Father's Day morning arrives in the house like Christmas. Amir is up before the sun, knocking on my door asking if it's time to make breakfast for Trent. I convince him to come back to my bed for more sleep, and I send a text to Trent telling him not to go downstairs if we're still sleeping when he wakes up.

When Amir wakes up again, it's ten in the morning, and I'm sure Trent's been cursing my instruction to stay in bed. He's often up and gone to the gym early on Sundays.

My son is frantic, convinced Trent wouldn't have followed instructions and his Father's Day dream of delivering breakfast in bed will be ruined. When he goes into Trent's room to take his order, he's happy he has to wake Trent up. But I wonder if Trent was faking sleep after hearing Amir's distraught rambling in the hallway.

Either way, I'm grateful to him for playing along.

Amir skips down the stairs with Trent's breakfast order of bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee in his head. Trent and I talked about the food we had in the house last night because I knew Amir wanted to play waiter.

Amir puts on his superhero apron, and he shows me how he learned to crack an egg with one hand from some online chef he watched. It's impressive. Some days I can barely crack an egg with two hands without ending up with some stray shell.

Since breakfast isn't anything fancy, we're done in no time, and Amir is carefully balancing the plate in his hands on the way up the stairs. I follow behind with the scalding hot coffee. Trent can drink it straight out of the pot without cream or sugar like some sort of unhinged person.

As soon as we get to the top of the stairs, Amir whips around, almost sending the breakfast flying off the plate. "I forgot the presents in my school bag," he says.

"That's okay," I say. "We can drop off breakfast and then you can come down and get the stuff to deliver it to him."

"It's already wrapped," Amir says, and then he waits for me to open Trent's door.

I give a light tap with my knuckles before we enter. Trent is sitting up in bed, on his phone, and when he glances up, Amir yells, "Happy step-dad day!"

"Uh," I say, shocked by what's come out of his mouth.

"Here," Amir says, passing Trent the plate before dashing back out the door.

"I have no idea what that's about," I say as soon as he's gone.

"Not exactly what we talked about," Trent says with a strained chuckle. "He must not know what it means."

Amir comes shooting back into the room, two decorated brown paper bags in his hands. He puts one out to Trent, then draws it back and puts out the other, as though he can't decide which to deliver first.

"Which one do you like best, bud? Give me that one first."

"This one," he says, passing Trent the longer one.

Trent carefully removes the tape from the top of the bag. And he pulls out a long, thick piece of cardboard in a makeshift frame. I can't see what it says, but I can tell from Trent's face that it's made him emotional.

"Do you want me to read it for you?" Amir asks, all innocent helpfulness.

"Nah, bud. I'm just taking it in. You did a good job on this." He glances up at me and turns it around. I move closer, and I see where the stepdad comment came from.

On the top of the list are the words, To the World's Best Stepped Up Dad and under it are all the things Trent has done over the last year and half that have meant something to Amir. The list is long and detailed—exactly what I'd expect from Amir—but it makes my throat clog up. While I'd known the time they spent together was important to Amir, I'm not sure I fully realized all the things they'd done together, all the ways Trent had left an impact.

"That's amazing," I whisper, and I can't keep the tears from forming in my eyes, so I turn away in case they spill.

"And this one," Amir says, passing him a shorter bag.

Trent sets the first gift on the nightstand, propped up so it's easy to read. Then he takes the second bag and opens it just as carefully, the paper crinkling as he tries to open it without ripping anything.

He pulls out what looks like a series of wide popsicle sticks with some paper attached. Trent grins and turns this one toward me. Pictures of Amir and Trent are in each "frame" and there's a sentence under each to say what they were doing. The center of the piece says World's Best Stepped Up Dad again.

"Where'd you get the photos?" I ask.

"I think I know," Trent says. "Joanna asked me for some photos of me and Amir a few weeks ago for the family photo albums. I sent her a bunch. Is that right?"

Amir nods. "Grandma helped me get the pictures. I knew Mom would ask a million questions."

He's not wrong. Part of me is glad for their connection, and part of me is wary of it, especially given what Trent and I are doing that he knows nothing about. Trent has promised he won't abandon Amir, and I have to trust that, but it's hard to know I'm putting my son's heart on the line with the choices I've made.

But when Trent reaches over and ruffles Amir's hair, drawing him into a hug, I realize it's not just Amir's heart I've put on the line. It's pretty clear Trent loves him just as much.

###

The boat sways when I get in, and I hold out a hand for Amir to step down after me. Trent is trying to hold the rowboat steady from shore, along with all the fishing equipment clasped in his other hand.

Trent had given Amir the choice of activity today, and this is what he'd picked. It felt a bit bittersweet that he picked this place. It's where the weight of his potential illness was released, and it's also where I last felt Omar's presence.

Without knowing it, he probably picked the perfect thing for us to do, even if I really hate this boat.

I triple check Amir's lifejacket as Trent gets into the boat, and it wobbles quick and uncontrollable.

"Someone is going to fall in," I mutter, gripping the side while Amir laughs with delight.

"No one will fall in," Trent says with a lot more confidence than I feel. Of course, he was right about it all last time—coming here, renting the boat, releasing my anxiety into the clouds.

Amir moves around the boat with confidence, not at all concerned about the rocking, to get to the front. I sit at the back, facing Trent, and he's got the fishing stuff at his feet and the oars in his hands.

Then the worker at the dock, pushes us away, and Trent begins to row.

Last time, I was too keyed up to take in the view, but every time Trent rows, his muscles flex in the most appealing way. Watching Trent makes me wish Amir wasn't here. Sex in a boat might not be the best experience, but it's one I find myself craving the longer Trent rows.

Last week in my room, when we had sex without a clear purpose, the floodgates of my desire opened. Not that I'd been keeping a particularly good cap on it—the vibrator had been getting a solid workout for weeks, hence the dead batteries—but it's insane how much I want him now. All the time. Everywhere. It's like he gave me a pill that said, "Trent", in bold, and I've been unable to break the habit since.

In the house, if he moves past me, I've got a hand on him somewhere. Before, it was Trent with the casual touches that I took to mean nothing. Now, they mean everything, and I'm doing them too. Physical foreplay that goes somewhere if we can be quiet enough, find the time and space to be together in some way.

Last week, while Amir was at jujitsu, I was so starved for alone time with Trent that I showed up at his office, and within minutes, he had me bent over his desk, watching myself on the security screen getting completely lost in the moment.

"Seems like a good spot," Trent says, clicking in the oars and getting the fishing poles rigged up. "You fishing?" he asks me.

"No," I say with a little laugh. "I'm going to enjoy the view." And I rake my gaze over him, in case he doesn't understand what I'm talking about.

His focus slides over me in the same way, and then he says, "Would have been too rocky."

"Might have to try it sometime."

"Would you?" He seems genuinely surprised.

"With how I feel right now, I definitely would."

"What are you talking about?" Amir asks from the front of the boat.

"Getting wet," Trent says, winking at me. "You mom thinks she'd go for a swim in this water if it got too hot."

I laugh a little at how he's turned what we were really talking about into a private joke only we can understand.

"Cooling off might be necessary, that is true," I say.

Amir stands and looks into the water. "Too much gross stuff in there."

"You're right," I say. "I might not enjoy it, but I'm willing to try."

Trent leans forward, so his lips are close to my ear, "You're a naughty one."

"Surprised?" I murmur.

He leans back and searches my face. "Actually, not really. But I like it. A lot." He lets out a self-conscious laugh. "Probably too much."

And that feels like the crux of our developing problem. Before, when we were keeping strict lines and boundaries, I was confident we'd be able to return to friends. Sure, it might have taken a period of adjustment, but I was certain we'd get there.

Now that the lines are blurring, that I'm practically erasing them at times, I don't know what'll happen when I get pregnant.

I know what I'm starting to want, but it feels scary to consider it, to even allow the idea to fully form. Trent has been clear, with Lila first, and with me before this all started, that he doesn't want a relationship. This path, the one I won't let myself consider in any detail, could lead to heartbreak, a broken friendship, a heartbroken little boy, the kind of outcome with Trent and for Trent that I'd never want. It's not an outcome I'd want for myself and Amir either.

But to stop this slow descent into madness, I'd need more willpower than I currently possess. There's nothing rational about what we've set in motion, but I can't seem to find the motivation to draw those clear lines again, back us up and away from danger.

"Watch the edge of the boat there, bud," Trent says as he passes Amir a pole ready to go. "You don't want to fall over the edge. The water looks murky and deep."

"Yes," I agree, staring at Trent. "Yes, it does." 

Next update won't be until Monday! See you then!

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