I came up with the first version of this story a few months ago. A friend asked me what his life would have been like if he had been born in a different family, so I told him.

Kiss

by Sean Tibbitts

The kiss has a weight of its own, a hot pressure against your lips that stays all through the drive home. Your heart is full of elation and despair. It cannot be undone. But if you could undo it, would you?

And Leah?

You pull into the driveway with both questions still unanswered.

You are barely in the door when the stampede begins.

“Hey, Nicky; hey Lizzie,” you say, and then their arms are locked around your knees. Lizzie’s face is covered with spit and toothpaste, but it’ll wash out of your pant leg.

Leah appears in the doorway, watching as you march heavily up the stairs, a five-year-old clinging to your left leg, a three-year-old latched onto your right.

There is a tiny crease between Leah’s eyes. You look away.

“Time for bed, kids,” is all she says. “Give Daddy a kiss.”

“‘Night, Daddy,” Lizzie burbles. You bend down. Her mouth is moist and minty, and you try not to gag.

Nicky gives you a hug. “G’night, Dad.”

Leah sits on the bed in her nightgown, watching you brush your teeth. The crease in her forehead has deepened.

“You were really late,” Leah says finally.

You shrug. Was that nonchalant enough? “I had some paperwork to take care of, honey. I thought I would be done in time, but . . .” You look at her directly, sincerely. “I’m sorry.”

She looks away and nods. “I know.”

You pretend you need to use the toilet, and you shut the bathroom door. Really you just want a second away from her eyes.

The kiss returns as soon as you are alone. This time, it feels like a bruise. You crouch down on the bathroom floor and cover your face. Should you tell the bishop? Should you tell Leah?

No.

Yes.

No?

There is a knock at the door.

“Honey?” Leah calls through the door. “I need to use the bathroom.”

You straighten up hurriedly. Your face is wet, and you wipe your eyes.

“Just a second,” you call, and flush the toilet.

In bed, next to Leah, you are reliving the kiss, this time in slow motion.

You are by your desk again, saying goodnight. The two of you are standing very close. His hand is on your arm (but he is always very friendly).

He leans in—just a few inches, but it takes forever. You smell the overpowering scent of him, and your heart begins to race. Your stomach gives a lazy, bittersweet twinge as you realize he is about to kiss you. Then his mouth settles against yours, a firm pressure. He shaved this morning, but it is almost nine in the evening, and you feel the pleasant rasp of his whiskers against your skin.

Your lips slip apart slightly, and his tongue laps at them, between them: just enough. His mouth tastes of coffee and mint and sin. Your eyes drift closed.

And then it is over, and he is saying goodbye, his smile wry and slightly crooked, and then he is at the elevator and then he is gone. When you get down to the parking lot, his spot is already empty.

Beside you, Leah stirs. “I talked to Daddy today.” Her voice is sleepy, but clear. “He said the new guy was quitting.”

“Mark’s quitting?” you ask.

“Yeah. Mark,” she says. “Daddy wants your help hiring a replacement.”