meeting’ arranged to discuss Emmy’s well-being at Bellamy went straight out the window.

As soon as I saw him waiting, hands tucked into the pockets of a sleek black slim-fit suit, face illuminated in the glow of a street lamp, I realized that it was, indeed, a date.

And I was screwed.

Caleb reserved a table for us in a dimly-lit corner of the NoMad Hotel’s restaurant. The restaurant was full of the chatter of fellow diners, but our little corner felt blissfully private. I was the sole object of Caleb’s attention.

And sitting there, under the intense scrutiny of his gaze, the memory that I had tried so hard to suppress all week -- the memory of our kiss -- was suddenly on the forefront of my mind.

“Are you nervous?” he asked me after the waiter pours our champagne and scurries away.

“Not at all, Mr. Preston,” I fibbed, hoping he doesn’t see the way my heart was pounding furiously against my rib cage.

“I insist you call me Caleb,” he said, almost sternly.

“Mr. Preston,” I repeated stubbornly, intent on holding my own in this conversation. “I prefer to keep things professional with the parents of my students.”

“Miss Wright,” Caleb said, trying out my name and smiling, like he was savoring the taste of it on his tongue. “Let’s drop this charade. We wouldn’t be sitting here if we hadn’t already crossed that line.”

“That was a mistake,” my cheeks turned hot pink. “A lapse of judgement.”

“Was it?” Caleb asked, raising a doubtful eyebrow. “The way your heart’s about to burst through your blouse suggests otherwise.”