Page 56 of Unrivaled

Rubbing my hand through my hair, I look at my son, who’s staring me down, mutiny in every line of his face, his arms firmly crossed over his little torso. He’s heartbreakingly cute, but also infuriating.

I crouch down so we’re on the same level and I’m not towering over him. Tentatively, I reach out and rub his knee. When he doesn’t object or, I dunno, kick me in the face, I leave my hand there and put on my best stern Dad voice. “Ben. It’s eight thirty. Your mom says that’s when she starts bedtime with you so you can get to sleep at a reasonable hour. That means it’s time to change into pjs and brush teeth.”

“No.”

Dropping my hand from his leg, I force myself to take a deep breath. I’m really not sure what to do with this kid. Do I scoop him up and take him to the bathroom? I mean, I could, obviously, but what then? Will that suddenly make him cooperative? Somehow I doubt it.

I vaguely remember seeing Tiffany give him certain choices when it’s time to do something, like asking if he wants to put on his shoes first or his jacket first when it’s time for them to leave. So I decide to give that a whirl. “Do you want to change into pjs first or brush teeth first?” I ask, striving for that same balance of reasonableness and firmness I’ve heard his mother use.

Still no dice. “No.”

Just no.

“Yes,” I tell him, unable to hold it back any more.

“No!” he repeats, louder.

Pressing my lips into a firm line, I force another breath. “Why not?”

I don’t really expect an answer, but I get one anyway. “Want Mama,” he says in a small voice.

And that’s when understanding dawns. It’s not that he’s necessarily unwilling to get ready for bed. It’s that he’s unwilling to get ready for bed forme.

But Tiffany has a date. It’s too early for her to be done, unless it’s gone really badly.Please god, let it have gone badly.

Which is kind of a shitty thing to think, but I hate the thought of her with anyone else. I’m fully aware that it’s stupid to be jealous when we’ve only kissed twice, and both times were interrupted. And she’s made it clear from the beginning that she doesn’t want anything to happen between us. Me leaving soon also complicates things, and I had no intention of getting involved in a relationship at this point either.

But dammit, we’re already in a relationship, even if it isn’t romantic. It could be romantic, though. If she’d let it. I’ve always wanted to see what could happen between us if our chemistry were given air to breathe. And spending time with her over the last few weeks has only made me want that more.

But I push those thoughts aside, because none of that matters right now. What matters is that it’s bedtime. If I’m going to have overnights, I need to learn how to get Ben ready for bed. Without Tiffany.

Maybe part of the problem is that he doesn’t know where he’s going to sleep. Maybe if I show him his bed, he’ll feel more comfortable.

Holding out my hand to him, I try that tack. “Can I show you something?”

His face brightens, and he places his hand in mine, scooting out of his booster seat and hopping off the chair. I lead him to the bedroom, where I’ve set up the toddler cot my mom sent over when I mentioned we were planning on an overnight soon. It’s blue and covered by a Buzz Lightyear sleeping bag and matching pillow.

At first, his eyes light up and he runs to the cot, shouting, “Buzz!” clearly excited by the sleeping bag and pillow.

But that’s where the excitement ends. Because once he climbs on the cot, he gives me a look of intense betrayal. I had no idea a three-year-old was even capable of such depth of feeling.

“What’s the matter, bud?” I ask cautiously.

He pats the cot. “Hard. Dis too hard.”

“Is it?”

He nods, poking it some more.

Crouching down, I press on it experimentally. I mean, it feels like a cot—canvas stretched tight over a frame—which I guess isn’t the most comfortable thing in the world. “Not much like your bed at home, huh?”

He shakes his head emphatically.

I blow out a breath, letting it inflate my cheeks while I contemplate what to do. My options here are limited. If I could pull the cushions off the couch, I could make a bed for him out of those, but they’re not the kind that come off. The thought of putting him out on the couch seems wrong.

He’s clearly not going to sleep on the cot. I can’t, because I’d crush it. I guess that leaves me on the couch and him in my bed …

Sitting down on the floor, I wrap my arms loosely around my knees and give Ben a level look. “You don’t want to sleep on the cot, right?”

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