I figured one day Tate and I would run into each other once I moved back home in a few years. I was hoping I would be over everything that transpired on that night in that Four Seasons hotel room by the time our paths crossed. My cheeks flame as I think back on it. In this fantasy reunion, I’m engaged to some perfect, dashing man, and happy, and I don’t turn pink at the thought of Tate, and what almost happened. And whatdidhappen. When I’m tipsy, or feeling particularly desperate, the fantasy is that I’m not engaged. I’m single and he is thrilled by that and tells me he wants me, still —in all the ways I want to be wanted, not just the physical way.
I pick up Dylan now and smile at him. “Okay, let’s hope there are eggs in this place. I know it’s your favorite.”
I throw my cardigan over my pajamas for a little bit more modesty, even though it’s not remotely cold here, and head downstairs. Tate is sitting at the dining room table staring into a cup of coffee that looks untouched. He doesn’t move a muscle as I walk from the stairs to the dining room.
“Morning.”
"Hey. Everything go okay last night?" He still sounds shell-shocked, but that isn't surprising.
“Yeah. He sleeps really well, in general,” I explain. “Has since he was two months old.”
“Must get that from me,” Tate murmurs. “Mom says she used to have to wake me up to feed me. I slept more than a geriatric cat. I still love my sleep.”
“Who doesn’t?” I smile a little but he doesn’t look up from his coffee to see it. And he doesn’t look at his son. “Do you happen to have eggs? Any veggies in the house?”
“He eats eggs?”
I nod even though he still isn't looking up. "Yeah. Eggs, veggies, pasta without sauce, drinks a little juice, water, and milk too but we need to keep giving him a bit of formula to help ween him off the breast. I don't want to end that abruptly. The formula is a good substitute."
"Okay." He reaches for his phone, which is on the table, and I frown, not sure what he's doing. "Every veg or only certain ones? Does he like cauliflower because I hate it."
“He doesn’t like cauliflower actually,” I reply. “Or asparagus. But he loves broccoli and carrots and is kind of indifferent about peas and peppers. He hates oranges. Adores pears.”
“Cool,” Tate says, but it doesn’t actually sound like he thinks it’s cool. “I have eggs and some veggies. Help yourself to anything.”
He goes back to typing on his phone and I fight the urge to ask him what he’s doing and head into the kitchen.
With Dylan on my hip, I get busy poking around Tate’s immaculate space trying to find all the ingredients I need. Then, before I start cooking, I walk out of the kitchen and settle Dylan on the ground in the living room. I place him on his back and put his hanging toy apparatus above him. He giggles and reaches for the plush crane toy swinging above him.
Tate is watching us and typing on his phone intermittently. I stand up and stare at his glass and brass coffee table with all the sharp corners. “Can we move this somewhere else? Dylan needs the space and he’s started pulling himself up and he might hurt himself on this.”
“Sure. No problem.” Tate types on his phone.
“Can you pay attention please!” I bark and his head snaps up, aquamarine eyes on me with guilt swimming in them. “I’m sorry if that’s your girlfriend or whatever.”
He twists his face in confusion and shakes his head with a huff of laughter. “You don’t know me at all do you?”
“Still the chronic bachelor?”
"Of course," Tate says like I'm insane for thinking that might have changed. "And for the record, I'm not texting anyone. I'm taking notes."
He holds his phone screen out to me and I blink to make sure my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me. The note is titled Baby How To. And he's got stuff like Cauliflower = no. Carrots = yes. Can pull himself up. Hide sharp-angled crap.
I almost smile at how ridiculous it is, but he did it in earnest so it would be cruel to laugh. He’s trying. And now he’s tossed his phone on the couch and is bending to grab the bulky, heavy coffee table all by himself. “Wait, I can…”
I stop speaking and just watch him as he squats and lifts it all by himself. Every muscle in his arms flexes. His veins pop. His ass flexes hard against the fabric of his sweatpants. And damn, it's hot. I can do nothing but stare as he somehow manages to carry it all by himself up the three stairs to the landing. He places it on the ground there. "I'll bring it out to the storage locker I have at the back of the building, next to my parking spot."
“I can help with that after I feed him.”
He shakes his head. "You just work your magic on his food. And please, can you write down the recipe for me for whatever you make? In my notes app?"
“Yeah.”
“Password is 2-0-2-4-1-5.”
And then he shoves his big feet into some shoes, opens the front door, and disappears with the coffee table again. I take his phone off the couch, make sure Dylan is still occupied, and head back to the kitchen. I can’t believe he just gave me the password for his phone. Who does that?
Tate Garrison. That’s who. I shouldn’t be surprised. Tate has always been the most authentic, honest person I know. He has never pretended to be someone or something he isn’t. That’s why I’m the fool here. I was the faker. I pretended I wasn’t attracted to him. I pretended it didn’t bother me when my best friend started sleeping with him. I acted like I was down with non-committed orgasms with an audience. It nearly cost me my friendship with Diana and it definitely damaged my friendship with Tate.
