I'm Not in Love

“You mean you’re sorry?”

“Uh-huh. Sorry. Can I have more pizza?” Tommy doesn’t seem all that remorseful.

After we finish eating, I wash the plates and wipe the table while Tristan and Tara pack. Tara empties the boys’ school bags and stuffs them with blankets, books, toys, animal crackers, and juice boxes.

“Babysitter’s survival kit,” she announces as she hands the bags to me.

“I’ve got clothes and PJs for the kids and me.” Tristan pats the full to bursting purple-flowered backpack.

“It’s okay if you forgot to pack our toothbrushes,” Jared offers.

“I didn’t,” Tara replies plainly. “I’ll go wake up Wendy now. Maybe you can go through a drive-thru and grab her some chicken nuggets and fries for dinner.”

“Me and Tommy like french fries a lot too,” Jared adds. “Just sayin’.”

“This guy has the same appetite as his uncle,” I joke, ruffling Jared’s mop of blond hair.

“Two bottomless pits,” Tara mutters and leaves to get Wendy.

“Coach Remi, I never been on a sleepover before,” Tommy tells me.

“I been on, like, ten,” Jared boasts.

“Well, it’s been a long while since I last slept over somebody’s house. Tonight’s gonna be fun.” Tristan glances at me with a sweet expression I could get used to.

* * *

Remi

The kids arecrazy about the loft. We let the boys kick a soccer ball back and forth while putting sheets and blankets on the sectional. They’re astounded that they can play soccer indoors. I don’t have much in terms of decoration, so all we need to do is turn the easel toward the wall and keep the ball away from the windows.

“Remi’s ginormous loft rocks!” Jared shouts.

“Yeah, lofts are cool beans!” Tommy agrees.

I don’t have a TV, so we tuck the boys in on the couch with my laptop on the coffee table. Tristan finds a show for them to watch on YouTube, so they can settle down before trying to sleep. Meanwhile, I read this “bedtime for little Lambkins” storybook to Wendy a dozen times.

“Read it again, Emmie!”

“Wendy, Remi read the book over and over already, and it’s time for lights out. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

“Uncle Tris, Tommy had better go take a pee, so he doesn’t, like, wet Coach Remi’s couch.”

“Good thinking, Jared,” Tristan replies. “Maybe you should go with him, huh?”

I’m not too worried about a pee-soaked couch because Tristan lined it with trash bags. And Wendy’s wearing this underwear/diaper thing even though she’s “a big girl” who never makes “pee-pee oopsies.” Fifteen minutes later, the three kids are draped all over my sectional, either asleep or doing an excellent impression of it.

“This is your life every single day, huh?” I ask Tristan in a whisper.

“Pretty much. Kids are a lot of work.”

“It’s a good kind of work.” I haven’t felt so upbeat in ages.

“It is if you do it right, which means putting them first.” Tristan hunches and rubs his neck. It hits me that he hasn’t stopped running around all day.

“Well, it’s grown-up time now. I have two bathrooms—a half-bath right over there,” I point, “and a full bathroom beside my bedroom. Why don’t you use one to get ready for bed?”

“Thanks. I’m wiped out.” He stretches widely and fetches the purple-flowered backpack.

“I’ll pour a couple of glasses of wine, and we’ll hang out in my room. You can check out all of my drawings of you and choose a page for your portfolio.”

“If I can keep my eyes open.” He trudges toward the half-bathroom, pajama pants in hand.

I change into sweats and an old Gunther University T-shirt, then head to the kitchen to open a bottle of red wine. By the time I get to the bedroom, Tristan is stretched out on top of my bed covers wearing plaid pajama pants, his bare chest golden against my deep gray quilt.

After he props himself up with pillows, I hand him a glass of wine. “I’ve got to warn you… if I drink this, it’ll put me right to sleep.”

“Sleep is the goal.” Did I just say that? I have the hottest man in the planet on my bed, and all I want is for him to get a good night’s sleep.

“Can we look at your life drawings of me another time?” he asks, yawning.

“Of course.” I sit down beside him on the bed, and we sip wine in peaceful silence.

When Tristan finally speaks, his voice is just above a whisper. “You’ve made my life so much better, Remi.”

“It hasn’t been a sacrifice.” This is an understatement. The Wilder family makes me feel as if I truly belong somewhere, for the first time in years. And years and years…

“You’re so good with the kids and with Tara. Believe me, she can be tougher than Jared, Tommy, and Wendy put together.”

Tristan places his empty wine glass on the whiskey barrel night table on his side of the bed. I put down my glass too. Then I go to the blanket chest at the foot of the bed and pull out a fluffy white comforter. We’re clearly not getting between the sheets tonight, so this will keep us warm. I toss it over Tristan before climbing on the bed.

Lying in the middle of the king-sized bed, our shoulders pressed together, we adjust the pillows and comforter so we’re comfortable. I hear him sigh—the sound is breathy with pleasure.

The question—and the need for an answer—hits me suddenly. “Am I good with you too?”

He sighs again. “You’re the best.”

Tristan turns toward me and touches my cheek with his fingertips. The wispy caress leaves me frozen with a raw emotion I’m not at all sure I want to feel. Bittersweet longing or desperate hope… or maybe it’s secret joy. Then he stretches toward me to kiss my cheek.

A single sweet, soft, unforgettable kiss.

“Sleep well, Remi.”