Once Tyler’s in his pajamas, he crawls under the covers of his small bed, storybook in hand. “This one tonight, Daddy,” he says.
I want to protest—Greg is waiting, and every fiber of my being wants to be with him. But the trusting way Tyler grins up at me melts my heart, so I scooch him over and perch precariously on the edge of the bed so I can read to him. “Just this one,” I say. “Our guest is still here.”
“He isn’t a guest,” Tyler scoffs. “He’s my teacher.”
Taking the book from my son, I drape an arm around behind his little shoulders and hug him close. As he snuggles against me, I cautiously ask, “Do you think it’d be okay if he was more than that?”
A slight frown creases Tyler’s brow. He plucks at the book cover, impatient to hear the story. “More how?”
Carefully, I ask, “Like, c
