“You . . . what?”
“I told you I was all-in. And considering the fact that I’ll be putting my San Jose home on the market, too, I might be homeless soon.”
Her fingers find her lips as she stares down at me in shock. “Patton, is this your very roundabout way of asking me if you can move in with me?”
I grin. “Baby, I’m selling two properties, not exactly being subtle here.”
She blinks rapidly. “You’re really doing this? You’re choosing us over everything else?”
“You’re not a choice or an option for me, Neesh. You’re a necessity.”
She swallows, eyes brimming with unshed tears as she lets my words sink in. When she looks back at me, a teasing smile plays on her face. “What if . . . what if I’d moved on with someone else?”
My jaw tightens, the thought of someone else touching her making me see red.
I pull her back down to the mattress, rolling us so she’s pinned under me. “Then I would have made his life very, very uncomfortable until he decided you weren’t worth the trouble.”
She giggles, thinking I’m joking.
I’m not.
thirty
nisha
Not A Dessert
Ibrush the tiny bits of hair from John’s shoulders, unbutton his cape, and turn his chair so the big mirror is behind him. Handing him a small handheld mirror, I smile at how handsome he looks. “There. Tell me what you think. How does the length look in the back?”
He turns his head from side to side. “It looks good, Ms. Nisha. Thank you.”
“Just Nisha,” I remind him, taking the mirror back. “I’ll see you in a few weeks. Don’t forget to add your name to the calendar, okay?”
“Will do. Merry Christmas again.” He waves before heading out, tossing another in Hector and Abby’s direction.
“Merry Christmas,” I call after him before getting my broom and sweeping the area around the salon chair.
The shelter has been buzzing over the past month. The holiday season always brings in a surge of more people needing a hot meal and blankets, children’s choir groups spreading cheer, and more volunteers bustling through with Santa hats. Instead of the usual sting of disinfectant, the sweet scent of cinnamon rolls and coffee lingers in the air.
When I finish sweeping, I make my way over to the loveseat crammed in my closet-sized salon. Hector and Abby are right where they always are when I work here, yarn on their laps and hands focused on their needles. They’d rather sit with me than be out in the dining area mingling with others, and I don’t mind that one bit.
They’ve been getting closer lately. Hector told me Abby’s even been teaching him to knit. I doubt he cares about purl stitches, but the man would learn anything she was interested in if it meant spending time with her. Apparently, she even let him hold her hand on their walk in the park recently. For Abby, that’s not just progress, that’s basically her baring her soul. And yet, the way she still keeps her eyes down, sleeves tugged all the way to her palm, I know her walls aren’t all the way down, at least not yet.
Hector rises to his feet, waving at the seat he just vacated. “Ms. Arora, please sit. You’ve been on your feet for hours.”
Settling in beside Abby, I don’t argue because he’s right. It’s been a nonstop morning. “Hector, you’ve got to stop calling me Ms. Arora.”
He flashes me the same sheepish grin that says he has no intention of changing a thing before heading to take a seat on my salon chair until the next customer comes in.
Abby shifts beside me, rummaging in her worn cloth bag before taking out something wrapped in green tissue paper. She hands it to me with a small smile. “I . . . I hope you like it.”
My chest squeezes. “You got me something? Abby, that’s . . . that’s so kind of you.”
“It’s nothing fancy. Just something for”—she nods to my now obvious baby bump—“the little one.”
I swallow thickly, gently unfolding the paper, and a breath catches in my chest.
Nestled inside is a tiny knitted jumpsuit in every shade of pink with intricate stitches and neat handiwork. My fingers brush over the oversized buttons along the front and back for easy diaper changes.
