After three slices of pizza, I’m full. I put my plate on the coffee table and lean back on the sofa. Greg still sits forward, and the television is on—Cars again, narrated by Tyler just in case Greg can’t figure out the plot. Greg wears a button-down, short-sleeve shirt that’s casually wrinkled and a pair of jeans so faded, they’re almost white in spots. It’s hard to picture him in front of a classroom full of kids my son’s age. I wonder if Tyler sees anything incongruous with the Mr. Boucher he knows from school and the funny, laid-back guy beside me on our couch.
Reaching out, I pick at the hem of Greg’s shirt. The waistband of his jeans pooches out slightly, causing the shirt to stick out. I tweak it, then tuck it into the jeans, then pull it out again. When I look up, I find Greg glan
