Ryan nodded.
“How did Lily respond to that?”
“The kid went ballistic, really started acting out.”
The relapse into smoking. The haggard look. Ryan had been under more stress lately than I had.
“I got the DNA report last week.”
I waited.
“Lily is my daughter.”
“That’s wonderful, Ryan.”
“It is. But the kid’s a pistol, and I’m clueless concerning fatherhood.”
“What have you worked out so far?”
“Lutetia’s largely gotten Lily’s head straight. Lily loves her mother and will continue to live with her. If she decides she wants another parent in her life, I’ll be there for her, whatever it takes.”
I crossed to the couch and sat beside Ryan. He looked at me, eyes boylike. I took his hand.
“You’ll be a wonderful father.”
“I’ll need a lot of help.”
“You’ve got it, cowboy.”
I put my face to Ryan’s, felt his rough stubble on my cheek.
Ryan held me a moment, then set me at arm’s length, and got up.
“Stay here.”
I waited, unsure what was happening. The front door opened, seconds passed. The door closed. I heard rattling. A tinkling bell.
Ryan reappeared wearing the Santa hat and carrying a cage the size of a gym. Inside, a cockatiel clung to an undulating swing.
Ryan placed the cage on my coffee table, dropped next to me on the couch, and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. The cockatiel regarded us as it swung back and forth in decreasing arcs.
“Merry Christmas,” Ryan said. “Charlie, meet Tempe.”
The swing settled. Charlie checked me out, first with his left eye, then with his right.
“I can’t have a bird. I’m away far too much.”
Charlie hopped from the swing to his seed dish.
Across the room, Birdie rose, tail puffed, eyes fixed on the cockatiel.
“Birdie, meet Charlie,” Ryan said to my cat.
Birdie oozed across the carpet, a miniature white leopard on a predawn stalk. Placing forepaws on the coffee table, Bird craned toward the cage, tail flicking only at its tip.
Charlie raised his crown, tipped his head at Birdie, then refocused on his seed.
“He’s beautiful, Ryan.” He really was. Soft yellow head, pearl gray body.
Jumping to the tabletop, Birdie placed his paws in a square, sat, and stared at the cockatiel.
“It’s a lovely idea, Ryan, but it won’t work.”
Bright orange cheek patches.
Birdie settled into his sphinx position, paws curled inward, eyes locked on the bird.
Soft white stripes on his wings.
Birdie began to purr. I looked at him, astounded.
“Bird likes him,” Ryan said.
“I can’t commute by air with a cat and a bird.”
“I have a plan.”
I looked at Ryan.
“Live with me.”
“What?”
“Move in with me.”
I was in shock. The idea of cohabitation had never crossed my mind.
Did I want to live with Ryan?
Yes. No. I had no idea.
I tried to think of a suitable reply. “Maybe” lacked a certain style, while “No” seemed rather final.
