Page 36 of The Girl He Loves

Chapter 13

Tuesday Morning

Last night,we sat outside and talked about everything and nothing while waiting for Tyler to go to bed. We reminisced about college, and Dax shared stories from the NFL that cracked me up. What we didn’t talk about was his plans. Or anything beyond this week. We kept everything casual. No strings.

Then Tyler fell asleep, and it was game on. We were as quiet as church mice but as naughty as devils. And if I thought sex with Dax in my minivan was good, in my bed it was a spiritual experience. The sort that makes a person weak in the knees and a believer in out-of-this-world experiences. And yes, his game performance last night differed from the minivan tryst. Both were oh-so-very-good.

The banging of the bathroom door slamming wakes me.

With a start, I sit up, disoriented. The sun’s bright and the birds are chirping and I’m stark naked.

Dax lies beside me softly snoring, also naked as a baby.

The toilet flushes, and my brain makes the connection. Tyler is up and about. A quick glance at my clock tells me I’d forgotten to set my alarm, and we are forty minutes behind schedule.

Usually, I’m the one who wakes Tyler. On weekends, when I manage to sleep in, he wakes me by barging into my room.

Bathroom first stop. My room next. I lunge at the door and flip the lock.

After putting on my robe, I go back to the bed and place my hand over Dax’s mouth.

His eyes slam open.

“It’s morning and Tyler’s awake. You need to get out of here before he sees you.”

He nods. I remove my hand. The doorknob jiggles.

“Mom, we slept in,” Tyler says.

Dax is up and trying to get his pants on. I shove him into my closet with only one leg in his jeans. I toss the rest of his clothes and boots in behind him, catching him in the forehead with the sole of one boot.

He winces but stays quiet. I close the bifold closet doors as quietly as possible. Then go to my door and open it.

“We need to hurry. You’re going to be late for school.”

My son stares up at me wide-eyed. “Are you sick?”

He asks this because I never sleep in on work and school days. I shake my head and tighten the belt on my robe. Thankful I’d picked the hot pink robe over the light yellow, or I’d worry it was see-through.

“No, I think with all the excitement yesterday and the company, I stayed up later than usual. I went to bed too tired and forgot to set my alarm.

Tyler studies me. For an almost-eight-year-old, he’s clever. Observant. Has to be when trying to always be one step ahead of everyone else because the information you get isn’t always reliable. Such is the burden of kids with processing disorders.

“Can I have waffles for breakfast?”

These are a weekend treat.

“Yes, but heat them up. It’s gross that you eat them frozen.” We have this conversation a lot.

Tyler leans into my room and looks around, then looks at the closet and says, “Dax, you want some waffles? I can put them in the toaster for you.”

My mouth falls open. “What makes you think Dax is here?”

Tyler’s look is the equivalent of saying DUH. “Because he promised to say goodbye, and he didn’t.”

I have no response.

Tyler says to the closet, “Mom bought blueberry syrup, Dax. It’s pretty good.”

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