Josh spins around and strolls out like he owns the world and is God’s gift to all of the females in it. “Tempest is up!” He looks back over his naked shoulder to tell me, “He’s awake and knows why you’re here.”
My eyebrows fly up.
I know what Will was told, but Josh doesn’t know that I know he said I’m sick. He’s acting like I’m in on it.
I turn the corner of a homey apartment with an open floor plan — no kitchen island like at my place, and much bigger, with a dining table that separates the living room and kitchen instead.
Will is sitting on their couch, waiting for me. “Hi Tempest!”
Self-consciously adjusting my hair, I nod, “Good morning, Will. How did you sleep?”
“Good. I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.”
“Thank you. I feel a little better today.”
“Yeah? Dad’s making you coffee!”
“Oh, that’s very nice, but I’m afraid I have to get back home.”
Josh walks into the kitchen. “It’s already brewing.”
Will and I exchange a look because it isn’t. He smiles and I blink at the light brown hair and blue eyes I now know he inherited from his mother. He’s lit up like he hopes I won’t say no.
I can’t.
Not to him.
And Josh can’t either, that’s why he’s grinding beans despite what I just told him in the bedroom.
“I’ll have a cup with you guys.” Remembering the ruse, I offer a possible out, “But I don’t want to get you sick.”
Will jumps off the couch, “Don’t worry. I never get sick!” leaving behind a crumpled throw blanket that catches my eye.
Josh had to sleep with just that? Doesn’t look very warm. And those pillows are too square and small for his shoulders.
“How do you like your coffee?”
My gaze cuts to the kitchen as Josh pushes a button on the coffee machine while lightly scratching glorious, naked abs. It’s unconscious, this itch-scratch. He’s not purposefully trying to look like the centerfold in Playgirl. But he does.
“Hot. I mean…black.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “No milk?”
“No milk, thank you.”
Pulling two mugs down, Josh’s back muscles undulate with the reach, and his arms are to die for. Will bonks his hip into his dad’s as a silent order to move so he can get to granola in the cupboard below.
I stand here, close to the front door where I thought I’d make a polite-yet-hasty exit, suddenly enthralled by how wonderful they are together as father and son negotiate the space in their morning routine, neither speaking. Will makes himself a healthy breakfast — fresh blueberries and almond milk, really? — and Josh puts stray dishes into their dishwasher while the coffee-maker gurgles and sputters magic into existence.
“Can I use your bathroom?”
Josh locks eyes with me for a second and jogs his chin. “It’s right over there.”
My heels click along wood floors like a bomb about to go off.
Locking the door, I’m scared at what I might find in the mirror, but then exhale, setting my bag by the sink’s rim. That’s one thing about not wearing mascara — it doesn’t run. I go minimal on the makeup, usually, and I’m grateful as Tuck for that today! I am a big fan of liquid blush and a strong red lip for pop, but they wore off well before our night ended, so the only red left is in my bloodshot eyes.
I splash my face with cold water and leave the water running so the menfolk can’t hear me pee, nearly collapsing it feels so good to finally relieve myself of the pressure. Wetting a tissue and rinsing myself off, I look around at soft grey towels, one bottle of cologne, two toothbrushes — both adult sized but one is neon green with the Hulk stamped onto it and has toothpaste dried on the bristles from not being cleaned properly. Through the glass shower I notice only one set of shampoo and conditioner, four bottles of bath gels, and two used washcloths hung on separate silver hooks. Did they agree on whose is whose?
Finding mouthwash on an exposed shelf, I swig a bit, turn off the faucet, give myself a silent pep talk in the mirror, and walk back out, dressed for something other than coffee, apparently, by the way Josh looks me down and up. Knowing him, he’s not thinking anything good. This dress isn’t risqué. Sure, it matches my skin and flows like silk, but it hangs to mid-calf and the neckline has a high graceful slope with straps, cleavage minimal despite the generous gifts God gave me. I think it’s a beautiful dress, nothing I’d feel self-conscious in wearing around an eleven-year-old boy.
“Coffee ready?” I smile.
Sitting at a dining table devoid of any centerpiece, Will nods, mouth as full as a squirrel in November, and jogs his thumb to the coffee machine.
Josh is also sitting at the table, full mug perched on it, phone in hand, head down as he explains what his son cannot. “I left it in the pot to keep warm.”
“Are you saying I was gone a long time?”
“Didn’t know how long you’d be.”
Will swallows his food to speak, but there’s still some left in his mouth as he says through lips pursed to ensure none escapes, “He didn’t know if you had to go number two.”
Josh covers his face, and I burst out laughing, walking up.
I point and stop his question, “Don’t even ask!”
“Did you?”
“That’s none of your business.” Walking toward the machine I smile, “Where’s that coffee?”
Josh stands up, “We told you where it was,” but beats me to it.
“Then why are you pouring it?”
His eyes shine with amusement for the first time since I’ve known him, “Because apparently you didn’t hear us,” and he offers me a mug with light steam floating above, muscles in his right arm flexing, fingers trunks around black ceramic.
Trying not to stare, I accept the offered magic and take a
