“Daddy, is Miss Kate your wife?” Andy asks from the back seat.
I gasp. “Umm, no, buddy. Miss Kate isn’t my wife.” Where in the world did he get an idea like that?
“Well, what is she?”
“She’s, umm—” I think, unsure how to answer that. I guess we never had that official “talk.” Shit, do people even have the “talk” at our age? Do you have to formally ask someone to be their girlfriend? I am kind of out of practice on that front. Never really imagined I would be in this position. “She’s, umm, my friend.” I stick with the safe word choice for four-year-old ears.
“Emme is my friend. Do I need to kiss her like you kiss Miss Kate?” Well, so much for safe and simple.
Oh boy. Maybe I should give Zach a call and warn him before their next playdate.
“Umm, friends don’t just kiss each other. It’s when feelings are involved that you, umm, kiss like that.”
“And you feel Miss Kate?”
I chuckle at his choice of words. Yup, I feel her—feel her curves and how her pussy clings to my dick. Fuck, this talk is going in the fucking wrong direction.
“Yeah, buddy, I have feelings for her. I guess I could say that she’s my girlfriend.”
Andy doesn’t react, and I worry this isn’t a good thing.
“Would you be okay with that if that were the case? Would that be okay with you?”
“What does being a girlfriend mean?” Andy is just as curious as a little monkey named George. His brain is like a sponge, taking in everything around him.
“Well, Miss Kate and I would hang out and share meals, have movie nights with you.” Among other things that I don’t need to share with him.
“And kiss,” he says but makes a grimace, scrunching his nose. I laugh again.
“And kiss,” I repeat.
He purses his lips together as if he’s actually thinking. “That’s cool by me.” Good to know I have the permission of a four-year-old. But in all honestly, a sense of relief passes through me. If Andy wasn’t on board with this, I don’t know that I could pursue more.
“But Daddy?”
“Yeah, son.” I glance back at him through the rearview mirror.
“Could Miss Kate maybe sometime stay in my room instead of yours?”
“Maybe sometime.” I smirk. Lord help me when he’s older and figures out there’s more to adult sleepovers than ghost stories and s’mores.
Well, now that I have the approval of a four-year-old, maybe I should actually talk it over with the person in question. I make a mental note to bring that up at dinner tonight.