Hate You Not

Oh, dang. You have the flu?

Nah. Idk. I’m ok tho.

I think about his big body between my legs. The sturdy warmth of him. The way he groaned as his tongue painted me. And my whole body starts to buzz again.

Someone honks, and I realize I’m holding up the pickup line by two spots. Dammit.

I’m so sorry, I text after I pull up. Are you at a hotel?

I have a place I stay when I’m here. It’s like an apartment.

What’s the address?

Oh, it’s okay. I’m leaving in a few days.

Still want it.

I see the bubble indicating he’s typing, then deleting, then typing again.

C’mon, Sly. Don’t overthink this. The kids just want to do a Google street view.

He sends the address.

His typing bubble comes back as the kids pour from the schoolhouse doors and spill onto the lawn.

How are they doing, he says.

Fancy you should ask. I know I shouldn’t be snarky, but I can’t help myself. They’re doing great.

I figured that. They like to call me when you’re in the shower.

Well, they did once, I say.

They do it almost every night.

What?! Are you serious?? I gape down at the phone’s screen. How did I not know this?

Do you ever look at your call log?

Who does that!?

Look at it now.

I do—and I find…he’s right. How…creepy. I had no idea the little beasts were calling him. Looks like four nights out of the last six.

How long have you been in Paris? Looks like they called the last four nights around 8 central time. Is that the middle of the night for you?

Ha, kind of, he says.

Wow. I’m really sorry. I guess it must wake you up.

No it’s okay, I like to talk to them. I’m usually awake.

Not tonight. You need your beauty sleep.

Are you calling me pretty, Ms. Lawler?

I don’t know who Ms. Lawler is, but *I* am absolutely not.

I swallow hard. I’m such a liar.

Get some rest, Sly. We’ll talk to you later.

I turn my phone off until we get back to the house, where I dole out the pencil sharpeners and candy and bubbles. The kids rip into their candy, and after I snitch one of theirs, I open my own bag. It’s citrusy and tart and sweet all at once, and I wonder at how the French seem to have all the tasty things.

Then the kids and I crowd around my little laptop and look at the Google street view. The building where he’s staying is made of orange brick, and it’s got cement-colored accents that are ornate, plus a lot of windows and a black roof with lots of small chimneys. I don’t know enough about architecture to know the name of the style, but it’s beautiful.

“I wanna go there,” Margot murmurs.

“Maybe one day we can.” The words roll right out of my mouth, but I find that I can’t take them back. Sutton wouldn’t mind if I used some of her money to take the kids to Paris, would she? I think she would love that.

I ruffle Margot’s soft hair. “Uncle Burke isn’t feeling so well today. I’m going to have some soup delivered to him.”

“All the way to Paris?”

I smile. “Yep. I found a web site that can help me do it. Sort of like an app.” I wink.

“He likes miso soup,” Oliver offers.

“How do you know?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just remember.”

I costs almost sixty dollars to have soup and tea delivered. I cringe at the total, but it’s something that I want to do. It’ll put us a little tight for the month, but that’s okay.

The kids and I spend two hours outside playing with the pigs and goats, and then we head back in for dinner.

“Oooh, chicken salad!”

They sit at the table with the water bottles they use most of the time—stainless steel ones, the same brand Sutton has always bought for them—and I serve them chicken salad, crackers, and a big helping of grapes.

“My friend Mia says she has to eat spinach for dinner! Spinach salad,” Margo says, scrunching her nose.

“I’ll have to make a salad for you guys soon. What about a citrus salad, with almonds and some sesame dressing?”

“Eghh.” Oliver shakes his head.

“You know I’ve never fed y’all something bad yet.”

“Yes you have!” Margot sits up straighter, waving her hand in front of her face as if to clear a nasty memory. “You made us eat gizzards!”

“That wasn’t me. That was your Grandpop.”

“At least he gave us Peppa and George.”

I nod. “At least there’s that.”

I say grace, hissing at Oliver to shut his eyes. The moment I say “amen,” the phone rings. A FaceTime call—from Burke.

“Well, heck.”

“Who is it?” both kids cry. I turn the phone around toward them, and Oliver grabs it and answers.

“Hellooooo.” He makes a silly face, and Burke’s voice fills the kitchen.

“Hey there, buddy.”

“Aunt June said you’re sick!” Margot says, leaning over the phone so close he’s probably looking at the inside of her nostril.