Page 68 of Emil

“I absolutely do,” I replied. “Whether you’re fine or not.”

I grabbed a towel from the linen closet and handed it to him, then adjusted the water. Within a minute, steam filled the bathroom.

“Get in the shower,” I said gently. “You’ll feel better after. I’m going to fix something to eat, and then you’re getting into bed.”

“Seriously, you don’t need to do this. I can just go home. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“We can talk about that some other time,” I said, firm but calm. “Not now.”

I left him in the bathroom and headed for the kitchen, opening cupboards and the refrigerator, looking for something easy to serve on a tray. We’d skipped lunch, figuring there’d be a big dinner and dessert at Jakob’s birthday. Anders would be starving by now if he even remembered he was hungry.

With more coordination than I thought I had in me, I headed back to the bedroom with the tray. Anders had followed my instructions. He was under the covers, sitting up against the headboard, his long hair air-drying and loose around his shoulders. His blue eyes were a little red-rimmed. Maybe he’d gotten soap in them. Maybe he’d cried in the shower.

“I got a snack for now, and then I’ll order some dinner,” I said.

I set the tray across his lap. It was simple. Slices of cheese, crackers, some summer sausage, a cut-up apple, and a glass of water. Anders nodded and began to nibble.

“I don’t know what happened today,” he said out of the blue.

I desperately wanted to tell him what I’d overheard the boys saying.

“No?” I asked carefully.

“Maybe it was just too much. With everything else that’s happened the last couple of weeks.” He nodded and took another bite.

He opened his mouth a few times like he wanted to say something, then closed it just as quickly. I could see him wrestling with it. The need to talk versus the need to stay quiet. I wasn’t sure which one would win.

“Actually…that’s not true,” Anders said after a pause. “The boys said they thought you were my Daddy.”

“How do you feel about that?” I asked.

“I’m not a little.”

“Neither is Micah, and he’s got a Daddy,” I said gently. “I don’t think being a little is required. And even if it were, there’s no rulebook. The Daddy-little police aren’t going to knock on anyone’s door.”

That earned me a small chuckle.

“Maybe it’s the title,” Anders said. He stared off for a moment, then took a deep breath. “I’ve had Daddies before.”

“Is that so?” I asked. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“What happened,” he said with a bitter snort, “is that I have incredibly shitty taste in men. By the time John came along, I couldn’t even say the word without wanting to kick myself for ever thinking it was for me.”

“Does Rory know? Or anyone else?”

“No.” Anders stared down at his hands. “My problems shouldn’t become their problems.”

My heart broke for him. I’d never met anyone so kind, so generous, so loving. The idea that anyone could take that and use it against him made something sharp and angry twist in my chest.

“Call me Emmie. We don’t have to use words you aren’t comfortable with, but”—I paused until he looked at me—“that’s what I want to be for you.”

“E-e-Emmie,” Anders said, trying it out like he needed to roll it around his tongue and taste it. “It’s a nice name.”

“Thanks. I hope you’ll use it. There’s no right way to do this. There can just be our way.”

Anders offered me a cracker sandwich from his plate. I reached for it, but he pulled away until I put my hand back down. When I let him feed me, a small smile played across his lips.

“I think I like it.”