She nods, biting her bottom lip and driving me a little crazy. Morning wood is a real thing, and right now, I’m suffering.
Between last night and the crazy dream I had about Tilly wearing nothing but those hot-as-fuck red stilettos, I knew I was on the verge of blue balls.
Tate grabs Tilly’s hand and pulls her toward the hallway. “Come on,” she says to her, impatient as always.
I stand there, watching them as they walk hand in hand toward Tate’s bedroom.
Part of me is happy to see Tate content and seeming to latch on to Tilly so easily. But there is another part, the one that’s become a part of me since Marissa took her last breath, that makes me feel like I am betraying the memory of my wife.
“Daddy,” Tate calls out, turning around near her doorway. “We want chocolate chips and bananas in the pancakes.”
“Sure, baby.” There isn’t any reason to argue. The kid isn’t giving me any problems about Tilly being here. Chocolate chips and bananas are always her favorite combination.
“You want plain, Tilly?” I ask.
“Chocolate and bananas are perfect.”
“There’s nothing better, and my daddy makes the best pancakes in the world.”
The kid clearly needs to get out more. I am okay at pancakes, but there’s not much you can fuck up about pouring some batter and turning it over before charring one side.
Brax wanders out of his room, rubbing his eyes with his tiny fists and doesn’t even stop to look in Tate’s room, even when he has to hear two voices.
“I’m hungry.” He stands in the middle of the kitchen, making my job of prepping the pancakes a little more difficult.
I lift him up, placing his ass on the middle island so he’s out of the way and can’t get into too much trouble. “You can help,” I tell him, but there’s no way I’m letting him mix a damn thing.
I place three bananas in a plastic bag, seal it tightly, and hand it off to Brax to smash into tiny pieces. It’s enough to keep him occupied while I finish everything else.
“Who’s Tate talking to?” He uses all his might to mash the bananas, staring at the plastic bag with so much focus.
“Tilly.”
Brax’s eyes widen. “Yay!” he says, sounding every bit like his sister. “I like Twilly.”
“Daddy, can I wear my pink dress?” Tate yells from her room. “Tilly’s going to help me get ready.”
I stare down the hallway, caught off guard. I don’t answer right away.
“Daddy!”
“Sure,” I yell back, but I’m not sure if I’ve totally fucked everything up.
As I finish prepping breakfast, I analyze all the ways I could’ve messed up my children by having a woman in the house. Every book I read on grieving and how to move forward with children said to introduce children to new “friends” slowly. The last thing I wanted was for them to get attached to someone who wouldn’t be a permanent fixture in my life.
There’s a knock on the door, but I’m knee-deep in batter, and the griddle is covered with pancakes. Before I can move, Tate comes running out of her bedroom and heads toward the door. Her hair is tied up in a pink bow, and she’s wearing her favorite pink dress.
Tilly walks out behind her and comes my way. “Are you sure this is okay?”
“I am.”
“She insisted I help her get ready.”
“She’s demanding. I’m sorry.” I flip the pancakes.
“Vinnie,” Tate screams so loudly, my ears ring.
Moments later, Lucio and Vinnie, with Tate in his arms, walk into the kitchen and stop dead in their tracks. They look at Tilly and then to me with their mouths hanging open.
