That man at the bar whose warning I ignored was Deacon Moretti, and he’s the same man who took a hit to the head tonight defending his friends, his team, and indirectly, me and my daughter.
Noelle breaks the silence. “You okay?”
I swallow hard. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”
“About him?”
“About a lot of things.”Filthy things.Things that I must clear my head of now as I hold out my hands,“I should put her down to sleep?”
Noelle pouts out her lip. “Of course.”
I snuggle her a bit, whisper our little prayers, kiss my girl, and lay her down.
“You just prayed with her,” she states. “My mom and dad both said that same prayer with me every night.”
“I picked up prayer from one of the homes I lived in,” I say as I swaddle Savannah.
“So, you’re a believer?”
Lord, please forgive me that this conversation is happening while I am thinking of Deacon Moretti and his filthy mouth.
“It was comforting to me. Then I dug a little deeper into it, wanting to understand why I felt that way. Read some passages that saidthough the father and mother have forsaken me, the lord will receive me, then ever the learner, I deep dived into Christ's teachings, and” I nod my head. “Yeah, I liked what I read, how it made me feel like I was part of something bigger, and that, regardless, I had a father who loved me. Even as Iwent through college, even when the doubt was there, as seeds were planted, I could never shake the fact that almost every other major religion acknowledges His existence in some way. For a long time, I was convinced we all called God by a different name. I still think that’s partially true. Those who adamantly deny Him actually believe in God by rebuking him, refuse to acknowledge Him. Atheists have an inherent moral code. They know what’s right and wrong, fair and unjust. These things can’t exist in a purely material universe made up of chemicals and compounds. So, when atheists argue about morality, theyimplicitly acknowledgea moral source, and that source in any language is God. To me, denying Him is more bout ego and pride, and not wanting to be accountable to something, which is human nature, free will.” I bend and kiss Savannah, “And any lingering doubt was erased because this sweet little one. She may be dust, but she’s also divine because she came with a soul, and clearly even the world hasn't been able to manufacture them.”
“Big pharma is slacking,” she jokes.
“Oh no, they aren’t, they're working overtime trying to manufacture what was already perfect.” I pick up the bottles of expressed milk. “Don’t even get me started on what’s in baby formula.”
“A glass of champagne?” Sofie asks as she returns from delivering the guys’ blankets and pillows. Her eyes catch the breast milk, and her nose scrunches up. “It looks like watery cum?”
“Ohemgee, Sofie,” Noelle says with shocked laughter, and yeah, I am giggling too. “How come it can’t just look like freaking milk?”
“Because it came out of Claudia’s perfect tits.”
“Perfectly natural tits,” I smile proudly, as if I made them.
“Where do you think the milk you buy at the store comes from?” Noelle laughs.
“Almonds.” Sofie deadpans, walking over to the bed. “This is going to be cozy.”
“I can sleep on the floor.” I offer.
“Um, hell no,” Sofie huffs. “We’re snuggling tonight.”
“I’ll get rid of the highly offensive booby juice,” I say as I grab it up.
“That’s titty cum to you, young lady,” Noelle snorts, and Sofie laughs. Noelle shushes her, “We have a sleeping baby.”
“She’s not waking up until she’s hungry,” I assure them.
Makingmy way past whoever’s buried under all those blankets, I pad softly toward the kitchen. I’d planned to dump the milk and crawl into bed with Sofie and Noelle, but the sink is full of glasses, mostly wine glasses. A sigh escapes before I can stop it. It’s a small thing, but waking up to dirty dishes has always been one of those quiet irritations that needles at me. Old habits, I guess, control what you can.
I set the bottles on the island behind me and set to loading the dishwasher. I rinse each dish one by one and put them in, keeping the noise to a minimum. The air purifier hums from the corner, that steady ocean-sound whirs from yet another housewarming gift from Sofie, who swore would “change our lives, and keep the air clean. She wasn’t wrong; the thing could drown out a thunderstorm, and it smells so crisp and clean in here now.
Dishes, something is soothing about doing something small and useful when everything else feels uncertain — the clink of glass, the scent of soap, the soft hush of the machine when I start it after it’s loaded.
As I’m drying my hands on the towel, I turn and nearly jump out of my skin. Elbows on the counter, Deacon Moretti is holding a cup of my freaking breast milk and has… a milk mustache.
“Hope you don’t mind, I helped myself.” He takes another sip. “Warm milk always helps me sleep.”
