A/N: I didn't forget about this story, I promise. I just stopped writing it and thinking about the plot. And started writing a companion piece to this and also an entirely different project. But it's finished now, so I just have to revise.

XXX

It was late when Paris got home from work that night. Darkness had fallen a couple hours ago. She had only just adjusted to to Daylight Savings Time. She was astounded when she saw a man sitting on her front stoop. She was even more astounded when she saw it was Tristan. It was cold out, and there he was, waiting in front of her house.

He looked up when she approached. "It's late. You missed storytime before bed," he said, pointing at the house, where her kids were inside.

"A few of my appointments ran late," she said. For some reason there were couples undeterred by the bleak future and still taking a chance on procreating. She added, "The nanny knows how to read, I thoroughly vetted her."

"I'm sure you did," Tristan said. "Do you always get home this late?"

"I'm the CEO of a major a company, I have a lot to do," Paris answered defiantly. "What are you doing here?"

"The nanny and I decided I should wait out here, so she could remain employed," he said, explaining in the literal why he was literally outside her house. "I wanted to take you out for dinner."

Paris regarded him skeptically. Surely last night was a one-off. She knew it and she thought he knew it too. "Why would you want to take me to dinner?"

"Because it's what people do on a date."

She stood up straight to her full height, five-six in heels, and crossed her arms. Shrewdly, she narrowed her eyes at him. "Who is it you're really trying to date?"

Tristan's brows knit. "You. Did I not say that part out loud? I'm sure I did."

"Let's not pretend you ever flirted with me without an ulterior motive. You were just trying to make someone else jealous." She added, "I don't need to settle for that. I'm not desperate."

His eyes shifted left and right. "There's no one else around. And I wasn't flirting or being coy. I'm asking you out, directly." He said, "I asked because I'm interested in taking you out. Only you."

She argued, "We went on a date once already, or did you forget? You had the good manners to tell me we make really awesome friends."

He had to take a moment to think back. He muttered, "Again with high school." Then, "I didn't give you a fair chance. I liked someone else." He gave it a half a beat more thought and tilted his head back. "Oh," he said, dragging the word out. He stood up to face her. "I see what you were talking about now. Give me a break. I, too, was young and stupid. Very stupid. But I'm older and wiser now."

She sighed. "You're still Tristan."

"And you're Paris."

"Right. Paris has never been Tristan's type."

"Setting the third person aside, have you looked in a mirror lately?" he asked. "Sexy and powerful happen to be just my type." His eyes slid down her figure, like last night. She had on skinny pants and heels like yesterday. "You create life, is there anything more godlike?" He muttered to himself, "Goddess-like." Then he said, "This would work better if you'd stop seeing a 17 year old when you look at me. Look." He spread his arms out for her to see him. "All grown up and fully mature—mentally, emotionally . . . physically."

Paris continued to protest, "You don't even live here. You'll be gone by Monday."

"I'm going to live here," he countered. "When my commission is up later next year. I'm getting a place in Brooklyn, near my sister."

"And then what?"

"Then," he said slowly, contemplatively. "We could see more of each other."

She scowled at him, still not knowing what his game was. She didn't trust him, didn't believe he'd actually want to spend time with her. People generally didn't think of her when they were looking for a good time. And he was talking about several months down the line. It was absurd. She must be phenomenal in bed. "I don't have free time. Like you said, I create life. I'm busy helping women find fulfillment with children."

He stared at her for an uncomfortably long moment in which something changed in his facial expression. Like he reset it and wasn't amused by her. He asked, "Out of curiosity, what about your own?" It wasn't playful, he wasn't teasing. He was serious.

"My own what?"

"Children." He tilted his head back at the house. Carefully, slowly, he asked, "Do you ever spend any time with them?"

She got whiplash from his change of subject. She glowered at him. "Yes I spend time with them." She forgot her distrust in him. Now she was pissed.

"When?" he asked. "Do you ever talk to them? I did, this morning, and it sounds like you're at work sun up to sundown." His face held an expression he'd never directed at her. It was one of disappointment.

"When and how I spend time with my kids is none of your business. And you shouldn't be talking to them," she said. "You don't know anything."

"I know I've only seen a little, but I'm surprised by you," he said. "I'm going to be honest, I think all that full circle stuff is bullshit. So I'm really surprised to see you're doing it too."

She glared at him. "I'm doing what?"

"Full circling," he said. "You're not around for your kids, just like your parents weren't there for you."

There was dead silence for a long moment. "It is not at all the same," she finally said. She was so mad she didn't even notice the cool breeze that rustled the leaves.

"How so?" he challenged. "Because you saw them for almost five minutes this morning?"

Sarcastically, she invoked Hillary, "Well I guess I could stay home and bake cookies and have tea. But I think I can make better use of my time and knowledge."

"Hey, I know the modern day grande dame unapologetically leaves the kids with the nanny and goes to work, but it looks like your kids never see you."

Was this guy serious? "I don't care what it looks like to you," she said. "You can't just waltz back into my life and pass judgment in one day. You don't know anything."

"I was minding my own business, you're the one who waltzed in on me," he argued. "I vividly remember a little girl who used to beg her parents to come to school functions—one, any, she wasn't picky." He addressed her directly, "No matter how much your mom criticized you or how many times in the past they weren't there, you were always hopeful that this time they would be there for you," he said. "One of them, for anything."

At first Paris felt embarrassed for having been exposed in that way, vulnerable in front of people, in front of him. She pushed it away. "Yeah, well, they never did show up, not even for my graduations," she said, agreeing with him. "It was Nanny who was there." She added, "It's not like things were different for you and your parents."

Confusion crossed his face. "We're not talking about my parents," he said. "But sure, you're right. They weren't always there. So when I have kids, I'll improve on their weak spots, not mimic them."

She bristled at the accusation he kept coming back to. "I am not mimicking my parents."

He was not convinced. "If this is what your regular routine looks like, I think you're kids are going to be the same way—begging you for your time and presence. What are you going to tell them? That you're too busy with work?" Tristan asked, giving her an imploring look. He shook his head, and the all too familiar feeling of disappointment set in. "I don't know, maybe it makes sense to you, but I don't understand." His shoulders dropped an inch, backing off from the fight. "I should go."

She watched him walk away without a quick comeback. She didn't have an excuse for herself. Still, she couldn't let him have the last word. "It's not on purpose," she yelled lamely, hearing the hollow excuse for what it was.

Tristan didn't turn back as he walked away.

XXX

Paris was sitting with the kids at the table eating breakfast the next morning. It wasn't out of the ordinary, it was something they did all the time, she told herself. She spent plenty of time with her kids, there was no need to keep a tally.

He was wrong, of course. She wasn't anything like her parents. Sure, she worked a lot, but her kids understood how important she was at her company. It was her company after all. And she did see them every morning before leaving for work. She was at home with them every day. Of course, they were asleep for nine or ten hours when they were all there together. But that worked out well, because she was there if they woke up scared from nightmares. So it was all good. She was not her parents, they would stay away from home for weeks and weeks at a time, without so much as sending a postcard.

And who was Tristan Dugray to tell her how to be a mother? Mothers had enough criticism as it was. She didn't need him piling on. She was perfectly capable of managing her work-life balance.

Everything was fine.

She was reading the newspaper when the nanny came in from the kitchen, placing a bowl in front of Gabrielle.

"I don't want oatmeal, make me something else, now," the little girl said with a scowl, except she didn't say it so much as she demanded it, rather unkindly.

Paris gasped as her head whipped in the direction of her daughter. "Gabrielle." She glanced at the nanny. "I'm sorry, can you give us a minute?"

After the woman left the room, Paris asked, "Why would you talk to Nanny like that?"

Wide eyed and guilty, the little girl said, "That's how you talk to her sometimes."

Elliot nodded from his seat next to his sister. "I heard you."

It was one of those rare moments in Paris's life that surprised her speechless. They were watching her? What other bad habits had she been exposing them to without realizing it?

When she found her voice, she willed herself to gently say, "Nanny takes care of you because I can't be here all the time, you know Mommy works. So, you shou—we should all be nice to Nanny, okay?" She glanced to each kid and both nodded dutifully. "Now I have to get to work." She quickly added, "But I'll be back in time to read your bedtime story."

Elliot looked at her with a raised brow of interest. Or maybe it was disbelief. "Really?"

"Yes," she promised. Both children looked pleasantly surprised to hear she'd be back before they went to bed, it made her feel good. She asked Gabrielle, "What do you want for breakfast?"

"Cereal," the girl answered.

Paris went to the kitchen for a clean bowl and poured cereal and milk into it. When she brought it out, she sat it in front of her daughter. She gave each of her children a hug and told them she loved them before she left. That was something she knew her parents never did before they left. She would be back tonight. She had to. She promised.

XXX

Paris hurried up the stairs—the third flight—and rushed down the hall toward the kids' bedrooms. When the nanny came out of Gabrielle's room, quietly shutting the door behind her, she asked, "What are you doing?"

Surprised to see her employer, the nanny answered, "Putting Gabrielle to bed."

"Why?"

The woman looked at Paris strangely. "Because you were very clear about how much sleep they need according to their age and what time they needed to be in bed. Remember the chart you made me memorize?" she asked pointedly.

"Yes I remember. But I wanted to read them their bedtime story. I promised them." She tapped her watch. "And I made it in time."

Without much sympathy, the woman said, "Storytime has to be figured into the evening routine accordingly, so they're asleep by their bedtime, not a half hour later. Do the math." She was quoting Paris, as they both knew. Paris was suddenly aware of how condescending she had probably made the demand.

She swallowed her pride and nodded once. "You're right, you were just doing what I asked. I'm too late."

Softening slightly, the nanny said, "There's always tomorrow night."

A lot of people in the world disappointed Paris. They didn't live up to her high expectations. It would be less exhausting to just lower her standards for other people. But she never could. The same went for herself. No matter how hard she tried in life, how hard she strove for success, in the end the person she was most disappointed with stared back at her when she looked in the mirror.

"Right, tomorrow."

XXX

She didn't pack her schedule on Saturday like she normally did. She only took a few appointments. Three couples, that was it. It would only take two hours, two and a half at the most. She was going to be home by 10am. She could still have breakfast with Gabrielle and Elliot, maybe even watch a few morning cartoons—which she predicted would be terrible and mindless—but all kids watched cartoons on Saturday morning, it was a tradition. She could bear to watch a few with them. They wouldn't even notice she'd been gone.

But she was late again. She missed breakfast. The nanny took care of it before Paris made it home. She failed her kids again, just like all the times her parents failed her. She wasn't there for them. What was worse was, she didn't even realize how late she was until she heard her email alert ding at her while she was still at work. It was from Tristan. He must have found her email address on her company website.

I'm taking my niece to the park in Brooklyn Heights after lunch, if you and the kids wanted to join us.

She checked the time. Lunch? It was close to noon. She was running two hours behind schedule. It was that second couple. The husband kept waffling back and forth between IVF and surrogacy. It took all of Paris's strength to be patient with him, explaining how each would work.

She flushed with shame, at being caught at work after arguing with Tristan about spending time with her kids. Don't let him bother you. Don't let him bother you. He doesn't know you.

The kids would like the park. She couldn't say for sure, since she never took them, but kids in general liked parks, and Gabrielle and Elliot were kids. It was fair to assume they'd be interested in the idea. And it would be good for them to run around in the fresh air.

We were already planning to go to a park in Manhattan after lunch, but I guess we could meet you in Brooklyn. She bluffed unflinchingly and quickly pressed send before she could change her mind.

The kids were surprised when she came home so 'early.' They didn't know she had aimed for two hours earlier. She felt a little guilty at their surprised reaction, their expectations for her must be low. But the guilt faded away at their excitement about going to the park.

"So where have you been stationed?" Paris asked Tristan when they were at the park, sitting on a bench overlooking the playground where kids were running around joyfully. Gabrielle and Elliot hadn't minded the work that went into bundling up in coats and gloves. The chance to get out with other kids was worth the trouble.

"Italy first, then California. Japan for seven months, then Guam, and I'm finishing up in Washington D.C.," he answered, ticking off a list.

"Any favorites?"

"Well, I requested California. I was out there for law school when Stella was born, so it was cool to go back when she was a little older. So she knew me even though I wasn't around for her whole life."

Paris looked out at the girl in question. Stella did not inherit the blond hair of the Dugray siblings and instead had dark brown hair. Paris didn't know Tristan cared so much about family. But he seemed to gravitate to his sister wherever she went. She looked out to the playground where Elliot was chasing Gabrielle around the big colorful jungle gym, the girl smiling and giggling as she bobbed and weaved just out of his reach. At least they had each other, Paris thought, when she was too busy doing other, more important things.

"Hey Tristan, watch!" Stella, called out from one of bars on the jungle gym, smiling widely. She swung her body backward, flipping around the bar and ended where she'd started. She grinned triumphantly over at her uncle.

Paris tried that gymnastic move once in grade school, when all the other girls were doing it. She didn't make it all the way around and landed on her butt, knocking the wind out of her. It took her a few minutes to catch her breath and her tail bone hurt for days. She ruled out gymnastics as a viable extra-curricular activity.

"Cool," he said. "Simone Biles better watch out for you." He said it dryly, and Stella stuck her tongue out at his teasing. To Paris, he said, "She's starting to understand sarcasm. It's fun for now, until she gets mean."

"Why didn't your sister ever marry Stella's dad, if they're together?"

Tristan looked out at the kids on the playground. "Because he's afraid of marriage and she's afraid of divorce." He turned to look at Paris. "So they skipped both as a compromise."

"But they weren't afraid to complicate things by sharing a kid?"

He just shrugged. "I don't know their life."

Neither did Paris, but she could still tell they were idiots. Then again, she was the one who was divorced, so what did she know?

After a few minutes of quiet, Tristan asked, "Are you happy?"

She looked at him in surprise. "What?"

"Are you happy?"

"Why wouldn't I be happy?" she asked. "I'm extremely successful." The failed marriage notwithstanding. Though it was fair to argue that the marriage stopped making her happy. But that was taken care of now.

"You were a successful student, but I can't say you were ever very happy. It's like you wouldn't let yourself be happy until you got to Harvard," Tristan said. "And then you probably weren't happy until you made it to grad school, and on and on. I get it, you're a master at delayed gratification." He said, "So you've made it. Are you finally happy?"

She never really stopped to think about it. Wasn't being successful and accomplished the same thing as being happy? It had to be.

He went on, "I just ask because I don't know anyone else who deserves a happy ending more than you."

"Happy endings are for suckers," Paris quipped. There were no happy endings, life just kept going. And then you die. The movies and fairy tales always ended with the hero and heroin triumphant, as though they were in the clear, out of the woods. Wrong. The wedding was the beginning, not the end. Life went on and people changed in ways neither could have foreseen. It happened.

Tristan smirked a little as his gaze shifted from her to the kids playing, like she gave the exact answer he'd predict. "Still," he said. "Outside of career success, I hope you're happy with your life."

They continued to supervise the kids for a couple more hours, until Tristan judged it time to head home. He called for his niece, "Stella Biles, come on, it's time to go."

When the girl came over, she said, "That sounded like my name."

He nodded in agreement. "It rhymes. It's not alliterative though." He turned back to Paris. "I'll see you later."

She couldn't help but ask, "How much later?"

He came back a step, surprised. "Uh, I'm not sure, to be honest. But I'll be back sooner or later." He added, "Given my last disappearance of 15 years, later is a relative term."

"Good," she said briskly, like she didn't care all that much. She nodded to Stella and said, "She seems to like that you're here."

"Mm," he said with a nod, the corner of his mouth turned up, like he didn't believe she was really speaking on Stella's behalf. But he played along, "Oh, yeah, she'll be begging me to come back before too long."

Paris smiled a little, probably giving herself away.

He looked almost hesitant, calculating the risk of what he was about to say before going for it, "Do you think you'll be hungry whenever that future day arrives?"

She answered, "There's a good chance I'll have worked up an appetite by then."

He gave her a half smile and nod of satisfaction before stearing his niece by the shoulders toward the park entrance.