Page 70 of The Dating Charade

“Oh, okay.” Jett nodded to this new reversal. “Dear God.”

“T’ank you for Uncle Jett.”

He smiled. “Thank you for Uncle Jett.”

“T’ank you for the Godfather.”

“No.” Jett shook his head. He had conceded enough to let them call him Godfather Sunny, but Sunny had also taken that inch and pushed it a mile, training the kids to drop the “Sunny” part altogether. “Thank you for Godfather Sunny.”

Dakota nodded understandingly. “T’ank you for the Godfather.”

“Thank you for Godfather Sunny.”

“T’ank you for the Godfather.”

Jett sighed. “Thank you for the Godfather.”

“And t’ank you for Sarah. Amen.”

His smile waned. Already she had forgotten to mention her own mother, replacing her with the neighbor who had visited a matter of weeks.

Still, Jett nudged. “And who else?”

Dakota nodded. “T’ank you for Buttons,” she added, noting Sarah’s dog. Then, at the top of her lungs she began, “Doe, a deer, a female deer. Ray, a drop of gold’n sunnnnnnnn—”

She went on for a solid minute, singing The Sound of Music, the movie that had been playing when he had gone to retrieve the kids from Sarah’s apartment several days ago. Soon enough, Drew was jumping into the song as well, united in a perfect disharmony.

“Very good. Amen,” Jett said loudly, squeezing Dakota’s hand. “Your turn, Drew. You want to pray on your own?”

Drew opened both eyes. “T’ank you for cows and the floor.”

He closed his eyes.

“Uh . . . Amen,” Jett said, and clicked off the lamp. “Amen.”

“Hold my hand.” Dakota’s hand balled up inside his while they sat in the dark living room. Moonlight peeked through the balcony blinds, creating slivers of silver beams on his stretched-out legs. Sunny had gone over to Sarah’s, avoiding any responsibility for the bedtime madness, yes, but also leaving the place unusually serene.

No television, no lights intruding beneath the crack in his door. Just Jett, the twins pushed up against his side, and a little boy in the other room he had the feeling he would start calling Timothy. Timmy, maybe.

The small Christmas tree twirled like a slow-moving disco ball on the table, yet another fingerprint of Sarah’s presence.

Jett reclined deeper into the couch pillow.

So, this was how it was going to be. He’d thought that exact thought a thousand times since entering that long stretch of highway between his aunt’s house and his own. Every time, however, the blow lessened. At first it was like he had stood against a wall, and a truck had slammed into his body at seventy-five miles an hour. Then it felt like being strapped to a tree, an archer shooting an arrow into his chest. This morning it was a brass-knuckled punch to the face. Now, however, the hand giving the blow had softened, no more of a sting than if Sarah had slapped him on the cheek. He was getting used to the pain.

Could perhaps even acknowledge a part of him liked watching the two small heads huddled close together beside him, Dakota’s little hand in his. Could acknowledge he was getting used to seeing a stack of diapers next to a stack of movies.

It wasn’t as lonely.

It was even—he stroked the backside of Drew’s boyish and babyish arm—sort of nice.

Sarah made sense. Sarah wanted kids. She didn’t have to say it. Everything about her screamed this was her calling; she was born to raise a brood.

And the twins loved her. Oh, how they loved her. If she ever tried to move away, they’d hop in the car with her with hardly a good-bye-forever kiss to him.

Right now, he could go to Sarah’s apartment. Ask her out. Have “The Godfather” babysit.

But he knew how a date like that would go. He’d see her smile try hard not to freeze as he brought her to the old gym. She would throw a playful ball or two for the sake of being a good sport, then let him take the floor, finding her comfort in complimenting him with every shot he made. She’d think he was a good player. She’d only say nice things.