Chapter 8

Preschool programs are supposed to be cute. Harmless. Paper hearts, glue sticks, a few squeaky songs about love that no one over the age of six takes seriously.

But walking into that cafeteria-turned-auditorium on Thursday evening, my stomach already knew better.

Jake and Ethan’s classes had strung red and pink crepe paper everywhere, construction-paper hearts dangling from the ceiling like we’d stepped inside a giant shoebox diorama of Cupid’s frontal assault. Rows of metal folding chairs were packed tight -- parents in jackets, grandparents holding balloon bouquets, toddlers with chocolate on their faces despite no one giving out any chocolate yet.

Beth slipped her hand into mine as we wove through the crowd. Aimee followed just behind us, scanning for seats like she was bracing for an exam.

“There,” Beth whispered, pointing at a row near the middle. Three open chairs.

We slid into them: Aimee on the far side, Beth in the middle, me on her right.

Close enough to feel each other breathe.

Aimee smoothed her skirt, and my eyes followed before I could stop them. Beth tugged her cardigan into place, and the same thing happened again, a reflex I pretended not to have. I sat there trying to look like every other dad in a folding chair -- someone with one life, one lane, one set of rules. But the truth buzzed under my skin the whole time, a low hum I couldn’t shake. I was surrounded, in every sense of the word.

The lights dimmed a little. Parents settled. Paper hearts shivered in the HVAC draft.

Then someone tall -- a dad, built like a defensive tackle -- sat down directly in front of Beth, blocking her entire view of the stage except maybe the upper left corner.

She craned around him once, politely. Twice. Gave up.

I whispered, “Want to switch?”

Beth hesitated -- a reflexive politeness -- but nodded. “Yeah. If you don’t mind.”

So we shuffled:

Beth into my seat.

Me into hers.

Which put me in the middle.

Between them.

Between everything.

In the tight squeeze of metal chairs, their legs brushed mine -- Beth on the right, warm and familiar in denim; Aimee on the left, warm and illicit in cotton leggings under her skirt. The three of us aligned like someone supernatural had sketched a love triangle and decided to make it literal. Cupid? The devil? I wasn’t sure.

The kids marched out, tiny heart antennas bobbing on their heads. A collective awww rippled through the crowd.

But all I felt was heat.

Their thighs touched mine every time someone leaned forward or crossed an ankle or breathed wrong. The music started -- some jaunty preschool anthem about kindness and sharing cookies -- and both of them laughed softly at the same moment.

One sound, in stereo.

I couldn’t breathe.

This is insane, I thought.
This is beautiful.
This is going to destroy us.
This is going to save us.

I didn’t know. I only knew the moment.

Ethan spotted us mid-song and waved so enthusiastically his antenna headband flew off. A classmate picked it up for him with an exaggerated sigh. Their teacher beamed like she’d rehearsed that exact gag.

The audience laughed. Beth laughed. Aimee pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes shining.

I just sat there in the middle of the two women I shouldn’t want this close, legs on fire, heart doing something unhelpful in my ribs.

Halfway through the program, Aimee leaned in slightly -- so slightly she could have blamed the cramped seating if anyone asked -- her hair brushing my arm as she whispered, “Ethan’s so proud of himself.”

Her voice was warm. Soft. Too close.

Beth heard it and smiled, not at me, but at Aimee. Something in her melted a little, that same gentle fondness from the morning waffles and Valentine robots.

I sat there between them, wondering how the hell any of us were supposed to walk back out into the cold afterward and pretend we weren’t burning alive.

When the kids shouted “HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!” and took their bows, parents surged forward to take pictures. Beth squeezed my hand. Aimee’s shoulder pressed into mine as she stood. I couldn’t tell if it was accident or intent. My body couldn’t tell the difference.

We made our way toward the front where Ethan was already barreling at us like a sugar-charged missile.

“DADDY! DID YOU SEE MY DANCE?”

“I did,” I said, lifting him. “You were incredible.”

“AMAZING,” Aimee said, kissing the top of his head, her hair brushing my face.

Beth crouched to hug Jake. “You were both perfect,” she said, her voice thick with pride.

Jake introduced us to a couple of friends, who introduced us to their parents, who turned to Aimee with polite smiles.

“Oh! And this must be...?”

We all froze for a second too long.

Aimee opened her mouth, closed it again.

I tried, “Aimee helps us with the boys --”

Beth added, “She’s basically --”

But Ethan -- God bless him or doom him -- finished it loudly:

“She’s part of our family!”

The parents smiled the kind of smile you give when someone else’s kid says something sweet but confusing.

Aimee flushed, but her eyes flicked toward me and Beth -- soft, startled, moved.

We stumbled through the rest of the introductions using vague terms.

Helper.
Lives with us while she’s in school.
Like a sitter, but more.
Family friend.

None of it fit.

None of it was enough.

The boys led us to the cookie table. Beth snapped photos. Aimee wiped icing off Ethan’s cheeks. Jake insisted on showing us his handmade “heart robot,” which Aimee helped him glue together last weekend.

We looked like a family.

A strange, impossible, fragile family.

And I felt it -- the adults orbiting each other, each caught in different gravity.