My mother’s words stuck like glue. They never left me. I recalled them more often than not.
I wouldn’t be found in a man’s kitchen barefoot with breakfast on the stove. Not until my finger was sore from acclimating itself with the weighty diamond that was a result of our vows. I wouldn’t become a homemaker for a man who hadn’t built a home for us. A life for us. And, established a trust for us.
There were rules.
There were guidelines.
There were stipulations.
And there were requirements.
They didn’t bend, fold, or disappear for anyone. Not even the politician.
I stopped near the window, overlooking a slightly gloomy Berkeley. The city had birthed my greatest gift. My Teddy. The city had also broken his heart.
His spirit.
His head.
And his bond with the men that meant the most to him.
I placed a hand on my chest to relieve the pain I was experiencing.
“You seem to know your way around. You sure it’s your first time here?”
“Is it yours?” I asked, never releasing Berkeley’s skyline from my line of vision.
Ishmael’s grunt was low, sultry, and sex-filled.
Or maybe it was the thudding between my thighs that translated everything that fell from his lips.
“I’ve moved things around a bit and forgot where I put everything.”
“Hmph.”
“Your explanation?”
“I’m not a woman who explains herself much.”
“Royce–” he called out.
Giving into his demand, I turned around. I headed toward the kitchen where he stood near the sink. His home was impressive. Another kitchen was just beneath us. The architect was superior. So was the interior decor.
“I’m starving. Takeout sounds like a better idea.”
“You’re pivoting.”
“I am.”
“Don’t.”
Smiling, I exhaled. “I studied the blueprints.”
“Plural?” Ishmael asked, partly surprised.
“All of them. Every address that belongs to you.”
He sniggered.
