But it was alsodangerous.
Jon is my muse—there,I’ve said it. I look at him, witness him, and find myself filled to the brimwith inspiration. That doesn’t mean I cared for him any less. It doesn’t meanI’musinghim to fuel my dream ofwriting a book. I just can’t help the creativity he strikes in me.
And it startedinnocently enough. I’d come home from work, then write about a sad man,fighting his way through grief and desperately seeking light at the end of theproverbial tunnel. At least for a little while, I could separate the Jon I knewfrom the fictional character I was creating. But, the more I wrote, and themore I spent time with him, the more I began to wonder how much of it was basedon fiction and how much was simply a confession with no other means of release.
Iwanted to be wanted.
“Tess!” Shellysquealed, handing me her tiara. “You wear it now!”
“Oh, thank you,Princess Shelly,” I accepted graciously, placing the glittering crown onto myhead. I spun around to the tune of “I Knew I Loved You” and asked, “How do Ilook?”
“Pretty!” Annabelexclaimed, jumping on the couch, her sparkling dress blooming with everybounce.
I curtsied gracefully.“Thank you very much, Princess Annabel, but may I please ask that you not jumpon the sofa? The last thing I want is to anger King Daddy.”
Annabel simply giggledin response and continued to bounce excitably from cushion to cushion. I heardthe poor thing squeaking its protests with every leap, and just as I opened mymouth to more firmly reprimand her, Lilly said, “Annabel, stop jumping! Daddy’sgoing to be mad!” And just like that, Annabel dropped to her butt.
“Thank you,” I laughed,scooping her up and spinning her around in my arms, just in time for theirfather to walk through the door. “Hey,” I called to him, grinning as the fourof us continued to dance.
Savage Garden’s “TheBest Thing” started playing through the speakers of my phone as Jon dropped hisbackpack on the armchair and asked, “What are you guys doing?”
“Having a dance party!”Lilly squealed.
“Obviously,” I added,giggling and fluffing my hair as I rocked my hips to the beat and held Annabelclose.
My heart palpitated ashe invaded my personal space, heating my back with the proximity of his chest.“You’re a terrible dancer,” he teased, his breath warming my ear.
“What-ever,” I retorted through my laughterbefore belting out the chorus.
“Anda terrible singer,” he laughed.
“Oh, and you can dobetter?” I jabbed, knowing very well that he could.
When I didn’t receive areply, I glanced over my shoulder to find he’d picked Shelly up and wasslow-dancingto the fast song. She’d wrapped her arms aroundhis neck, feet dangling wildly as they spun, and when he bent in a dip, shegasped and giggled through an ear-piercing shriek until he set her right on herfeet.
My dancing hadslowedand my arms wrapped tighter around Annabel. Becausein that moment, I learned that it was impossible to keep myself from falling inlove with this man who spontaneously danced with his little girl.
***
Jon read a chapter fromThe Phantom Tollboothto his daughters,while I put the kettle on for our nightly cup of tea. I listened as he concludedthe storytelling with an ache swelling in my chest.This is bad. How could I have allowed myself to fall for him? Iknew it would remainunrequited, andknew there was noway it would ever lead to anything more than what it was.But,it had still happened regardless. How could itnot?
“Okay, ladies,” Jonannounced. “Time for bed.” I remained frozen at the kitchen counter as thegirls protested—they always did—and he chuckled gently. “Come on, we only havea few chapters left! If I read more now, it’ll end sooner. You don’t want that,right?”
“No,” Lilly grumbledthrough her disappointment.
“That’s what I thought.Now, tell me you—”
“Daddy,leave the door open,” Shelly urgently reminded him, and I stifled my giggle.
“Baby, the day Iactually forget to leave the door open, you better get my head checked, okay?”he replied exhaustedly, and I didn’t bother hiding my laugh that time.
“Okay,” she agreed, satisfied.
“O-kay, now tell me you love me and tell me goodnight.”
As the girls followedsuit in my favorite part of their routine, I wondered where it’d originated.That phrase, “Tell me you love me and tell me goodnight.” Where had it started?Was it from Jon, or his wife? Did one of the girls come up with it on theirown, only to have it stick as a part of the nightly ritual?
Leaving their room, hewalked toward the kitchen with his hands in his pockets. He approached me withworried intent. Something must’ve been on his mind, and as I took two tea bagsand plopped them into their respective mugs, I asked, “What’s up?”
