12. Mateo
MATEO
Crew’s light snores fill the silence of the bedroom, the king-size bed feeling much smaller with the way my son spreads each and every limb as if trying to reach all four corners of the mattress.
I don’t know how long I’ve been laying here, staring at the ceiling, pretending not to be affected by the fact that the woman from the bar is just a wall away.
The woman I thought I’d never see again.
The woman I’ve thought about so much that it actually feels like I brought her into existence.
The woman who just became my son’s nanny.
I’m surprised I could even speak in coherent sentences after opening the door to find her.
Emerson.
I would’ve known her name if I hadn’t made such a fool out of myself that night at Lenny’s. I could’ve avoided the embarrassment of almost outing myself as a creepy, old stalker when she opened the door, and the first words out of my mouth were where I saw her last.
I slap the palm of my hand against my forehead, internally cringing at how horrible not only my first impression must have been, but now how I ruined it even further with my second.
And when she said she was picturing me… Naked.
I deserve an award for taking less than a minute to recover from that.
Who says that type of shit?
I knew she was direct from our phone call—and she comes across as someone who doesn’t take shit from anyone.
But she said it in the same cadence she would say if I was asking her about the weather.
And was it just me, or did she make it seem like that wasn’t the first time she’s pictured me naked?
Fuck.
This is not what I need to be thinking about.
Who cares if my nanny has pictured me naked? I hate to admit it, but it’s safe to say she’s not the only one. It’s par for the course with my job.
It’s never bothered me before, barely even crossed my mind.
But that was before I knew it was possible that someone like Emerson could be in the crowd, watching me in the place I feel the most comfortable, pouring everything I have into my performance until there’s nothing left, fantasizing about me.
Too bad for her; she’s better off sticking to the fantasy.
It’s been years—literal years—since I’ve had sex.
I stayed committed to my marriage until the divorce papers were signed, even though it had been at least two years, probably since Crew was conceived, that Talia and I were even intimate.
And now, two more years later, the thought of trying to get a woman into bed gives me heart palpitations.
I’m a divorced, single dad of a four-year-old. I’m pushing forty, for fuck’s sake.
There’s no way I’d ever live up to anyone’s fantasy—especially someone like Emerson—not when the stage lights go down, and I’m no longer the lead singer of a rock band.
She’s beautiful; she’s confident; she’s young. And she’s completely off-limits.
Double fuck.
I resist the urge to groan out loud, not wanting to wake Crew. It was a feat to get him down in the first place, and I think he’s only still asleep because of how busy yesterday was for him.
Talia leaving, him not being home, it’s not going to be easy on him. And it’s my job as his father to do everything I can to not make it any harder on him.
And that means not lusting over his nanny.
Careful not to move the bed too much, I roll to my side, exhaling a long breath as I close my eyes. But sleep evades me, over and over again, until the early morning light begins to peek through the curtains, and I feel Crew beginning to stir.
“Daddy?” I hear his little voice just as he crawls over to me, his body resting over my shoulder. “Are you awake?”
Rolling onto my back, I close my eyes, pretending to snore as loud as I can.
Crew giggles. “Daddy, wake up.”
I inhale noisily before blowing out a breath through my lips, hard enough to make my lips flap together before more dramatic snoring, putting on my best show.
Crew’s giggles turn to bigger laughs as he continues to try and wake me up.
“Daddy!” he exclaims, and I hear the smile in his voice.
And that’s when I strike. “Good,” I start, stretching out the word before opening my eyes and catching him in my arms, digging my fingers into his sides, “morning!”
The more I tickle him, the more full-on belly laughs I get, making me grin ear to ear.
“How’d you sleep, buddy?” I ask when he settles back into the bed next to me, his laughter dying down.
“I like this big bed,” he says, his hands folded over his tummy. His hair is a mess, sticking up in all different ways, and he’s wearing his favorite Halloween pajamas, even though it’s about to be December. “Why is the bed so big?” he then adds, his curiosity always at the forefront of his brain.
“So we can both fit in it,” I answer matter-of-factly, knowing this is the first of many questions Crew will be asking me today.
He goes on to ask why we both can fit in, which is followed by why we need sleep and why we sleep at night.
It isn’t until I finish telling him why we aren’t like the bats on his pajamas who sleep during the day that he finally grants me a reprieve of coming up with age-appropriate explanations on the fly.
“What sounds good to eat, bud?” I ask as I help him climb out of bed.
“Waffies,” he answers immediately.
“You got it. But first,” I say, bending down to his height before turning him around. “Let’s get your hair out of your face.”
Gathering his hair into one hand, I use one of the ponytail holders Talia packed for him to tie his hair into a small bun before standing up and grabbing his hand to lead us into the kitchen.
“Oh, and one more thing.” I pause with my hand on the bedroom door, waiting until Crew looks up at me. “Remember last night during bathtime when I told you I have a special helper friend? The one who's going to travel with us while you're out here singing with me?”
Crew nods so hard I swear his whole body moves with it, his face lighting up at the mention of singing with me.
I wasn't sure how to explain touring to a four-year-old. I thought about telling him I was going to work, like Mommy does. Instead, he looked at me with complete confidence and asked if he was coming to help me sing.
That became the explanation.
Then, when bedtime rolled around, he asked for his bedtime song.
Last night was the first time he'd ever tried to sing it with me.
Most of the words came out as sleepy little mumbles before he drifted off halfway through the chorus, but hearing his tiny voice trying to match mine lodged itself somewhere permanent inside me.
It's one of those memories I already know I'll replay decades from now—when I'm old and gray, and I'm trying to remember what the best days of my life felt like.
One day, when he's older, I'll finally tell him his "bedtime song" isn't some meaningful lullaby I picked just for him.
It's actually a Nickelback song that was stuck in my head.
We were deep in the newborn trenches, and he was refusing to sleep.
Talia told me to sing, so I did—and somehow Nickelback was the first thing that came out.
In hindsight, I probably should've gone with one of my own songs.
Too late now.
To Crew, this is what I do.
I sing.
And now, somehow, he gets to come with me.
I don't have to leave him behind anymore.
"Well," I say, lifting him onto one of the kitchen counter stools, "she's here. She's still sleeping, but she's so excited to hang out with you whenever Daddy has to go sing."
Crew's eyebrows knit together, a little frown pulling at his mouth. "I don't need a special helper." He shakes his head. "I can sing with you."
“Of course you can sing with me, buddy,” I say, leaning forward on the counter so I can talk to him at his level. “But there will be times when I need to sing on stage. That’s when Emerson will be with you.”
“But I want to be with you,” he says, and his lip starts to quiver. He tries to hide it, and that hits me like a train.
“You will be with me, buddy,” I quickly say, reaching out my hand to him, holding it palm up for him to grab. He slowly takes his hand from his lap, placing it in mine. “As much as possible, okay?” He nods, using his other hand to wipe at his nose.
I’m about to circle back to how Emerson will be with him when I’m not, but I decide against it, not wanting to upset him anymore. He’s going through a lot of changes in a very short amount of time, and I don’t want to overwhelm him.
I squeeze his hand in mine before standing to my full height and clapping my hands together. “Now,” I say, “it’s waffie time.”
Crew’s smile is back as I open a few cabinets, looking for a toaster.
Our manager and crew always make sure our hotel rooms are stocked with anything we might need, along with our food and drink preferences.
I made sure to get all of Crew’s favorites and staples, and as I’m grabbing the box of toaster waffles from the freezer, I make a mental note to ask Emerson about hers so I can make sure we have them at the next stop.
Plugging in the toaster, I move it close enough for Crew to be able to drop the waffles into the slots. I’m just showing him how to push the lever down to make the waffles “disappear” when the creak of a door grabs my attention.
“Morning.” Emerson’s voice has a rasp to it, her dark hair pulled back into a high ponytail, aside from the bangs that perfectly frame her deep green eyes, the silver ring in her eyebrow peeking out between the strands.
She’s wearing a black tank top underneath denim overalls that cut off right at mid-thigh, all of her tattoos on her arms, legs, chest, and neck on full display.
Even though it’s almost December, the weather here in Atlanta is much warmer than what we’re used to back home in Wisconsin during this time of year.
“M-morning,” I manage to say, my chest instantly heating at how hard it was to get the word out, and I feel the blood creep up my neck. “Sleep okay?”