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Remi
“You got here fast,”Tristan calls as I trot to the swing set where he’s pushing Wendy.
“Emmie!” she squeals. “Uncle Tis, Emmie’s here!”
“Hiya, Coach!” shouts Jared.
“You were the guy who walked by my bathroom last night when I was brushin’ my teeth,” Tommy accuses from his seat on the still swing. “Guess what! I cut my thumb and got it sewed back together.”
“You must be Tommy,” I say. “How’s your thumb today?”
“Super bad. Can’t pump on the swing, and Uncle Tris has gotta push little Wenny.”
“I’ll push you,” I offer.
“Can I go super high?” he asks.
“High enough,” I reply.
“Cool beans.”
“Hold on as tight as you can without hurting your thumb,” I warn. Then I stand behind the swing set near Tristan and give Tommy a relatively low-key ride. He seems satisfied.
“I told you Coach Remi was super cool,” Jared yells to his brother as they pass mid-air.
“Uncle Tis, is Emmie your BFF?” Wendy pipes up.
“Well, I like him a lot,” Tristan replies. He doesn’t look at me, but I want him to.
It doesn’t take long before the kids are bored with swinging. They bolt to the seesaws.
“Your favorite playground structure,” Tristan quips with a subtle wink that makes my heart flutter.
We balance Jared opposite Tommy and Wendy and closely monitor the situation until Wendy falls into a coughing fit.
“Mommy says I got allergies real bad, Emmie,” she tells me when I lift her from the swing. “Need juice.”
Tristan races for the army-green duffel bag that’s resting on the ground by a picnic table.
“Or, like, maybe you need a doctor,” Jared adds.
“Don’t w-wanna go to the d-doctor today.” And she starts to cry.
I’m so out of my league. “Now, Wendy, don’t go getting your nose all out of joint.”
She stops coughing for a second, tilts her head, and covers her button nose with a plump little hand. “My nose is broke?” More tears.
“No, no… your nose is fine. What I mean is, don’t cry—it’ll just make you cough harder, sweetie. You’ll be fine as soon as you have a sip of juice.”
Thankfully, Tristan reappears with a juice box in hand. “Here you go, Wendy.”
The little girl leans her head against my shoulder and sucks from the box’s straw. “I’m all better now,” she announces after a deep exhalation. I’m not sure why I hug her.
“What’re we gonna do now?” Tommy asks, looking at me for an answer. “Jungle gym?”
“You’ll fall off the jungle gym if you try to climb with one hand,” Jared says, “And I’ll fall off too, seeing as I’m, like, so big-time starving, I might keel over.”
“How about we go out for pizza?” I ask the kids.
The kids roar their approval, but Tristan brings them back down to earth. “Uh, pizza at a restaurant is not in our budget this week.” He kicks a rock by his foot. “We’ve got bologna at home.”
“Bologna sucks.” Jared seems comfortable voicing his opinion. “Dang it all.”
“Jared, you know that’s not nice language,” Tristan says.
“Sorry, Uncle Tris, but still…”
