Page 35 of Bedtime Stories
“Goodnight, kiddo. Sweet dreams.”
I fall asleep with his voice echoing in my head, the wordboyetched across my heart.
I wakeup to sunlight on my face and one thought so loud it drowns out the birds outside my window: I’m his boy.
For real. Not pretend, not just for the weekend or just online. Keane said yes. A thousand yes’s.
The memory makes me squirm under the blankets until I’m tangled up like a worm in a sock. Which… appropriate. Because socks are first on today’s agenda.
I kick free, bounce out of bed, and make a ceremony out of picking the pair. Yellow with smiley faces. Bold. Cheerful. Obviously perfect for a first official day.
My phone buzzes just as I tug them on.
Keane: Morning, kiddo. Water report?
I grin, snatch up my glass, and chug half in one go, cold water dripping down my chin. Then I snap a triumphant pic of the glass and my socks together.
Hydrated feet!
Three dots appear.
Keane: That’s not how that works.
Keane: But I’ll allow it. Good boy.
The words make my chest feel like a balloon someone just filled too full of helium. I float through brushing my teeth, through pouring cereal, through logging into my work computer.
Except work doesn’t look the same today. My desk is still crowded with plushies and crayons, my half-finished Hedgehog manuscript still staring at me, but it feels different now. Like every silly thing I do is secretly linked to him. I’m not just a guyin slipper socks writing about snack-obsessed animals. I’mhis boy. And he wants me hydrated, rested, and?—
“Oh God,” I blurt out loud, “he’s gonna check if I ate breakfast!”
I shove a banana next to my cereal bowl just in case.
Somewhere between my spoon clinking and my inbox dinging, I catch myself grinning again. This is it. Day one of beinghis. Not a trial, not a story in my journal.
And I can’t wait to see what Daddy has planned for me next.
A few hoursinto my day—mid-zoom-meeting, mid-sentence, mid-thought—my phone buzzes on the corner of my desk. I sneak a peek to see it’s Keane, then pretend to be very invested to my editor who’s watching me closely through the screen.
Keane: Favorite snack report. Try something new and tell me all about it. Give me a full review. Texture. Flavor. Would you recommend it to others?
I snort-laugh at my screen and whisper, “Yes, Daddy,” to no one in particular.
After the meeting wraps, I do the grown-up thing and ditch work to sprint to the grocery store’s cereal aisle.
I come back with a ridiculous purchase: a bag of sea-salt caramel corn drizzled in dark chocolate with the word gourmet in tiny font, and a solitary package of those fancy grapefruit gummies because my brain needs contrast. I set them out as if I’m staging a tasting menu.
I grab the popcorn first because, duh, chocolate. It’s dangerously good. I close my eyes like a fool and send Keane a picture of my hand, a triumphant fist over the open bag, and my second sugar coma inducing cold brew just out of sight.
First impressions: Crunchy, then sweet. Salt is salting, but not loud. Chocolate is sophisticated. At first bite, the caramel corn snaps like tiny applause, the salt pokes through the sweetness, and the chocolate melt is a warm ribbon that coats the roof of my mouth. Would I recommend? Only if you promise to share.
Three dots dance across my screen. He’s reading. I pace like a nervous ninny and grab another handful of popcorn.
Keane: Sounds dangerous. Is it messy? Need to plan for nap protocols?
Slightly. You must have a nap plan. I recommend warm socks and a back rub.
His reply makes me grin before it lands.
