Page 70 of The Cartographer

Hart’s eyebrows draw together, making that ever-present crease between them deepen, but the look on his face isn’t confusion or displeasure. It’s this incredibly sweet and earnest half-smile that burrows right into my heart and takes up yet another one of the empty chambers. By this one small act—and it’s not as if eating this incredible food is going to be a hardship on any level—I’ve made my Hart happy. Forget the blowjob I got when I agreed to come and the scene we’re going to have when we get home tonight, this look was worth the price of admission.

It makes me want to kiss him. Lean over our plates overflowing with home-cooked food to press our mouths together, briefly and almost chastely. Although I don’t know that that would be welcome here. Nor is that probably a good idea for my relationship with Allie.

When I’ve played boyfriends or fiancés, that’s been understood. It’s a game. Not for realsies, not for keeps. A charade for various reasons. This doesn’t feel so much like pretend, though, so I have to look away, grabbing another deviled egg to cover my discomfort.

*

Though I genuinelyenjoyed watching the Sharks game with Allie, and I can appreciate some of the elements of football—bless those pants—I find myself not being all that engaged, not caring overmuch whether the Raiders win or…I don’t know, whoever the blue team they’re playing is.

So after helping myself to some dessert and a cup of bright red punch, I wander into the next room where the kids are occupying themselves with toys and coloring. As soon as I step inside, they’re on me like a jungle gym.

“Want to play with us, Rey?”

“Please?”

“Uh, sure. What do you want to play?”

Board games I can do, and though I’m far from an artist, I can draw a decent stick figure. But no, the little monsters want to play tag. Since the room is small, it’s half hide-and-go-seek and half-tag. You’d think that would be awkward, but it works. After all, the real goal appears to be to tickle the stuffing out of the person you’ve tagged—which looks more like tackling, to be honest.

The thing is, though, when I tickle Imani, she immediately shrieks, “Stop!”

So I do.

Then she gives me that injured look only small children can give, as if you’ve wounded their very soul by refusing a request. “Why’d you stop?”

“Because you told me to?” That is what stop means, right? Not to brag, but I’m kind of an expert in consent and I’m pretty sure…

“I didn’t really want you to stop!”

Ah-ha. This, I understand. The question is how to put it in a way a kid will understand and won’t result in having her ask her mother some unfortunate questions and Allie never speaking to me again.

“How about we have a code then, so when you really want me to stop, I will, but when you don’t, you can yell all you want?”

She agrees, and I suggest “tickle stop.” Again with the not wanting weird questions to surface and Allie murdering me. Partly because, at this point, I’m pretty attached to being alive, partly because there are still far too many people I need to settle, and partly because I don’t think Allie would be subtle about it, which would result in him going to prison. So “tickle stop” it is.

Play is resumed, and our code works out rather well if I do say so myself. In the next round, I catch Imani again and tickle her mercilessly—her armpits, her neck. She kicks and squeals, shouting all the while: No! Stop! Don’t!

I don’t, though, not until she says the magic words.

“Tickle stop!”

So I do, help her off the floor so she can go tearing after Marcus, but she doesn’t. Instead, she leans her head into the side of my hip and slips a hand to rest on the inside of my knee. That’s when I realize Allie is leaning up against the doorway, watching us.

“Are you kidding me?”

“What?”

I know I’m not used to spending time with children, but I didn’t think I’d misstepped in any serious way. Perhaps I’m being too familiar and I should dial it back. I do a quick glance at Kendra to see if she doesn’t approve of how I’m playing with her kids, but she’s smiling. Imani takes the opportunity to grab another cookie from the table.

“What is that? Baby’s first safeword?”

I’m thankful I haven’t taken another sip of punch, because it would be all over Allie, maybe all over the floor. Instead, I’ve basically choked on my own saliva. Then I laugh. Stridently, and all the heads in the next room turn toward me, because when I’m not prepared, my laugh is more of a guffaw.

It takes some clearing of my throat and pounding on my chest, but I get myself under control.

“Jesus, Hart. You’re going to kill me. Baby’s first safeword.” I shake my head and tone down my outburst into a chuckle. He’s grinning back at me.

“It’s funny, that’s all. It’s a weird way to bring your work home with you. Are you ever not like that?”

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