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When Damen started his own business, he had this this dumb fantasy of strutting back after lunch and asking some curvy secretary for his messages. And she would fall into step beside him, blouse buttons straining, eagerly rhyming off the very important information he had missed in the forty five minutes it took to eat a t-bone (medium rare) and drink a top shelf malt whiskey (only if the lunch place was in walking distance.)
Look, he might have been in a Mad Men phase at the time.
And he was definitely raised by a father who was, to put it mildly, old school. Just your run of the mill sexist business tycoon who specialised in hostile takeovers. Every day, Damen still worked on being different than how he was raised.
Anyway, the reality of coming back from lunch in his actual office was much different. For one, he'd had a burrito bowl from Chipotle and spent most of the time worrying about e-coli. His administrative assistant was a timid undergrad called Erasmus who cowered when Damen wished him good morning. His messages were mostly emails, which required no third party transmission, but his second-in-command Nikandros often dumped a roughly scribbled to-do list on his desk before taking off for the one o clock bootcamp fitness class he ran for 'funsies'.
Today's list read as follows
-3pm skype call with the sheik re: travel security. (DON'T MAKE ANY HAREM JOKES PLEASE.)
-proposal from Dell in your inbox
-confirm schedule for Edinburgh conference
-do you want to do that talk thing?
-The school called.
Damen's world tilted. Schools don't call with good news.
“Erasmus!” Damen dashed back out the door. “When did the school call?”
“About twenty minutes ago, sir.”
“Why didn't you call me?” He took out his phone to see that, yes, Erasmus had called him. As had the school. Twice. They'd left a message too, and Damen had the dubious pleasure of having the know-it-all principal inform him that there had been an incident with Hallie and if he could come in that would be great. “What the fuck is an incident?” He asked the recording. “Cancel my meetings,” Damen ordered Erasmus, finally feeling like he was the boss in a movie. He couldn't enjoy the moment. He was running out the door.
-
Hallie's pre-school was in the nice part of town. Damen's offices were in the industrial part of town, since none of his clients ever really had need to come see him in person, so it was a long fraught drive over. Nikandros had advised him to lease somewhere fancier. But that would have required more money than he had (or worse, asking for a loan from his father) so dumpsville it was. The whole security consultant thing was usually done remotely, or with a visit from Damen and his team to the place that needed to be more secure.
Which made sense, until you were trying to get to your four year old daughter without getting a speeding ticket on the way.
By the time he made it to the school, he was sweating through his shirt. That was the downside of being the boss. You couldn't turn up in a t-shirt and sweats or the perfectly good Levis you've had since freshman year of college. Damen felt like clothes should be functional and comfortable. Suits were neither. He pressed the buzzer, which objectively he respected as a parent and a security professional, but in this moment he wanted to rip right out of the wall.
“I got a call,” he said. “About my daughter.”
“Come through to the principal's office.”
“Can't you tell me what happened?” Damen asked, following the woman down the rainbow striped hall. There were a few kids out between classes. A couple of them looked up at him with a mixture of awe and fear on their weird miniature faces. (All right, he didn't really care for kids other than his own.)
“I'm sorry, sir. I'm just the secretary. But don't worry. Hallie is fine.”
“That's a very old-fashioned term.”
“Excuse me?” She smoothed down her cardigan.
“Don't you think the school should be leading by example with ... job descriptions.”
She sighed, but did not respond. “Wait here. The other parent is already inside.”
“Other parent?
“Nicaise's father.” She peered through the frosted glass before opening the door. “Laurent.”
-
Damen didn't know the other dad. He didn't really know any of the parents at the school. He knew their type well enough from the newsletters and class emails about allergies and intolerances and organic ingredients only. You send in one package of store bought Halloween cupcakes and get branded for life around here. They clogged up the car park in cars too big for them and when he pulled up in his wagon (which he only bought because he needed a big car and he needed a safe car and there was a certain image to maintain in his line of work) all those moms made him look like he was an asshole, too.
(And that distaste was there before he considered all the unwelcome advances he received on parent's night.)
Anyway, he ignored that Laurent and the annoying crunchy principal Call-Me-Loyse. What way was that to run a school?
Hallie was all that mattered.
She was playing with a truck in the corner so Damen immediately crouched in front of her. “Are you all right?”
From behind him, a snort. He ignored that, too.
“Yes, Daddy.” But she launched herself at him anyway. Damen stood, with Hallie in his arms, and looked at Loyse and Laurent for answers. Now that he had calmed a little, he could see a fresh bloodstain on her shirt, a scratch on her face, and a bandage on her arm.
“What happened to my daughter?” Damen demanded.
“The important thing to remember,” Loyse said. “Is that Hallie is fine. Nurse Paschal is sure she doesn't need stitches. With your permission, we can administer a tetanus right here. ”
“What happened?” He repeated, this time grinding the words out through his teeth.
“Have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”
“Or a tranquilliser?” Laurent muttered. "That looks like some 'roid rage, to be honest."
“Please,” said Loyse. “Let's remain civil. Nicaise, come out from under the desk.”
The boy Nicaise, who Damen remembered on sight because of his doll-like face, and then remembered by reputation because Hallie talked about how pretty he was crawled out and promptly hid behind his father.
“Don't stare at my son like that,” Laurent said. “You're scaring him.”
“He should be scared,” Damen muttered, then caught himself. He made himself sit on the ridiculously small purple chair.
“As I was saying,” Loyse continued. “There was an incident during recess. With, um, --” She consulted her notes. “A plastic fork.”
“A spork, if you will,” added Laurent, who seemed to be enjoying this.
“The children were quarrelling,” Loyse said. “And Hallie got a little cut on her arm.”
“And a scratch on her face,” Damen added, pushing some of her curls behind her ears. “Dangerously close to her eye.”
“She has eyelids. I hope she would close them if a fork came in her direction.”
“Please,” said Loyse, in a voice normally saved for the children. “That isn't helpful.”
“It doesn't hurt, Daddy,” Hallie said. “The bandage is cool. If he cut a bit harder I'd be like Furiosa.”
“I don't know any Furiosa,” said Loyse. “Does she go here?”
“It's a character in a movie for adults.” Laurent wrapped a protective arm around Nicaise. “Exactly who a six year old should be emulating.”
Damen flushed. “She's four.” Hallie couldn't help if she got her father's size genes.
“No wonder there's violence if that's what she's learning at home --”
“How dare you make assumptions. You don't even know me.”
“I know exactly who you are, Damianos,” Laurent said. “And I know your family. And your company. And --”
“Please,” said Loyse. “This isn't --”
“Laurent,” Nicaise said, tugging on his father's sleeve. Of course he would call his father by his first name. Of course the sleeve he was tugging on was attached to an artfully distressed sweater that cost what some people paid in rent.
“How dare you talk about my personal life?” Damen said.
“Laurent,” Nicaise said again.
Laurent held one hand up, bidding the rest of them into silence. “Yes?”
“Hallie didn't learn it at home. I learned it at home,” he said. “Like you told me.” Damen allowed himself the moment of petty vindication. “See, Hallie was trying to hold my hand to play ring around the roses at recess. But I was still eating my macaroni.”
“So you stabbed her?” Damen asked, flatly.
Nicaise kept speaking to his father. It was kind of eerie to see the matching blue eyes focused on one another. That was where the similarity ended. Nicaise was brown haired and snub nosed while his father was all blond hair and elegant features.
Nicaise said to Laurent, “You told me it was all right. You said if anyone touches me without my permission then I have your full permission to do whatever it takes to get them away.”
“Oh, Nicaise,” Laurent sighed. “That's not what I meant.”
“I was just getting him to play,” Hallie said. “He always sits on his own.”
Well, that deflated Damen's anger nicely. He certainly couldn't argue with the child on that account.
“Nicaise,” he said, tilting his head to catch the boy's eye. “In my job, I teach people how to stay safe. Part of staying safe, means reacting with reasonable force. Does that make sense to you?”
“I don't need you to teach my son anything,” Laurent snapped. But there were twin stains on his cheeks. Damen could tell he was embarrassed by what Nicaise had just said. He could relate. Hallie embarrassed him on a regular basis.
“How about the children apologise to each other?” Loyse said. “Shake hands. Make friends. And perhaps the parents could talk to them at home about boundaries and --” She looked right at Nicaise. “How violence is never, ever acceptable at school.”
“Just at school?” Laurent remarked, and Damen had to suppress a snort. It was his tone. It was just amusing.
“Nicaise doesn't need to say sorry,” Hallie said. “He's my friend. He invited me to play in his cool back yard at the weekend to make up for it.”
“Did he?” said Laurent.
“Really,” said Damen.
“Great,” said Loyse. “Glad we have that sorted.”
-
“Kids, eh?” Damen said, as he and Laurent and the kids made the awkward walk back down the rainbow hallway.
“Is that meant to mean something? I can see them, too.”
“Right.” So much for polite conversation. Laurent must be one of those people so blessed with beauty that he never had to bother developing a personality or, you know, basic human decency. Damen knew that type, too. If Hallie and Nicaise weren't jabbering away ahead of them, he wouldn't have made conversation at all. “So, look. I'll put Hallie off the play date idea. We'll go camping or something --”
“No. Nicaise wants to play with her. He won't suffer because you are too busy being macho to think of your child.”
“Whoa. Cool it with the insults, sweetheart.”
Laurent continued as if he had not spoken. “Or are you and your family too busy exploiting people to bring her over? Have you a pressing lunch with some crooked businessman? I'll pick her up if --”
“What do you mean exploiting people?” Damen hissed. He would have shouted, but they were walking past a toddler music class. “Who do you think you are casting judgements. We've never met.”
He was reasonably certain he would have remembered meeting someone who looked like Laurent before. You don't forget a face like that in a hurry.
“No. We have not,” Laurent spat. “But I know you. I know your father's company tore apart my brother's. I know your newest venture has a whole host of unpaid interns when you could afford to pay them. I know you stomp around this school acting like you're better than everyone else. So, please, tell me again how I should not judge you.”
Damen fixed his gaze on the sunflowers painted on the wall so he wouldn't plant his fist between Laurent's pretty blue eyes. De-escalation. Conflict resolution. Time to practise what he preached.
“Maybe Nicaise's other parent should arrange the playdate,” Damen said.
“He doesn't – it's just me.” Blinking.
“Oh,” said Damen. “It's just me, too.” Being a single parent was not easy. But, probably, being a married or attached parent wasn't easy either. In fact, just being a person who exists in the world wasn't a walk in the park. “Did --” There was no polite way to ask a single father what happened to the child's mother. But he was just a glutton for punishment today. Actually Laurent's prickly attitude might be due to good reason, he figured. The elegant face. The bright, sad eyes. There was an air of tragedy about this man. “Did your wife pass away?”
“I've never had a wife.” Laurent's face turned positively disdainful. “Did your wife run a mile when she saw the real you?”
“I --” Damen stopped himself. The kids were looking. Bickering like this was wrong. Explaining personal situations to total strangers who just happened to occupy the same social space as you was wrong. Damen had never had a wife either, and now was not the time to explain to Hallie how she came to be.
(There really never would be the right time for that. She would only get the edited version, where Kashel was the only girl there that night.)
“Let's just email to set up a time, ok?” Damen said. “Do you --”
“I have your email,” Laurent said. “You're the one who replied to the entire class list with a meme stating that dietary restrictions are bullshit. Come on, Nicaise. Let's go.”
“Wow,” said Hallie, when Damen buckled her into her car seat.
“Just a second.” He had to call the office and re-schedule some of his meetings.
“Nicaise's Dad must be really scary.”
“Why do you say that?” Damen turned to look at her.
“You looked really scared when you were talking to him. And you're never scared of anybody. Not even Grandpa and Uncle Kastor.”
-
The e-mail, when it arrived, felt more like a court summons than a casual invitation. Hallie was invited by Nicaise to play on Saturday afternoon. She should wear suitable (old) clothing. There was no need to bring anything else.
Damen wondered if that meant she should not bring her father.
Well, he wasn't about to send his only child into the lion's den without proper supervision. Last time she saw Nicaise, she wound up impaled on a plastic eating utensil, specifically designed for safety. Just because she was rowdy sometimes, and looked older than her age, didn't mean Hallie didn't still need protecting.
“Nicaise's dad said you didn't need to bring anything,” Damen said, when she swung her little backpack over her shoulders before she climbed out of the door. Nicaise's dad, Damen realised, lived in a ground floor apartment on a very nice street that was not very far at all from their house.
“Me and Nicaise made plans. I need my purple bag.”
“All right,” Damen said. “Do you remember what we said about not touching people without their permission?”
“Me and Nicaise talked about that, too.” She skipped up the path. “Next time, I'm gonna put my hand out and it's up to him if he takes it or not.”
“What else do you and Nicaise talk about?”
“Everything,” Hallie replied, like it was the most obvious answer in the world. "But a lot of the time bugs."
“Do you know what Nicaise's dad works at?” Damen asked. Because he would need to find common ground if he actually had to speak to Laurent for any length of time. Also, after the judgemental shit he pulled this Laurent had better be a regular fucking humanitarian. He better build orphanages during time off from his day job at the free clinic.
“Nicaise says he washes dishes a lot.”
Right. That did not seem likely, considering the school and the over-priced clothing. But whatever. Maybe he was a restaurateur. One of Damen's college friends made bank buying Subway franchises. But Damen never even would have thought about it Laurent hadn't gotten all high and mighty over Damen's business.
He rang the doorbell.
As soon as Laurent opened the door, Nicaise held his hand out to Hallie. She took it and the two of them ran off out of sight.
“Hi,” said Damen. “I know we're a little early. She's really excited.”
“You are seven minutes early. It's fine. Come in.”
Damen hadn't been sure if he was meant to stay for the play date. Parenting etiquette generally eluded him. He had no-one to ask. His father was the only other parent he knew. And the world of internet parenting terrified him. Not long after Hallie came to live with him, he had googled something about diaper rash and the vitriol online still scarred his brain.
Maybe he should make an effort with Laurent.
It could be good to know another parent in the class.
Damen followed Laurent into a sunny Shaker kitchen that smelled pleasingly of fresh bread. God, had he baked for the occasion? He had said not to bring anything. But maybe it was like a dinner party – you should always bring something.
“Nicaise loves the garden,” Laurent said, nodding towards the open back door. Parent speak for : look, they are safe and having fun. Damen thought maybe it was a test. He would offend Laurent by looking. But that garden could be a deathtrap. He had to think of Hallie's safety.
“Oh wow,” said Damen, when he looked out. The yard was a kid's dreamland, basically. There was a slide and a swingset and a playhouse and a whole bunch of other plastic shit like giant inflatable balls and rocker things and toys for a child to go nuts over. And they all matched! Everything was made of wood or painted dark blue. “That's – I've never seen a garden like that. Nicaise is a lucky kid.”
“Technically, we share it with Torveld upstairs but he doesn't mind. He made most of the wooden toys actually. Don't worry. It's all safe.”
“I wasn't.” Damen watched Hallie hand her backpack over to Nicaise. He handed her an orange bag.
“Don't go out there,” Laurent said. “They'll only force you to be Swiper. I had it during parent morning at the school last week.”
Damen had never done parent morning. He was busy.
“Daddy!” Hallie called.
“Stay strong,” said Laurent. He was different, somehow, in the comfort of his own home.
“I'm Diego and Nicaise is Dora!” Hallie continued.
“Fair enough,” said Damen. “Laurent...can I call you Laurent?”
“Yes. I'm making coffee. Sit. There's muffins and banana bread there. All wheat, all sugar. Nothing to send angry memes about,” Laurent said, fiddling with a complicated espresso machine.
“I can't get over how cool that garden is,” Damen said. “You must have a constant stream of kids wanting to play with Nicaise.” He was a little bit jealous for Hallie. She only had a balcony that she was not allowed to go on. It was too dangerous.
“No.” Laurent had his back turned. He was standing on his tip toes to reach a jug on the top shelf of his very nice kitchen, and his David Bowie concert t-shirt had ridden up around his waist. Definitely genuine vintage, unlike Damen's weekend clothes which were just old. Habit made Damen reach over him and grab it. “Thanks,” Laurent said. His cheeks were a bit flushed but there was still heat coming from the oven. “Nicaise, doesn't play well with others. Remember the fork?”
“That was a one off.”
“Not really. You must not have heard about the glue thing. And the leash. ” Laurent said. “All the class moms despise him. You didn't know?”
“I don't do the whole gossip thing,” Damen said. “Also, he's a child. I don't really think despising children is a reasonable thing for a grown ass person to do.”
“It means a lot to us that Hallie still came over. He was really worried.”
“There was no need,” Damen said, helping himself to some of the banana bread. “This is really good,” he said.
“Yes,” said Laurent.
He couldn't help but watch Laurent glide around the kitchen in his bare feet. Over lovely hardwood floors. “Shit. Should I have taken my shoes off --” He gestured at his Nikes. He hoped he had clean socks on. Like, they were obviously clean from the drawer. But sometimes socks went grey and looked dirty even when they were only a year or two old.
“Oh, no. I just...no.”
Now Damen had to stop looking at Laurent's feet. He was not in any ways a foot person. But Laurent's were white and clean and innocent as daisies. Damen hadn't noticed how young he was before.
“Aren't the moms all over you?” Damen asked. Anyone who looked like Lauren would have to have women falling all over them.
“No,” Laurent said, smiling slightly. “They soon realised I wasn't interested. One did try to recruit me as the Gay Best Friend in the squad and I threatened to report her to the diversity board at school.”
“You're lucky they leave you alone now.”
“You, Nurse Paschal and that one cute manny will have to shoulder the burden alone.” Laurent set down a tray, complete with sugar cubes and a milk jug and tiny espresso cups that there the enemy of Damen's large fingers.
“Isander? He is cute,” Damen said. “A bit young, though, for me. And I always assumed he was someone's older brother not a child minder.” Manny was too ridiculous a word for him to say.
Laurent froze with his cup midway to his mouth. The sound of the children laughing filtered in through the open door.
“I thought --”
“Most people do.” Damen was feeling benevolent. Laurent wasn't the first person to assume he was straight.
“Hallie told Nicaise she has a mommy who lives on the ocean.”
“Again, most people do have mothers,” Damen said, calmly, but also ridiculously pleased that Laurent had asked Nicaise about him. That he was interested in his personal life. That he had the upper hand right now but mostly that Laurent, who could be a friend and ally in this weird single parent life, had lost the animosity of the other day. “This coffee is good.” He didn't even care about awkwardly holding the tiny cup now. “It was a one night thing,” Damen said. “I have full custody. She is a safety officer on oil rig off the coast of Angola. My last relationship was with a guy who left to join the pro-wrestling circuit.”
“Well,” said Laurent, with a shaky laugh.“Your dating history is certainly more colourful than mine.”
“It's all history these days,” Damen said. “You know how it is with a kid.”
“People are either not interested or too interested.”
“I guess,” he said. “But I just meant that Hallie comes first.” He looked across at Laurent, feeling like he was seeing him through walls of armoured glass. “What I wanted to say earlier,” Damen continued before he lost his nerve. “Was about what you said in the office.”
“Can you think of a better way of putting it?”
“Can you not talk to me like I'm a child?” Damen took a breath. Diplomacy and all that. “I don't know what happened with your brother and my father's company...”
Laurent's whole demeanour changed. “Too small for your interest. I already told you. They tore apart Auguste's business to build some high rise development. My brother wound up moving across the country to start again.”
“I don't work for my father,” Damen said. “I haven't in years. I'm not part of that company. But I am sorry my family caused your family pain.”
“Pain doesn't --” Laurent stopped. He set down his cup, which looked right at home in his elegant fingers. “Thank you, I accept your apology.”
“Whoa. Talk about an about turn.”
“I'll take it back.”
“Please don't.” Damen held up his hands. “But tell me why?”
“I was telling Auguste, that's my brother, about Nicaise's new friend. He told me not to ruin it by dwelling in the past,” Laurent said. “Now don't push me further.”
But Damen wasn't done. “I've been working for other people for a while. About a year and a half ago I set up my own private security consulting business,” he said. “Look. I know it sounds like bullshit. I know I was born lucky and I'm not spinning you some bootstraps tale. I had contacts and shit and – what I'm saying is, the company is mine. I used my my own money. I didn't get anything from my dad. And I couldn't afford to pay the interns much that first summer but I do now. And they got college credit. It wasn't a bogus experience and exposure gig. I'm not what you think I am,” he finished.
“You don't know what I think you are,” Laurent said. “But, you don't have to explain your life to me. Nor was I right to judge you the other day. I just --” He gestured towards the window. “Nicaise, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“You judged me too.”
“I --”
“I saw you assess me like one of your security projects. Nice watch. Good shoes. Not sure about the sweater.”
Damen laughed. “You make me sound like a grifter.”
“Do you like your job?” Laurent asked.
“I'm good at it,” Damen said, and he wasn't boasting. “Always have been. The most lucrative side is corporate, of course. And cyber, but we mostly outsource that. But I like the personal cases. I like, I don't know, protecting people? Making them safer.”
“You're making yourself sound like Clark Kent,” Laurent said. “But I get it. That's a nice concept.”
“What do you do?” Damen asked. That's what adults did. Had these conversations.
“Freelance,” he replied. “But I mostly look after Nicaise.”
“Freelance what?”
Laurent looked away. Damen realised he should have not probed further. He was too used to being in situations where he asked questions without any doubt over whether he would get an honest answer.
“Design stuff,” he said. “Like for businesses. I like it. I'd like it better if I didn't ever have to deal with the owners of said businesses.”
“Cool,” said Damen, who knew nothing about design.
“My mother left me some money in trust,” Laurent continued.
“You don't --” Damen started to say Laurent didn't need to explain. Then he laughed instead and after a quite moment, Laurent joined in. It was a nice sound. “I can't believe I justified my business decisions to a trust fund kid.”
“I,” said Laurent, grandly pushing back his chair. “Am not a kid.”
No, he certainly wasn't. He was lean muscle and elegant grace wrapped up in tight jeans and a vintage t-shirt. If Damen had seen him on any of the dating apps he downloaded drunk and deleted sober, or you know, met him in a normal social setting, he would have had his head turned.
“You say as you gather up juice boxes and mini muffins.” Damen was eager to keep the mood light.
“Are these OK for Hallie?” Laurent asked, back to parent mode.
“Sure. She'll eat anything. Don't know where she gets it from.”
Laurent threw Damen an appraising look. “One can only guess.”
Damen wasn't sure if he should be pleased or insulted. Just because he was a big guy, people assumed he ate like eggs like Gaston in Beauty and the Beasts. Or the Rock. Definitely the Rock.
(He really wished he had made that connection in his head first. God, he was such a dad.)
Instead of sitting at the table like a spare part, Damen brought his empty cup to the sink. From there, he could see out the window where Laurent was sitting on a tiny bench to pierce the juice boxes and peel away bright green muffin wrappers. He even tightened the velcro on Hallie's shoes. Those were the kinds of things you notice as a parent. If someone was thoughtful. Or maybe lots of people noticed, but Damen had been one of the blind ones before.
From here, Damen could see that Nicaise's shirt had little yellow lightning bolts all over it. Laurent clearly co-ordinated their clothes, which is something Damen would have ordinarily found ridiculous but today found cute. Nicaise and Hallie were both laughing at whatever Laurent was saying to them and Hallie kept brushing her unruly hair out her face.
Laurent glanced at the window, at Damen, and motioned to her hair. He was asking, Damen realised, if it was all right for him to fix it. Since Damen paid strangers and once bribed the IT girl from work to do Hallie's hair, he had no problem with Laurent helping out. He was proficient at many things, but the fiddliness of girls hair was not one of them. In like ten seconds, Laurent had deftly secured Hallie's hair into a neat braid thing and Damen was praying it would last for the whole weekend.
“Sit down,” Laurent said, except it was more like a command when he returned. Damen nearly obeyed.
(What was wrong with him today?”)
“You got a dishwasher?” Damen asked, holding up the tiny cup. He noticed there was lot of stuff in the sink. Like the debris of whatever baking Laurent had done had been swept out of sight during a hasty clean up. Damen did that, too. The last time Kashel had leave she found the Thanksgiving roasting pan in the bathtub.
“I have a dishwasher, yes, but those cups can't go in a dishwasher.” Laurent sounded mildly horrified. “I'm going to tackle this. You can dry, if you promise not drop anything.”
The sink filled with soapy bubbles and Damen looked out at Hallie and Nicaise marching empty juice boxes the wrong way up the slide. You could see the whole garden from here.
And Damen understood why Nicaise might say his daddy washes dishes a lot.
He rolled up the sleeves of his Henley. He saw Lauren glance at his forearms, like he was checking out his watch. (Which was, of course, waterproof and not a concern.)
“Laurent!” Nicaise yelled then from the garden. “My hands are sticky.”
Laurent threw open the window. “Come inside and wash them or get over it.” Nicaise stayed where he was. “I'm working on being a... parent instead of a personal butler.”
“How come he calls you by your first name?” Damen asked, as he wiped a mixing bowl. Laurent didn't answer so Damen kept yapping. “Hallie went through a phase of calling me Damen when -”
“You don't go by Damianos?”
“Ah, no. It's the twenty first century,” he replied. “All my friends call me Damen.” He bumped his elbow against Laurent's arm. “And I guess the dad of the kid who stabbed my daughter if he wants.”
“I told Nicaise he could call me whatever he wanted,” Laurent said. “That was a mistake because he called me Butt-Face for a week and he especially loved to shout it at the grocery store. He's settled on Laurent for now.”
“When I was trying to coax Hallie back to calling me Daddy, I figured it was because everyone else called me by my first name around her. Cue one very awkward camping trip with my buddy Nik.”
Damen expected Laurent to laugh again. Or at least smile. But he just looked out the window and he looked scared.
“Nicaise isn't mine,” Laurent said. “I never wanted to be a parent. I never thought – but I couldn't abandon him. I couldn't leave any child in the care of my uncle but --”
“Hey,” said Damen, in the same voice he used when Hallie had nightmares about waking up alone. “You don't have to explain.”
“Technically, he's my step-cousin,” Laurent continued. “There's no formal agreement. I pretty much paid them to leave him with me. He's a good kid. His play therapist says there's no lasting – but when he does things like stab another kid in school, in that school with the worst mothers ever, I worry they might involve child services and --”
Damen set down the towel. He did what he had perhaps often wanted someone to do for him but no-one ever did. Here, in the steamy kitchen, he stood behind Laurent and wrapped his arms around him.
He felt Laurent stiffen but he did not protest.
“You're doing a good job,” he said, softly. “Don't worry.”
“This is weird.”
“I know. But --”
“I see now where Hallie got her tendency to touch with out permission,” Laurent said. Damen went to move away but Laurent said, “No,” and he stayed. “I don't even know you.”
Damen shrugged, and now he let go, because holding a hot guy like Laurent for any longer would drastically change the tone of this encounter.
“I didn't know Kashel when Hallie happened. That's how life goes,” he said. “And I kind of always wanted to do that.”
“Hug me unawares.” Laurent kept his face averted.
“Not you, specifically.” Damen went back to drying dishes. “So, I know what you think of my father. I know what everyone thinks of my father, once the whole second family thing came out. But he loved my mom, in his way. And she was...tightly wound, I guess.”
“Because of the second family.”
“I guess. She used to stress clean. Stress cook.” He wisely left out all the stress apple pies. “My Dad would come in from work and just wrap his arms around her at the kitchen counter and she would, like, melt? I don't know. I always thought it was nice. Like that's how parents should be.”
“He was probably motivated by guilt.”
“Jesus, are you always so cynical?” Damen asked.
Laurent sighed. “You're right. It is a nice idea.”
“There's still dirt on this.” Damen showed Laurent the dough-stained pot and dunked it in the sink to clean it off. His hands brushed Laurent's wet fingers, as he wiped away the stain. That was a nice, too.
“Hello, boundaries,” Laurent said. “You don't just put your hands in the same sink as someone else's hands!”
“No, not if they're washing their hands,” Damen said. “But dishes are different. That's not intimate at all.”
His hands were still under the warm water. Somehow, he had lost his grip on the slippery mixing bowl. Somehow, he was close enough to Laurent's hands to touch them now.
He shouldn't have used the word intimate. It sent his brain spinning.
Laurent could have pulled away. But instead, he finally turned his head to look at Damen. He just looked, as if he was seeing him for the first time. Damen saw the bright blue eyes, the pinked cheeks, the single strand of wheaten hair falling over his forehead. He saw his parted lips, because Laurent's own eyes kept flickering to his. The air turned lightning charged.
And beneath the water, Laurent placed his hand on top Damen's.
Damen said, “Tell me if I'm over-stepping again.”
“You're not.”
So Damen extracted his hands from the water. He dried them, slowly, and Laurent just watched. So Damen took Laurent's hands and dried them with the same checkered towel and Laurent let out a tiny breath of appreciation that made Damen's chest tight.
It felt important to telegraph his intention. He set down the towel. He slouched so he was eye level with Laurent. He leaned closer to that infuriatingly beautiful face. The whole time Laurent was very still and his eyes were very wide.
“This is ridiculous,” he said. “You're making me feel like an inexperienced kid.”
Damen smiled.
And Damen kissed him.
He'd thought, when it seemed likely at the sink (when he replayed their hissed argument from the school) that kissing Laurent would be some intense lusty thing and that idea had its own merits. But when it happened, it was simple and sweet. Laurent held himself carefully, hardly even responding, until the second he parted his lips and sighed against Damen's mouth.
When Damen deepened the kiss, Laurent wound his arms around his neck. He tugged him backwards, away from the window (and the kids), until his back thudded off the wall. That suited Damen just fine. Laurent, pressed against the wall with Damen's body pressed against him. Laurent, kissing back with precise enthusiasm just reserved enough to feel like teasing.
Damen pulled back, just enough, to talk but then he saw the clean lines of Laurent's neck and pressed a kiss there instead.
“This,” Laurent said, breathlessly. “Is not what I imagined when I invited you over. In fact, it's nothing like I imagined.”
“No,” said Damen, voice low in his ear. “It's way fucking better.”
He kissed Laurent's mouth again. Or, rather, Laurent took hold of the his face and tugged him back to his mouth. He tasted sweet, and his lips were soft, and his body was lean and angular against Damen's. It had been a long time since Damen had kissed anyone.
(He had never kissed anyone like Laurent.)
He just wanted to be closer, and taste more, and revel in the fierce way Laurent kissed back and the oddly gently way he was caressing his ear lobe. Everything disappeared except this sensation.
Until something sharp lodged in the back of his thigh and he pulled away, confused and in pain.
“Hey,” said Nicaise. “Get off my dad.”
“What did you just call me?” asked Laurent, composing himself with kind of regal dignity usually associated with the Queen of England. Even through the shock, Damen could tell he was pleased.
“Don't hurt my dad,” Hallie said. “You were meant to stop stabbing people, Nicaise.”
Damen twisted, looked down, and saw a small bloody fork on the hardwood floor. “He broke the skin,” he said, sounding a little awed.
“That's not too difficult in those threadbare jeans,” Laurent said.
“Yet you accused me of elitism.” Damen poked his finger through the hole in his jeans. It was just a scratch.
“You were on top of my dad,” Nicaise said again. He had made his way over to Laurent and folded his arms. Hallie, who was indifferent, helped herself to another muffin.
“Not quite,” said Damen, mostly to himself. Laurent wouldn't meet his eyes. But by the colour of his skin, he was just as embarrassed as Damen. Parents of the Year right here. Take your kid on one play date and get caught making out with the other dad in less than an hour. “Why don't we sit down. Laurent, you can explain to Nicaise that --”
“That --” Laurent prompted, sitting. He put Nicaise on the other chair. Damen sat opposite. Hallie watched like a spectator.
“That I wasn't hurting you,” Damen said, firmly. “That it's ok to touch someone like that when ... when you're a grown up and you like them.”
“You covered him all up,” Nicaise said.
“I'm just bigger,” Damen said. “Like if you were standing behind your dad, I wouldn't be able to see you.”
“I'm not allowed do that any more.” Nicaise glared at Laurent. OK, Damen didn't mean to open any more cans of worms. “And he told me that there were kinds of kisses that were bad and --”
“Nicaise,” Laurent said, finally. “Damen is my friend now. It's not bad. But --” With a pointed look at Damen. “Grown up things are private. We shouldn't have let you see that. It won't happen again.”
“What?” Damen asked, crestfallen.
Laurent kicked him under the table.
“But he's gross,” Nicaise said.
Damen was slightly tempted to kick Nicaise under the table. Hallie furrowed her brows and Damen prepared himself to hold her back if necessary.
“We don't talk like that,” Laurent said. “It's like the fish.”
“He's not to my taste,” Nicaise grumbled.
“Well he is to mine,” Laurent said.
Damen beamed.
“Whatever. We only came inside to see if you would play with us,” Nicaise said. “Not for a stupid meeting.”
"Nicaise," Laurent said, and the name was a warning.
"For a family meeting that is not to my taste," Nicaise amended and Damen fixated on the word family.
“Hallie, do you want to say anything?” Damen asked. He didn't want Laurent to outdo him in the concerned parent stakes.
“Nah,” she said. “Uncle Nik said this was gonna happen.”
“Great.”
“We'll play outside with you now,” Laurent said.
“My dad does the best voices,” Hallie said.
“No way. My Dad speaks four languages.”
“Mine has been to every continent. Even the ice one,” Hallie replied, running so Nicaise chased her.
“Are you all right?” Damen asked.
“Come on. I think we could both do with some bracing fresh air.” Laurent stood. “And I want to hear your famous voices.”
Damen caught his wrist. “I'm sorry,” he began.
“No, you're not.”
“That is true,” Damen said.
“Honestly, neither am I,” Laurent admitted, almost shyly. “He called me his dad.”
“I heard.” And Damen was smiling, too. “Is that the only reason?”
“Don't angle for flattery,” Laurent said. “It's uncouth. If you're good, maybe we can arrange another play date.”
“A date date,” Damen countered, sounding like he felt – hopelessly charmed.
Laurent threw a wicked grin over his shoulder as he descended the three short steps to the yard. “A sleepover,” he said.
And Damen was captivated.