I heard the sliding glass door open and I craned my neck back to look beyond Tate to the door.
Jonas was closing the door and then he turned toward us. He was wearing a pair of loose-fitting knit shorts and a t-shirt, both wrinkled with sleep. His hair was adorably tousled. And, I was alarmed to note, he was stumbling somewhat drunkenly down the deck toward us.
I felt my body tense, wondering if he was sick or something when Tate moved. I looked to him to see he’d stretched an arm toward his boy. Then I watched as Jonas walked straight into it, not stopping at Tate, instead colliding sleepily with him and then leaning into his side as Tate curled his arm around his son.
My heart turned over yet again.
Tate and Jonas stayed this way for several long minutes without speaking.
Finally, Tate asked quietly, “You sleep okay, Bub?”
Jonas nodded, staring blankly into the trees, his body still heavy against his father.
“Bed all right?” Tate asked.
“Like it better than home,” Jonas mumbled. “Bigger.”
Jonas’s bed downstairs was a double. It was covered in light gray sheets and a forest green comforter both of which were far newer and better quality than Tate’s had been before I replaced them. There was a lamp on the nightstand, its base a football, its shade covered with Philadelphia Eagles emblems. The walls had posters of Eagles players on them. The dresser had t-shirts, shorts and underwear in it, the closet had jackets and jeans on hangers, some shoes on the floor. There was a TV with some video game player attached to it, a mess of controls and cords. There was a boom box with CDs scattered around. There was boy stuff laying here and there, on the nightstand, dresser, on top of the TV.
When I’d discovered and cleaned it, the bed was unmade, some clothes on the floor. I’d noticed that Jonas’s room wasn’t where he slept when he was here. He had clothes, he had things. It wasn’t his room at Tate’s house. It was his room in his home.
“You want Laurie to make you breakfast?” Tate asked.
Jonas’s eyes didn’t move from the trees when he muttered, “Unh-hunh.”
I leaned across Tate. “What do you want, baby?” I asked. “French toast? Pancakes? Eggs –?”
“Eggs,” Jonas said.
“Scrambled? Fried? Poached?” I went on.
“Fried,” Jonas answered.
“Gotcha,” I said softly, untangled my legs from Tate’s and stood. He looked up at me when I did. “You want a warm up?” I asked, tipping my head to his mug.
“Yeah, honey,” he answered.
I took his mug and looked into his beautiful eyes. That was when the spirit moved me and I didn’t know if it was right but I also didn’t care. A biker babe would act when the spirit moved her so I did.
I leaned down and touched my mouth to Tate’s. When I did, his hand came up and curled at my upper hip, his fingers pressing in firmly.
I lifted my head and saw his face soft and warm. Then I looked at Jonas to see he was not looking at the trees anymore, he was watching me with his father. His face was still sleepy but I knew he’d seen the kiss and he’d seen his father’s face after.
The spirit moved me again and I leaned into Jonas and touched my lips to his forehead, pulled slightly away and looked into his beautiful eyes.
“Eggs,” I whispered, straightened, skirted Tate’s chair and walked away.
“Do it again!” Jonas shouted.
I lounged in the lounge chair watching father and son playing in Ned and Betty’s pool.
“Again” meant Tate grasping Jonas by the waist and tossing him bodily through the air to splash in the deep end. This had been going on awhile and me, and two twenty-something girls in bikinis across the way from me, had been watching it avidly.
This was because Tate, slicked with wet, his eagle tattoo on show, his powerful muscles bunching when he tossed his son around the pool, was a sight to see.
It was late afternoon but the day was still hot. Tate and Jonas had dropped me off at boot camp and picked me up afterward. I’d packed our bags for the pool visit before boot camp and changed at Ned and Betty’s house while Tate and Jonas hit the pool.
Jonas had swim trunks.
Tate didn’t. Tate hit the pool in a pair of faded, cutoff jeans shorts. Another reason to watch him avidly for he might pull himself out of the pool, his whole body slick and those shorts plastered on him was not a sight to see. It was a sight to prove there was a God and that God might just be Tate.
I watched Tate throw Jonas again and watched Jonas land with a splash. He surfaced laughing and shaking his head. As beautiful a child as Jonas was, and he was more beautiful when he was laughing, I noted the twenty-something girls kept their eyes glued to Tate who had lifted a hand to run his fingers over his wet hair, his eyes on Jonas, his lips smiling. All of this was fascinating and I was sleeping with the man. Those two girls probably thought they’d died and gone to biker babe heaven.