“Hm. Can I touch you?”
I grin up at him. “Are you aroused by the concept of paralytic toxins?”
“Not yet, but I could be convinced. Was that a yes?”
I nod my agreement. Instead of bending down to kiss me the way I expected, Tristan shifts so that he’s sitting behind me. He grips my shoulders, massaging his thumbs into the knots in my back.
“Oh,” I groan. “Harder.”
He complies with a laugh. “Better?”
“That’s perfect.”
“Great. So, tell me about paralytic toxins.”
“Really? Okay, listen to this.” I reach for the book I was reading about poison dart frogs. Tristan listens while I read to him, and Kepler runs on his wheel, and we know what it’s like to be perfectly happy.
* * *
My days are full of moments like this.
Tristan spends a rare morning off playing guitar on the balcony while I fold laundry. Whenever I recognize the song, I sing the words. Sometimes he joins me. His playing is beautiful, but our voices are not. His is too flat, and I’m consistently too sharp. Neither of us ever complains about the minor and irrelevant imperfections.
In late March, before a home game, I adjust the collar of Tristan’s shirt before I head up to find my seat. “Play like you love yourself,” I tell him. I can feel how his heart stutters beneath my palm. The flutter startles me—Tristan’s tells are sominute, so easy to miss—but this one feels like he’s handing me something breakable and hoping I don’t drop it.
Three nights later, I almost pee myself laughing over a series of GIFs and memes that Marley and I send each other. I refuse to show Tristan my screen, and he never asks. He just shoots me increasingly fond and bewildered looks, even though I’m distracting us both from the documentary I selected about black holes.
In early April, Dot and Cam invite us over to help us paint “the nursery” and ask us not to tell anyone.
“I don’t want to deal with Viktor’s commentary,” Cam explains.
I think it’s an odd ask, because she’s obviously pregnant, until we get to their house and I realize that I have misinterpreted the situation.
“Um, Tristan?” I say out of the side of my mouth, loud enough for Dot to hear. “Did Cam say ‘baby,’ or ‘babies?’”
Dot giggles. “Didn’t Cam tell you? I’ve been taking in small exotic rescue animals that the local shelter can’t manage. I keep them separated by sex, but Clemmie was pregnant when she came to us.”
Tristan eyes the wall of cages and tanks which house lizards, turtles, fish, and rodents of many sizes and breeds. “And Clemmie is what, exactly?”
“A hedgehog.” Dot opens one of the cages. “Come out, Clementine, and say hello?”
I have no idea what baby hedgehogs look like, but as soon as I see Clemmie, I must know if they’re even half as cute as the adults. Tristan and I open our phones to Google at the same time.
“Ew.” Tristan wrinkles his nose. “They’re kinda freaky looking.”
“They’re adorable!” I pout over the top of my screen at him.
“Where are their eyes?”
I huff out a breath and turn to Dot. “He doesn’t get it.”
Dot rolls her eyes. “Men.”
“Don’t worry, Clemmie,” I tell the hedgehog, “your babies are going to be precious.”
Cam comes in from the garage a few minutes later. He’s carrying a box made of plywood. It’s safely sanded down now, but the number of splinters in his hands makes it clear that this is a new development. “Alright, folks, I’ve done my part. Dot, you’re the creative vision behind this project. Tell our friends what to do.”
We spend the rest of the evening painting the nursery. Cam, of course, helps out. I privately resolve to start crocheting tiny blankets, nests, and toys for Dot’s menagerie. I’ll take any excuse to come back and visit Clemmie’s growing family.
