Chapter 10 Des
DES
Ican’t remember the last time I had a home cooked meal. My dinners usually consist of take-out, hip restaurants, or office snacks on extra late nights. The kitchen in my apartment is pristine simply because it’s rarely been used. There are no food smells in my domicile.
But here I am. In a suburban dining room that smells faintly of pasta and Crayola markers.
The kids swarm around their plates like little velociraptors. I don’t know all their table dynamics yet, but I can already tell that sitting down for a calm family meal here is as likely as getting a workable family picture.
Dean and Davy are circling the table like it’s a battlefield.
“I’m sitting next to Des!” Dean declares, practically leaping over a chair.
“No, I want to,” Davy argues, folding his arms with the gravitas of a tenured attorney.
“Dad!” They both yell at Tanner.
“Boys,” Tanner says with a warning tone, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “It’s a table, not a throne. Just sit down and eat before the lasagna gets cold.”
I should intervene. I’m their fake stepdad now, after all. Unlike previous situations where two people have fought over me, this can’t be resolved with a three-way.
“It’s fine,” I offer, trying for a diplomatic tone. “We can rotate. Tonight I’ll sit next to Dean, and tomorrow I’ll sit next to Davy.”
Dean beams. Davy makes a face. Compromise. Beautiful in theory. Absolute garbage in execution.
As soon as I sit, Dean shimmies so close that we’re basically sharing a thigh. He’s mid-story about how he got in trouble for making fart noises during math when—boom—his elbow knocks over his glass of orange soda, which sails directly into my lap.
I suck in a breath as the cold citrus sticks to my jeans—or rather Tanner’s jeans that I’m borrowing. They may not be the designer ones I’m used to, but they don’t deserve to be covered in orange carbonated sugar.
“Dean!” Tanner barks.
“I didn’t mean to!” Dean says, wide-eyed. “It was an accident!”
I hold up my hand, trying not to wince. “It’s okay. I’ve survived worse.”
Like the time I accidentally wore brown shoes with a black belt in front of a client. That haunts me more than it should.
“I’ll get a towel,” Tanner says, already heading toward the kitchen.
“Sorry,” Dean mutters, staring at his plate.
“It’s really fine,” I tell him. I try a napkin to get out the orange tint in my jeans. The stickiness of the soda clings to my legs.
“Nice going, idiot!” Davy hisses at his brother.
“I said it was an accident!” Dean yells back.
Tanner returns with a towel and hands it to me. Dean intercepts it.
“Here. I can do it.”
Dean’s hand gets caught on my plate, though, and it sends a heap of hot leftovers onto my lap, coating the orange soda puddle with a savory layer of day-old lasagna.
“Shit!” I yell. Lulu’s eyes go wide at the expletive. I made it a whopping two hours as a stepdad without cursing in front of the kids. Honestly, that’s better than I expected.
“I’m sorry.” Dean’s lower lip trembles. After Lulu’s previous waterworks, I want to avoid another meltdown. So I take a deep-ass breath and pray my dry cleaner can handle these stains.
“It’s okay,” I say, thinking of my quiet, clean apartment right now. My happy place. Once upon a time, I used to eat sushi in silence while watching the sun set behind the mountains.
I pat down my jeans as I feel them clinging to my skin.
“You good?” Tanner asks.
“Other than being christened by neon orange soda? Never better.”
The water is hot, bordering on scalding, which is exactly how I like my showers. I scrub soda and ricotta cheese residue from my thighs and contemplate my life decisions.
Living in Tanner’s house. With his kids. Pretending to be his husband.
What the hell am I doing?
I lean my head against the tile, eyes closed.
This was supposed to be a smooth plan. No muss, no fuss.
Sign some forms. Wait for Tanner to get a new job.
Get the promotion from Stan. Resume bachelor life in my sleek city condo where my shower head has multiple settings.
Tanner’s shower has two settings: off and full power fire hose.
But now I’m standing in Tanner’s phone booth-sized shower, wondering if I’m in over my head.
I towel off and wrap it around my waist. I go into Tanner’s bedroom and pull on a worn T-shirt and soft joggers from his dresser. I get a little rush putting on his clothes. I inhale the fresh, springy detergent scent and it feels like he’s hugging me.
As I step out into the hall, I hear Tanner’s voice. Low, warm, soothing.
I follow the sound like a moth to a porch light and stop just before Lulu’s door. It’s cracked open.
Tanner is sitting on her bed, a hardcover picture book in one hand, Lulu tucked under his arm like a sleepy little burrito.
Tanner gives an award-worthy performance, utilizing multiple voices and sound effects. It makes me chuckle to myself.
He turns the page and continues reading. He gives her head a quick kiss, and she scrunches tightly up against him. My heart can barely take it. As chaotic as little kids can be, if you get to have this cute moment with them at night, is it really so bad?
Lulu yawns hugely, pressing her face into his side. His voice could lull me into a deep sleep, too.
“One more,” she mumbles.
“Nope,” Tanner says, planting another kiss on her head. “You’ll turn into a pumpkin.”
“I already am a pumpkin,” she replies.
“Then you better sleep before someone turns you into pie.”
She giggles, and I watch as he tucks the blanket higher up her chest, folding it like he’s done this a thousand times. Which he probably has. His movements are automatic, practiced. But not rushed. There’s a care to it. A kind of devotion I’ve never had to offer anyone.
It’s intimate in a way that rattles something loose in me.
He turns off the lamp, slips out the door, and jumps when he sees me standing in the hall.
“Jesus, Des. You good?”
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” I say. “I was just heading back to the couch.”
He shrugs. “You can crash in my room, and I’ll take the couch. You should get a good night’s sleep. You’re the one with the stressful job.”
“You hate that couch. You said it’s like a torture device out of Saw movie.”
“That was very poetic of me.”
“Why haven’t you replaced it?” I ask.
Tanner leans against the doorway to his bedroom. “Oh, braces for Lena…hockey clinics for Davy…a broken dishwasher that needed to be replaced…”
He could go on all night, but I stop him. Tanner needs his rest. My job is busy, but I see how wrangling kids is taxing on a whole different level.
“I’m fine,” I say, walking toward the living room. “I’ve endured worse.”
We start unfolding the pull-out bed together. I have a flash of PTSD at the scene of the family picture debacle. Tanner throws a fitted sheet on like he’s racing the clock in a laundry competition.
He looks tired. Not physically—he always looks good, in that low-maintenance, easy charm way. But there’s a heaviness behind his eyes. Something a shower can’t rinse away.
“You okay?” I ask.
He pauses mid-pillow fluff. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
“Dangerous,” I tease.
“I’m worried,” he says, finally. “About the kids. This whole fake-marriage thing… I don’t want them to get confused or hurt.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, the metal frame groaning beneath me. “You’re not giving them enough credit. They’re sharp, resilient.”
“How resilient should kids have to be? They’ve been through so much,” he murmurs. “Losing their mom. Me losing my job. Now this weird setup. I just… I don’t want to make their lives harder.”
I nod slowly. “They’re going to be okay, Tanner.”
He gives me a skeptical look.
“You know why?” I add. “Because they have you. And you’re a great dad.”
His face softens. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
We sit in silence for a moment, the soft whirl of the dishwasher humming from the kitchen.
“How about you?” I ask. “How are you doing?”
He shrugs again, but it’s different this time. Slower. Heavier.
“I hate not working,” he admits. “Feels like I’m failing them. Like I’m not doing enough.”
I chuck a freshly fluffed pillow at his face.
“What was that for?”
“For that baseless response. Not doing enough?” It’s like Ina Garten calling herself an okay cook. “You’re raising four kids, keeping a roof over their heads, being present. That’s more than most people can manage. It took me a month to get around to scheduling an oil change.”
“I was good at my job,” he says. “It wasn’t my passion like advertising with you, but I had a routine down. Without that routine, I feel so unmoored.”
I can imagine how important routine is to a single dad struggling to make the trains run on time. “You’ll find a new job soon, and you’ll get your routine back. Until then, you have me.”
He meets my gaze, something unspoken passing between us. I recognize the feeling. That quiet desperation to feel needed. Useful. Whole.
Sometimes, I lay awake at night worried about losing my job. There are always younger people with fresher perspectives coming into the field. Ad guys are always one bad campaign away from getting tossed. If this fake marriage doesn’t get me fired, then bombing the Silq Cosmetics pitch will.
“You will find something. You’ve been unemployed for less than a month. Give it time. And don’t beat yourself up, Tanner. The kids will be alright. I promise you that. They have a great father.”
“And stepfather.”
Weird to think that I’m a stepfather. I don’t hate it as much as I thought I would. Orange soda and lasagna-stained outfit aside.
“That should do it.” Tanner tucks in the last side of the pull out bed.
The silence stretches again, but it’s not awkward. It’s…peaceful. Tanner closes his eyes and smiles at something, like he’s found Zen.
“I forgot how nice it is,” he says, “when they’re all asleep.”
I smirk. “I didn’t know silence could be this loud.”
“It’s kinda perfect.”
He walks over to the thermostat, adjusts it slightly. “One last chance,” he says, casual but not. “You sure you don’t want the bed?”
“You hate the couch, Tanner.”
“I’ll live. Or…we could share the bed. It’s a queen size.” Tanner’s cheeks flush for a moment. “Not like how you’re thinking—”
“I wasn’t thinking that,” I quickly interject.
“I meant. There’s room on there for both of us. We can put a wall of pillows if needed.”
The idea of sharing a bed with Tanner sends a flicker of heat down my spine. I’ve never thought of him like that. Not really.
Okay, maybe a little. Like when he grins with his whole face. Or when he carries Lulu on his shoulders like she weighs nothing. Or when he says my name and it sounds like something he’s always known.
I clear my throat.
“I’ll stay here,” I say. “Saw movies are underrated.”
He smiles, half-laughs, nods. “Suit yourself. Goodnight, husband.”
“Goodnight, husband,” I reply, unable to help the way my lips tug into a grin.
He turns off the living room light. I lie back on the couch-bed, staring at the ceiling fan slowly turning above me.
A messy house. Loud kids. And a tortuous bed. What a fucking night.
And yet, I’ve never felt more settled.