Chapter 12 Des
DES
The sun hadn’t even cracked the horizon when I opened my eyes.
For a moment, I forgot where I was. The sheets were warm and soft, and the faint smell of ocean-scented shampoo clung to the pillow beside me. There was a solid shape in the bed—Tanner—facing away, breathing deep and slow, shoulders rising and falling in a rhythm that made me feel oddly…safe.
That’s what threw me. The safety.
I was used to waking up alone. In silence.
In my king size bed with my eight hundred thread count sheets in my sleek condo where everything matched and there were no sticky fingerprints anywhere.
But here, wrapped in faded plaid sheets, the scent of childhood and chaos clinging to the walls, I felt like I’d crawled inside a photograph from someone else’s life.
My late night conversation with Tanner brought up memories I’d spent years actively forgetting.
A hellish home life. My dad confessing that I was the worst kind of accident.
But it also reminded me of the warmth and security I felt sleeping on Tanner’s floor, how we’d stay up until three bullshitting about school, life, the future, the universe.
People used to wonder how Tanner and I were such good friends when we seemed so different. He was pensive and sweet; I was a loud but lovable asshole. It worked in that weird way that peanut butter and jelly instinctively go together.
An impulse to turn and spoon Tanner shot through me, but I quickly tamped it down.
I’d had those feelings for Tanner for nearly as long as our friendship.
They would come and go. Everytime I broke up with someone, or suffered through an awkward morning after, I’d imagine us as a couple. How easy it could’ve been.
Y’know, if I was the relationship type. Which I’m not. Tanner only does serious, though. I think that’s why our friendship works so well. We both know we’re not good romantically for each other, so we’ve never blurred that line.
Even though it’d be quite yummy to do so. I’ve snuck a peek at him in the showers. He’s got a great body, lean muscles padded with some dadbod softness, along with a nice rod.
Quietly, I slip out of bed lest my morning wood turn into actual wood. I don’t want to wake him. He looks peaceful. The poor guy doesn’t get enough sleep as it is.
I tiptoe out of the room, pulling the door closed with a whisper of a click.
The hallway creaks as I move, and for a half-second, I tense, waiting for one of the kids to pop out holding a Nerf gun or something. Nothing. Just the sleepy stillness of early morning.
Downstairs, the house is already lit with that faint gray light that makes everything look soft around the edges. I pad barefoot into the kitchen, expecting to have it to myself.
Wrong.
Davy, Dean, and Lulu sit around the kitchen table staring at me, like some pre-teen mafia waiting for their next mark.
“Morning, Des!” Dean chirps. He shuffles a deck of playing cards, then fans them out for me. “Pick a card.”
“You’re up early.” I nervously take a card. Usually, Tanner is with me for kid coverage. But I am alone with a feeling of being thrown to the wolves.
“We’re hungry,” Davy says.
“Very hungry,” Lulu adds. “Can we have pancakes?”
“Um…sure.” I open the freezer door and sift through the heap of vegetables and ancient leftovers.
“We’re out of frozen pancakes and waffles,” Davy says. “And there’s no more toast.”
I open the pantry door. “Cheerios?”
“We don’t like Cheerios,” Davy informs me. End of discussion. “Dad usually does the grocery shopping today.”
“I’m so hungry. I’m going to starve to death.” Lulu doubles over holding her stomach.
“We don’t want that. Is there any fruit?” I grab a banana from the counter. It’s so brown and mushy that for a second, I worry it’s something else. I chuck it into the trash.
“Is your card the nine of clubs?” Dean asks.
I flip it over. “Seven of spades.”
“Hey, I was close!” Dean pumps his fist.
“No, you weren’t, dumbass,” Davy shoots back.
“Hey, don’t use that language. Right?” I don’t know where dumbass falls on the expletive scale, but this seems like a responsible adult thing to say.
“I guessed an odd number and a black suit. I was close. My telepathic powers are getting stronger every day, fartface.” Dean flicks cards at his brother. Lulu giggles hysterically.
I breathe an epic sigh of relief when I spot the coffee. At least they haven’t run out of that. It’s a big tub of discount, generic brand coffee grounds that I would never drink unless I was in an emergency.
I immediately pour it into the coffeemaker and begin brewing. It’s not the Nespresso I’m used to, but it’ll do. I turn back and see my three charges blinking back at me.
“Hold up. Aha!” I pull a carton of eggs from the fridge.
“We want pancakes,” Lulu says, tapping the table like a tiny executive.
“I don’t know how to make those. But I can do scrambled eggs.” They were a go-to breakfast on game days growing up. “They’re full of protein, a must for all athletes.” I point at Davy.
“Can you do an omelet?” Dean asks.
“Yeah! Can we have omelets?” Davy seconds.
“I want an omelet, too!” Lulu shrieks.
“Uh, sure.” I rub my face and move toward the coffeemaker like it was a life raft.
Tanner usually made them breakfast, I assumed. And judging by the expectant stares fixed on me, they thought I was stepping into that role this morning.
Right.
I could close a seven-figure campaign. I could pitch a rebrand strategy to a room full of skeptical executives. I once landed a client while bleeding from a paper cut the size of Texas.
But I had never—ever—made omelets for three children.
Wait.
“Where’s Lena?” I ask.
“She’s still getting ready,” Davy informs me.
“She’s putting on makeup so she can kiss her boyfriend.” Lulu giggles, then doubles over with so-called starvation. “I’m so hungry.”
“She has a boyfriend?” I ask.
“Matthias. He’s cool. He appreciates the spectacle of magic,” Dean says, whatever that means.
A pang hits me that I didn’t know Lena had a boyfriend. And then a strange surge of fierce protectiveness comes over me. Who the hell is this punk?
“Omelets?” Dean taps his lime green watch. “The school bus is coming soon.”
“Right. Omelets. Made with eggs.” I pull a coffee mug from the sink and fill it with brew. It’s bitter, but it’s necessary.
“Is Dad okay?” Davy asks.
“Yeah. He’s sleeping in.” I pull out my phone and Google an omelet recipe. “What do you like in your omelets?”
“Eggs?” Davy looks to his brother for backup.
“Besides the eggs.” I yank open the fridge door and bend down to find some kind of vegetable. I miss my Subzero fridge, where everything was magically at eye level. Hey now, what’s this? Behind a mostly empty container of hummus, I find a red bell pepper.
A sense of victory fills my chest, similar to the ecstasy of scoring a goal.
“Look what I found!” I show it to my charges.
“I don’t like that,” Lulu says.
“You will.” I find a cutting board and chop up the pepper.
I put oil in a skillet and sizzle the vegetable, adding salt and pepper.
Whatever cooking knowledge I had growing up starts to come back.
Nights of having to fend for myself for dinner because my parents were who-knows-where.
The salty aroma of the sautéed pepper fills the kitchen.
“I wanna help!” Lulu jumps down from her chair.
“Me too!” Dean follows.
“Absolutely not,” I say, adding some butter to the skillet. “You can help by staying seated and not burning the house down.”
“Boo,” Dean mutters.
“Actually, do you want to crack the eggs. You know how to do that, right?” I ask the kids.
Lulu and Dean reply with an are you serious?
look stamped on their cute faces. The answer is yes, apparently.
But they grab a mixing bowl and crack some eggs for me.
I pour it into the skillet. I don’t know if Tanner lets them near the stove, but I’d rather play it safe than accidentally set one of his spawn on fire.
Davy finds a block of cheddar from the further reaches, and I have him grate it. The kitchen is humming with activity. The most activity my kitchen would get is pressing the Nespresso button. The mixing aromas of the eggs, pepper, and cheese fill the space, making all of our stomachs growl.
“Uncle Des?” Lulu asks.
“Yeah?”
“Did you and Daddy kiss yet?”
The spatula slips from my hand. “What?”
“You’re married now,” she says matter-of-factly. “Married people kiss. Like in the movies.”
Dean snorted. “Ew, gross.”
I tried to play it cool. “Well, not all married people do everything the same. Your dad and I… we’re taking it slow.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re so delusional.”
“Do you know what that means?” I laugh, but her nonsensical comment sorta feels spot on. Called out by a five-year-old. Great start to the morning.
“Lena!” Lulu runs to her sister, who sweeps into the kitchen without fully clocking my cooking skills. She slips her backpack onto the counter.
“We’re making omelets,” I tell her.
“Nice. My ride is almost here.” She gives the stove the minorest of glances before opening the pantry and grabbing a Pop Tart from the top shelf.
“We have Pop Tarts?” Dean asks, incredulous.
“Last one.” She winks at him and opens it. She slides him a piece.
“You sure you don’t want something more filling for breakfast? It is the most important meal of the day.” Listen to me. I sound like a total…parent. When the heck did that happen? When I was her age, I treated breakfast as optional.
“Maybe next time, Uncle Des.”
“Suit yourself.” My omelet fold is A-plus work. It’s almost so beautiful, I don’t want to see it get eaten. I slide it over to Davy. I get to work making omelet number two for Dean.