Tate stares out the window, his beautiful mouth puckering in awe at the view.
“We’re finally getting to visit Chicago,” he says. “Every time we come here for MCI, it’s always outside the city.”
The Midwestern Convention for Insurers is held at a very nice, but very generic hotel in Schaumburg, a Chicago suburb with every chain store imaginable and not much else.
“Were there no hotels available tonight in Schaumburg or by the airport?” I hadn’t thought to ask why we were going into the heart of the city tonight. I don’t second-guess Tate much.
“The Darmody is El-accessible, and it’ll be easier to take the El back and forth to the airport rather than dealing with roads. Of downtown hotels, the Darmody had availability and is the closest to the train stop, which will minimize the time we’re hauling our luggage outside.”
“Good call.” Of course Tate has it covered.
You’re so good I could kiss you, I think again. But I won’t tell you where on your body I’d kiss you. Maybe chugging that drink was a bad idea.
“And the room I booked has a view of Michigan Avenue. Much better than staring at a strip mall. No offense to Schaumburg.” Tate puts his hand on my knee and gives me a wink that’s meant to be totally professional but causes a jolt of heat to hit my balls. And like his look in the airport, this one lasts for a second too long.
Unless I’m overthinking thanks to the strong cocktail.
I learned Tate was gay our first month working together when I spotted a pride flag bumper sticker on his car. And he knows I’m bisexual because I’ve had to alert him to blind dates I was set up on against my will. (Tate is in charge of my calendar.) And there was one time when he was fixing my personal computer, and I’d forgotten to ex out of a browser tab with a porn clip. A porn clip featuring an actor who looked a lot like Tate. He never said anything when he returned my computer, and the browser tab was still open.
Over two years working together, neither of us have crossed that line. Admittedly, it’s been tough at times for me. Tate is a fucking cutie. Tall and lean. He’s a fan of wearing button-down shirts and pants that seem a little too tight, but give a nice outline of his ass and chest. I’ve imagined picking him up and laying him out on my desk. That’s a bridge I would never cross, though. I couldn’t imagine doing this job without Tate at my side, no matter how in charge he thinks I am.
But is Tate trying to cross this bridge tonight?
The train inches closer to Chicago, glowing in the snow. I take out my phone and FaceTime my daughter Rowan. I was so distracted by the cancellation and change of plans–and maybe Tate’s potential flirting–that I forgot to let her know what was going on.
“Hey, Ro!” I say when her bright smile pops on screen. She’s sitting on a kitchen chair and the noise of a party bustles around her.
“Hey Dad.” Each year she gets older, she says that with slightly less enthusiasm and more deadpan affect. Will she even acknowledge me when she turns twelve next year? “Where are you?”
“I’m on a train.” I give her a thumbs up. I’ve fully embraced my dorky dad side. Tate snickers at the sight.
“Shouldn’t you be on a plane?” Rowan asks, tucking a lock of her thick brown hair behind her ears. She takes after me in the looks department. Same thick hair, same skeptical look permanently on her face. I’m just grateful she doesn’t look too much like her mother so I don’t have to constantly be reminded of her.
“All flights are cancelled because of the snow,” I tell her. “I’m staying in Chicago tonight, but we’re flying out in the morning. So one more night with Uncle Tanner.”
My friend Tanner pops into the frame and waves hello. His gaggle of kids (he’s up to four!) peek out from the corners. Despite being a widower with a bevy of small children, he’s always upbeat and in a good mood. I don’t know how he does it.
“All right! One more sleepover with Rowan!” Tanner says in that hyped up way all parents need to use with kids.
A big head of shaggy blond hair pops into frame, belonging to our friend Hank. He kisses the screen, which is closer than I want to get to my friend.
“What are you doing there, Hank?”
“Tanner invited us over for a pizza party.” Hank leans back from the camera and points at his teenage son Brody who pushes up his thick glasses and waves hello. “Des is also here.”
Hank points the camera to the back of the kitchen where Des stands against the doorway in his very expensive-looking suit munching on some crust.
“Des is staying away from us because he doesn’t want kid germs,” Tanner says.
“Half the people around this table are coughing. I’m in the middle of closing a massive deal. I don’t want to get waylaid by the bubonic plague or whatever these kids are carrying,” he says.
Tanner, Hank, and I share an amused look. As three dads, we know getting sick from our kids is an inevitability of parenthood. That was why DayQuil was invented. I didn’t know how well I could function while under the weather until I had Rowan.
“Looks like a fun time,” I say, a twinge of jealousy that I’m not there. The four of us have been friends since we played together on our high school hockey team. I’m grateful to still have them in my life.
“Uncle Hank shoved a whole slice of pizza in his mouth,” Rowan says. Tate snorts a laugh.
“I’m proud of you, bud,” I say to Hank.
