Kyle
They smell like everything innocent and good in the world.
Alexander smells like apple juice—the kind that comes in those little boxes with the bendy straws. There's a faint stickiness to his neck where he didn't wipe his mouth properly. Graham crackers, too. I can smell the sweet, wheaty scent clinging to his shirt. And underneath it all, that particular smell of child-sweat that somehow manages to be sweet instead of sour. Like sun-warmed grass and playgrounds and pure, unfiltered energy.
"Hey, buddy," I manage to say.
Alexander doesn't notice. His arms squeeze tighter around my neck.
"You're really here!"
"Alex, breathe," Mia says from across the room. "He needs to breathe too."
"Oh." Alexander loosens his grip slightly. "Sorry, Daddy. Sometimes I forget about breathing. Mama says I talk so fast the words trip over themselves."
"It's okay," I tell him, and I mean it. He could talk for the next ten hours straight and I'd listen to every word. "I like hearing you talk."
Ethan approaches slowly. "Hi, Dad."
Just those two words.
"Hi, Ethan." I just extend my free arm—the one not still wrapped around Alexander—toward him. He takes one step. Then another. Then he's close enough that I can pull him in.
He comes.
I stand up slowly. Alexander immediately tries to climb me like a tree.
"Daddy, you're SO TALL today. How did you get so tall? I wanna be tall like you. Can I be tall like you? Mama says I'm gonna be tall because you're tall and tallness is in the jeans—no wait, not the pants kind, the other kind—"
"Genes," Ethan corrects.
"That's what I said! Jeans!"
"No, you said—"
"Boys," Mia's voice cuts through gently. "Maybe let your dad breathe for a second?"
Alexander is now hanging off my left arm. Ethan is holding my right hand. I'm effectively immobilized by small humans and I don't mind even a little bit.
"Are you gonna dance with us?" Alexander asks, bouncing on his toes in excitement. "We were doing the spinny dance! It's the BEST dance! You spin and spin and spin until everything is blurry and then you fall down and laugh!"
"That does sound like a great dance," I say.
"Mama taught us! Mama knows ALL the dances. She knows salsa and merengue and—and—what's the other one, Mama? The one with the hips?"
"Bachata," Mia supplies. Her voice is strained.
"Yeah! That one! She's really good! You should see her! Oh wait—you DID see her! Just now! When she was spinning! Wasn't she amazing?"
"She was," I say, looking directly at Mia. "She is."
Mia looks away. Her hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear even though it doesn't need tucking. It's a nervous gesture. I remember it.
Alexander is already pulling on my arm. "Come on! Dance with us! The music is still playing!"
He's right. The salsa has transitioned into something slower. Something with more piano, less brass. Something meant for couples, not children.
"Can Daddy dance with us, Mama?" Alexander asks, turning toward her but keeping his death grip on my hand. "Please? Please please please?"
Mia opens her mouth. Closes it. "I don't—" she starts.
"Please?Just one dance?"
Mia looks at them. Then at me. Then back at them.
I stay silent. This has to be her choice.
"Okay," she finally says. "One dance."
"YES!" Alexander pumps his fist in the air. "Did you hear that, Daddy? One dance! That's more than zero dances! That's actually INFINITE more than zero because zero is nothing and one is something and—"
"Alex," Mia says. "Breathe."
"Right. Breathing. Sorry."


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