Page 15

HALF A LOVE STORY

Luke

“Alright, mis pollitas, one more book and then it’s time for bed. For real, this time.”

After our impromptu almost-engagement at the fabulous and romantic offices of Morris & Mason, followed by a real engagement overlooking the ocean, Dean and I rushed home to gather the girls from next door.

After the talk with Lori and all the excitement of the afternoon, we probably should have taken the free time allotted to us by Kira’s babysitting to go over what the hell our new relationship even means, but I think we were both eager to get home and have the kids close. I know I was.

Also, I might be just a little scared shitless to find out what being sort-of real-sort-of-fake engaged to be very-legally, very-confusingly-married to my best friend might look like.

So instead of being mature adults and sitting down to hammer out a plan and a list of rules for our upcoming nuptials, we scooped the kids up from Kira’s house and took them to Pier 39 for hot dogs and to check out the sea lions that live on the pier.

Then, after a trip to Build-A-Bear where Dean spoiled each of the kids rotten with two stuffed animals each and as many teddy bear-sized clothes as they could possibly want, we booked a last-minute tourist cruise around the bay.

Sailing from the wharf to the Golden Gate Bridge, down and under the Bay Bridge and back again, tired Ollie out—she fell asleep on the car ride home—but energized the twins.

Which is why Lemmie and Mellie are fidgeting under the covers, begging Dean to read them a fifth and sixth bedtime story instead of going to sleep.

“Sola un libro, mi amor. Choose carefully,” Dean says, and Lemmie and Mellie communicate via their twin telepathy before looking back to Dean with their consensus, answering together.

“ Beatrice Bunny .”

“ Beatrice Bunny it is,” Dean says, holding out a hand to me.

He’s squished into the child-sized bed along with the girls, his long legs dangling off the side as they cuddle up into him under a mountain of pink and purple blankets.

I look at their bookshelf, which is practically bursting at the seams with colorful, well-loved picture books.

I easily spot Beatrice Bunny amongst the sea of rainbows and hand it over to Dean.

Beatrice Bunny is one of their favorites, and it just so happens that the book was a gift from Dean on their last birthday.

They love when he exaggerates his Tennessee accent when doing Beatrice and her farm animal pals’ voices.

I settle into the second bed on the other side of the nightstand—Lem and Mel each have their own, but they’ve been going through a phase where they prefer to share, and I’ve been going through a phase where I refuse to say no to them—and lay on my side, propping my head into my hand while I listen to Dean read the story.

He has an incredible amount of patience with them, even when they’re negotiating for extra bedtime stories or second desserts like little terrorists.

Dean doesn’t rush through the story, even though it’s the fifth one tonight and about the hundredth time he’s read it since he moved in.

He takes his time, giving the book just as much enthusiasm as the first time around.

When the farmer has said goodnight to Beatrice and all of her friends and the story comes to an end, Lemmie and Mellie have both started to close their eyes, clearly fighting a losing battle with sleep.

Dean closes the book gently and leans down, kissing each girl on top of their blonde, pigtailed heads before shifting to stand.

“Dean?” Mellie asks, and I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the laugh that wants to burst out of me for thinking that getting out of this room would be easy tonight.

“Yes, mi pollita?”

“Are you going to live with us forever?” Lemmie asks, finishing her sister's thought. The girls blink up at him with sleepy eyes, and Dean sighs. We haven’t discussed much about our living arrangements with the girls besides the fact that they live with me now and Dean will be around to help take care of them.

We certainly haven’t mentioned marriage.

Losing their mother is an unthinkable thing for kids to have to deal with, and we thought it best to ease Lem and Mel into their new normal.

I mean, I’m thirty-four years old and I can barely wrap my head around everything that’s happened in the last year. I didn't want to overwhelm the kids, too.

Dean looks at me, silently asks for permission, and I nod.

“Would it be okay with you if I did?” Dean asks, answering their question with a question. Both girls are silent for a beat .

“Yes, it would be good if you lived here all the time. You’re the best storyteller,” Mellie sighs.

“And your braids are better than Uncle Lukey’s,” Lemmie pipes in.

I snort, the urge to jump in and defend myself strong. But Lem is right, my braids always turn out sloppy. I haven’t quite gotten the hand of neatly tying together strands of the girl’s super soft hair, but my buddy is a total pro.

And don’t even get me started on Ollie. I still can’t figure out how Dean manages to get those clip in bows to stick in the one blonde curl that sticks up out of her head.

I watch as a flush works its way over Dean’s cheeks, and even down to the bit of chest I can see poking out of his black v-neck t-shirt.

His bottom lip trembles, and if I were a betting man, I’d wager all my money that he is currently reciting his pass completion statistics in his head to keep himself from crying.

“Well, pollitas, that is good news for me. Because I love reading stories to you and I love braiding your hair. I love fishing with you and I love when you paint my nails. And when you do my makeup? Psshh. You girls make me feel like the most beautiful guy on the planet. So, yes, I think that as long as it makes you happy, I will stay here forever. Because you two and Ollie? You girls make me happier than I’ve ever been in my whole life. ”

And now I’m the one fighting back tears.

Fuck, Dean is good at this. I wonder if being good with kids is something that just comes naturally from having good and loving parents?

But then again, Gigi was an incredible mother to her daughters.

Hell, she was practically a mother to me—and she didn’t have the role models to show for it.

Most days I feel like I’m treading water just trying to keep Lemmie, Mellie, Ollie and myself alive.

I think some people, like Gigi and Dean, are just wired differently.

Seemingly content with Dean’s declaration of forever, Lem and Mel cuddle into each other and finally give in to sleep.

They don’t stir when Dean rises from the bed, nor do they make a noise when I lean in to press gentle kisses to their foreheads and whisper the goodnight saying Gigi would sing to them before bed each night.

The same one she used to whisper to me when we were kids.

“Goodnight, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bug bites.”

We tiptoe out of the room, Dean quietly pulling the door until it’s only just cracked behind us. I quickly check my phone, opening up to the baby monitor app to find Ollie still sound asleep in her crib on her stomach, her little baby butt sticking straight up in the air while she dreams.

With all three girls sleeping and accounted for, I gesture towards the stairs that lead to the kitchen.

Dean falls in step next to me, and once we’re there, we seamlessly move around each other.

Dean grabs a tub of cherry chocolate chip ice cream out of the freezer while I find an ice cream scoop and two clean mugs—because mugs are the best vessel for eating ice cream.

They’re smaller than a bowl, which helps people like me with an insatiable sweet tooth and eyes bigger than my stomach keep their portion control in check.

And the handle is perfect for keeping your hands from freezing while you eat.

I’ll never understand why anyone would choose to eat ice cream from a bowl when mugs exist.

I also grab two spoons—teaspoons, because I know Dean prefers them over the bigger spoon options—and we settle in at the table. Dean scoops the ice cream and I squirt whipped cream over the top and then finish with a drizzle of Hershey’s syrup. We clink our mugs, and then dig into our sweet treat.

“So,” Dean says around a mouthful of his second spoonful, “I guess it’s official.”

“Yeah,” I nod, digging in my mug for a chunk of cherry. “I think you promising Lem and Mel forever kind of seals the deal. ”

“Now we just have to promise the same to each other,” he says with a quiet laugh.

“No big deal,” I chuckle, and we each take a few more bites of ice cream.

Dean brings his spoon to his mouth, leaving a small dollop of whipped cream on the corner of his lips.

Instinctively, I reach out and brush the sugary cream away with my thumb.

Dean’s breath hitches when my finger makes contact with his lip, and the quiet sound sends a small thrill rushing through me.

Without thinking, I pull my thumb away and pop it between my lips, sucking the whipped cream off with a slow, wet pop.

Dean’s throat works, and when I look into his eyes, the usually shining grey and green irises have gone stormy.

Those eyes, those beautiful, shining, captivating eyes that I suddenly want to memorize every swirling color of zero in, right on my lips.

Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs, highlighting the light brown scruff of his five o’clock shadow, and the movement is mesmerizing.

Like if I just leaned in a bit, I could feel the muscles of his throat working against my lips.