Page 124 of The Single Dad

“So perfect,” he murmurs, so low that I’m not even sure I was meant to hear it.

Then his hands go to mine where they’re gripping the headboard in a vise-like hold. He gently unpeels them from the headboard, and we both collapse onto the bed.

After a long moment, Cole brushes my hair back and gives me a lazy smile. His eyelids are half-lowered, but he’s looking at me as if I could part the sea with a flick of my wrist.

We stare at each other for several moments, not speaking, just climbing down from the post-orgasm bliss.

I’m starting to realize that sometimes we don’t need to fill the silence with words. Sometimes just existing in the same space, breathing the same air, is all we need to feel content.

At least, it is for me.

He tucks my hair behind my ear, something soft passing through his expression. “Thank you.”

I chuckle. “For coming all over your face, and doing it again on your cock? You’re welcome.”

That makes him laugh, but the warmth doesn’t leave his face. “Not just for the sex.”

I give him a puzzled glance, and he draws in a breath and lets it out.

“For last night, too,” he clarifies. “You kept a level head when it came to taking care of Archie. You didn’t panic like I did. You could have gotten frustrated with me because I was freaking out, but you didn’t. You stayed calm, and I’m so fucking grateful that you were here with me. I needed you. Archie needed you.”

I reach out and trace the chiseled line of his jaw. “Of course. That’s what I’m here for.”

He leans into my touch, and my heart stutters in my chest.

The part of me that’s getting attached, the part that dreams of things I shouldn’t long for, can’t help but hope that maybe, somehow, this won’t have to end.

Chapter 38

Riley

It only takes a couple of days for Archie to recover from his bug, and things quickly go back to normal. Forty-eight hours after he first threw up, he’s back in the living room, feeding Swimmy his fish flakes and laughing brightly.

Cole is visibly relieved to see Archie back in his regular spirits, and I feel comforted both by his happiness, and by Archie’s. The little boy is back to his usual energetic self, and only needed to miss one day of pre-K, much to his consternation.

“School is important,” Cole reminds him as we’re about to head out the door on Tuesday. Archie is a little dejected, having enjoyed his day off yesterday. “If you don’t go, you’ll fall behind the other kids. You don’t want that, do you?”

By the end of the day, Archie seems to have forgotten all about his desire to stay home. He’s talking at a mile a minute when I go to pick him up—he told all of his classmates, and the teacher’s goldfish, about Swimmy.

When the weekend rolls around, I volunteer at the community center again. I couldn’t make it last week because of Archie’s illness, but I explained everything to the director of the center, who was very understanding.

Unfortunately, I had to push off the art class I’ve been teaching there on Saturday afternoons. The kids are excited to see me back. One girl even shows me a painting she made on her own last weekend.

I guide the class in their experiments with a new medium: oil paints, which I almost never use. They’re messier than acrylics, requiring oils to clean the brushes rather than water.

The community center has a big jug of turpentine to use with the oil paints. As I portion it out, my students wrinkle their noses at the stench, laughing. Then they go to work, practicing with dabs of paint.

“Remember,” I tell them, “oil paint takes a long, long time to dry. If there’s anything you want to fix or blend, you can keep adding paint, and keep on mixing!”

As the students figure things out for themselves, I decide to mess with the oils on my own canvas at the front of the room.

I start painting a close-up of Archie’s new betta fish from memory. In the days since we brought Swimmy home, he’s really come into his own. The withered fins are growing back like flowing lace, and his scales are much brighter than they were before.

I don’t manage to finish my painting by the time our class is over, but I leave it on an easel in the back of the art studio, promising myself that I’ll finish it next week and bring it back to hang in Archie’s room.

I leave the class feeling happy. It takes a while to rinse all of the oil paint from my hands, but I hum as I scrub them clean, lighter than air.

I take the subway back to Cole’s neighborhood, then walk the last stretch to his house. When I step through the door, I hear Archie giggling from the other room.

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