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Remi
“So,you live with your sister and her kids?” Small talk never seemed so critical—I need to get it right if I want to take him to bed without passing go.
Tristan nods, chewing a bite of the salad I insisted on paying for. “Tara’s my twin.”
“I’ve heard that’s a very strong bond.”
“It’s the strongest bond I’ve ever shared,” he admits with a shrug.
Interesting. “And Tara has three kids?”
“Yeah. Jared is eight—he’s into sports. Tommy is six—he’s our little artist. And Wendy is three.”
“She’s the one with allergies?”
Again, he nods. Then the sweetest smile appears. “She loves lambs.”
It’s clear he adores these kids. “I have no siblings, so I have no hope of nieces or nephews.”
“The kids are great, but since I live with them, I’m more of a parent than an uncle.”
“Are you comfortable with that?”
“It’s a lot of work.” He doesn’t hesitate to add, “But, yeah, I really am cool with it.”
For a few minutes, we focus on our food.
“Jared’s got a soccer game tonight. I’m supposed to coach because their regular coach is out of town on business.” He sniffs. “That should be a total shit show—I don’t know the first thing about soccer.”
“I do… I mean, I played soccer at my prep school—as a midfielder. And I played club soccer at Gunther University, where I got my first undergraduate degree. I could, uh…” My urge is to help when someone expresses need, but I have a more selfish motive today.
Tristan places his fork down beside his plate and drags his napkin across his lips. “You could… do what?”
“I could meet you guys at the field and… you know, help out.” Did I just offer to coach a kids’ soccer team? I haven’t spoken to an eight-year-old since I was an eight-year-old… during the last year of my life that I truly belonged somewhere. In any case, Mom and Dad would be pleased at my offer.
“Uh… yeah, I guess. I could use the help.”
Not exactly the picture of enthusiasm, but I can work with it. “Name the field and the time.”
“Dexter Field in Brentwood Village. Five o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.” With cleats on.
