Page 135 of Tips and Trysts

“I’d bet a tit,” I reply—and I wouldn’t bet one of my precious tits if I weren’t confident. Felix actually messaged me a month ago when 24N announced they would be backing and producing my podcast for the foreseeable future in a huge deal that would drastically expand my growing platform. He was curious if I would be willing to have him as a guest one day, seeing as he’d been struggling to recover from being exposed as a fraud and had lost most of his deals. My answer:I only interview sex workers, so you better start camming.He never responded.

Valeria releases a languid sigh before she slides off her stool, clutching her round stomach. She’s pregnant with her third child, and I swear, scientists should study her and Lander. All he has to do is look at her funny, and she basically starts ovulating on command. “Should we call it a night and head home? I have babies to get in cribs.”

“You need a night off,” Essie mentions, linking her arm in Valeria’s to help her waddle to the living room. “Dalton and I are always down to give you a break.”

“Last time we took a night off, we made this one,” Valeria replies, patting her stomach.

“Well, you can’t get more pregnant,” Essie reminds her.

We linger in the cherrywood archway that leads into the living room. At one end of the couch, Marta, Lander and Valeria’s older daughter, is fast asleep with her head in her father’s lap. On the other end, Dalton is holding the second Dawson-Fuentes baby, Gabriela, as usual. Of the six of us, she sleeps best on her Uncle Dalton, probably because his chest has the biggest surface area, but also because the guy spoils her like she’s his own daughter.

My husband is in the middle, flanked by his two best friends, not holding a baby but holding his digital camera while he clicks through the pictures he took tonight.

I nudge Essie before bobbing my chin at Dalton, who is absently drumming his fingertips on Gabriela’s back while she sleeps. “Speaking of getting pregnant, that guy isso readyto knock you up with one of his giant babies.”

Essie grins at her husband (and sort-of stepbrother). “He was definitely born to be a daddy.”

The word “daddy” makes Dalton perk up as if he’s primed to react to it. “Hey,” he murmurs, eyes landing on Essie. He stares at her like he still can’t believe his luck.

“Hey,” Essie says back, nursing an affectionate smile. “You guys ready to go home?”

“What time is it?” Lander whispers before he digs into his pocket for his phone.

“Eleven,” Dalton whispers back before he rubs the faint hairs on Gabriela’s head and chuckles. “You guys remember when we used to go to the Wawa on campus at, like, three in the morning,shitfaced, and still had the energy to go out again the next day?”

“This is better,” Everett answers before he stands and motions for Lander to pass Marta over so Lander can pack diaper bags. Marta immediately snuggles against her Uncle Everett, recognizing him even in her sleep. He faces me. “Ready, to go home?”

“Actually, I have things to do here. Can someone check on the cats for us? We might be late.”

“Of course,” Valeria agrees, which makes Lander sigh, which in turn makes Valeria frown at him. “What’s wrong?”

Arms laden with diaper bags and an infant car seat, Lander raises a shoulder. “Easy promise for you to make. Your cute pregnant ass is banned from touching the litter, so I end up scooping them and smelling like cats. Then Pierre avoids me like I’ve betrayed him.”

“Pierre avoids you because he loves me the most,” Everett declares, which makes Lander’s jaw drop.

“Do you want to fight me, Logan?” he questions, prompting everyone else in the room to groan.

“I am literally holding your daughter, you prick,” Everett replies as I head to the staircase, and I can’t help but laugh.

The Logan House is the last standing remnant of Everett’s association with his family. We nearly sold it a few years ago when we bought the side-by-side row homes in Georgetown where we live with Essie and Dalton on one side and Lander and Valeria on the other, but we ultimately had a change of heart. The early days of our relationship happened in this place—as did the early days of my podcast. Parting with it gave the burden of his family legacy too much weight, we thought.

Instead of selling, we converted it into headquarters for my “Whore Podcast” (as Warren so affectionately dubbed it the last time he drunkenly called Everett on Christmas, trying to reconnect. Everett then had tote bags made from recycled plastic with “Don’t bother me while I’m listening to my whore podcast” emblazoned on them, and we made a killing in sales).

Now, as I climb the Logan House’s stairs, the familiar path gives me goosebumps as usual. A trail of framed pictures lines the wall. They were all taken by my husband over the last six years: A black and white portrait of every guest on my podcast. The portraits are all stunning, like every picture Everett takes. And while they share a common denominator of dignity, they’re also unique—like their subjects’ seldom-told stories.

The story of my husband and me began on a night when Everett refused to take a picture of a sex worker. Now, he has taken hundreds.

I reach the landing and continue on to the narrow attic staircase. The topmost floor, where Everett Logan for Congress used to operate, is now a shared office for the two of us. Some days, we eat our lunches in here over our laptops. Other days, we fuck right on the desk. Most days, we work, bouncing ideas offeach other: For me, it’s podcast ideas and the book I’m writing, and for Everett, it’s photography projects and the environmental causes to which he has steadily distributed what remains of his trust.

Tonight, he follows me. I knew he would. An old floorboard creaks, and I find Everett standing in the doorway. He tips his chin; I do the same.

We seldom interact at work events—Everett’s choice. He’s content to live on the perimeter, seeing the world through a camera lens. He watches me. And when the night ends, he always finds me and shows me how proud he is.

My hands clasp his cheeks, and my lips touch his for the first time tonight with a kiss that’s hot and needy even after six years together. The kisses have never faded. The fucking has never cooled. What burns between us is still unwieldy, unpredictable, and unconditional—purely and truly unconditional.

“Hey,” he whispers when our lips separate.

“Hey.”

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