Chapter 18
Nick
So, I need some advice,” I say instead of “hello” when I flop down on the couch across from Mila. It’s early in our shift.
Charlie and Vinnie are battling it out on the PlayStation that Vinnie hooked up to one of the TVs, Tristan is downstairs doing probie chores, and Cap is in her office. The engine firefighters are doing something with the engine truck.
“How can I be of service?” Mila asks dryly. “Parenting stuff?”
Mila, Cap, and I are the only parents on the team. Captain Hyun has three kids, all in high school, but Mila has one kid, like me.
My daughter, Abigail, is eight, and Mila’s son is nine. She’s not a single parent—her wife, Hannah, is a neurosurgeon at Zuckerberg—but she understands the difficulty of raising a young kid while working full time as a firefighter.
Today, though, I don’t need advice about parenting.
“No, boy stuff.”
She makes a horrified face. “Babes, I’m a lesbian. I don’t know and don’t care how you boys do things.”
“Girl, bye. You can still give me advice, can’t you?”
She gives a long-suffering sigh. “If I must. What’s the problem?”
I’ve spent hours thinking about how to phrase this delicately, in a way that won’t let Mila know that I’m talking about Tristan.
“So, I met a guy,” I begin.
“Lucky you.”
I treat her to a flat stare.
“Sorry, continue.”
“I met a guy. At a club.”
“How every epic romance starts.”
“Are you going to offer running commentary on everything I say?”
Her brown eyes sparkle. “No. Maybe.”
“Fine. I met a guy at a club….”
I pause, waiting to see if she’s going to interject anything. She raises her eyebrows expectantly, so I continue.
“I got his number and everything, and we agreed that we were gonna grab coffee soon. But now…there’s a complication.”
“A complication.”
“That’s right, a complication.”
“Hm. What sort of complication?”
“Well.”
I can’t exactly say “he works here.” I decide, unfortunately, that this situation will require a bit of an untruth.
“He works at Abigail’s school.”
“Oh. Is he her teacher?”
“No, but he might be next year.” What? Where did that come from? I’m not a very good liar, never have been.
“Okay. Hm. Does the school have, like, a policy against dating teachers?”
Like I’d know. “I’m not sure.”
“Does Abigail know?”
Absolutely not. “No.”
“Well, are you really interested in him?”
Fuck yeah. More than I think I’ve been interested in anyone, and working with him isn’t making it any easier.
“I mean, sort of. I” —oh, how to phrase this?— “I don’t want to create any professional conflicts for… for him.”
For us.
She nods thoughtfully. “Is he interested in you?”
I have no idea.
“I hope so. He texted me the other day, after I gave him my number.”
“And have you texted him back?”
“We texted a little the other day. But not yesterday or today. Since we last texted, I learned about the complication.”
“Who texted last?”
“Me.”
But.
But I texted last, and then we saw each other moments later.
I texted last, and then we realized we work together. I texted last, and then we spent twenty-four hours together saving lives.
“How’s your dignity?” Mila asks. “Can it handle double-texting?”
“What dignity?”
“Good point. Text him again! Ask if he still wants to get coffee. You can talk about ‘the complication,’ as you call it, and figure it out together. Right now, you have no idea how he’s feeling. Don’t make a decision by yourself that you should make together.”
“How are you so wise?”
“My mom made me watch Oprah when I was a kid.”
“That might be correlation, not causation, but sure.”
“You should text him.”
“Right now?”
“Right now. I’ll help you.”
I balk. Tristan is saved in my phone by his real name. If she sees that, she’ll immediately catch me in my lie. I pull out my phone, quickly unsave his contact name, then delete the messages where he tells me his name.
Mila comes over and sits next to me, just as I delete the messages.
“What should I say?”
“You haven’t even saved his contact? Lame.”
Am I sweating? I think I’m sweating. Not like me to get nervous like this, but I’m playing with fire.
“It’s not lame. It’s practical. What if it doesn’t work out?”
If it doesn’t work out, I’ll have to continue working alongside him every shift.
“Don’t think like a defeatist. You’re a catch, Nick.”
“I thought you were a lesbian.”
“Ew, I did not say that I’m interested in you. Someone who is gluten-free can still appreciate a well-decorated cake. And you’ve certainly got one of those.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “Wild comparison, but okay. If he and I get coffee, I’ll save his number. Now, what should I say to him?”
“Have you never asked someone out on a date before? You’re thirty. You have a daughter.”
Most of my “dates” have involved carefully negotiated BDSM scenes.
I don’t really do the whole “dating” thing, and I’m not even sure that’s what I would want with Tristan.
I don’t think I could give him the sort of relationship I think he deserves. I don’t know his history, but I get the feeling there’s something there, and if there’s a void, I don’t know if I’m equipped to fill it.
Now, his hole? That I can fill. Gladly. Multiple times. In multiple ways.
But his heart?
My heart already belongs to my daughter. Can I give it away to someone else?
“I’ve dated before,” I grumble.
“Just ask if he still wants to get coffee!”
I realize that there’s a crucial part of this plan I didn’t think through.
Tristan is here. He’s downstairs. He’ll see my text and know that I texted him here.
“Okay, I’ll text him,” I say. “But I’m gonna need some privacy.”
“Why? Are you going to send an unsolicited picture of your genitals?”
“Mila!”
She shrugs. “Because, if so, I definitely don’t want to be here.”
“I’m not going to do that.”
She stands and saunters off. “If you say so!”
“And it’s called a dick pic! Not ‘unsolicited picture of genitals!’” I shout after her, drawing weird looks from Charlie and Vinnie, who are still battling it out on the PlayStation.
“Never send an unsolicited pic of your genitals, bro,” Vinnie says, shaking his head.
“Yeah, man,” Charlie adds. “That’s a huge party foul.”
I groan. “I didn’t—ugh, never mind.”