My wife.
All these problems need a solution before I express my true thoughts. Scarlett deserves a plan, not just talk with no action.
“Mmm, what are we eating?” she asks, jumping down from the counter. Her head barely comes to my shoulders as she rests against me. With her arms wrapped around my waist, she peeks over my arm and stares down at the spread I put together.
Proudly, I glance at the meal before pulling her to my front. Sweeping her hair off her shoulders, I tilt her head to the side and place my lips on her thumping pulse. “You mentioned you were part Italian, so I wanted to bring a bit of your culture to you.”
For her, I researched, shopped, and spent hours baking pasta alla parmigiana and garlic rosemary focaccia bread while simultaneously working on the pork meatball saltimbocca. I need this meal to be perfect. Shit, I need this night to be more than perfect. It’s what she deserves.
God, I haven't felt this nervous since I was a fourteen-year-old kid, taking Beatrice Alan to the ice-skating rink for my very first date. Almost twenty-five years later, I’m sweating more now than I was then. If Scarlett notices, she’s keeping it to herself, dividing her grateful smile between me and the counter.
“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble for me. I would’ve been happy with a bowl of cereal.”
“I have that, if you prefer,” I joke, removing my head from underneath her jaw to point at the collection on top of my fridge.
Her eyes widen at my teasing, taking me too seriously. With another kiss on her neck, I soothe her worries, sucking her fluttering vein in between my teeth. “Let’s eat, pretty girl. There’s too much I want to do to you and not enough time in the night.”
Gently, I take her from the top of the counter and set her on one of the stools. Scarlett sits and waits like a good girl, watching as I fill her plate with mountains of food. She doesn’t complain, ask for less, or worry about the carbs I’ve piled in front of her.
“How is it?” I ask after she’s had a few bites. It’s a question I normally hate to answer, but I couldn’t stop myself. I went out of my way to impress her with this meal, and although it may be an attempt to satisfy my ego, I want her to enjoy it.
She moans in response, eyes rolling to the back of her skull as she pulls another forkful of food out of her mouth. I love watching the euphoria spread across her features with every bite.
“This is the most delicious meal I’ve ever eaten.”
“I’m glad you like it,” I respond, keeping my demeanor composed and not overly obvious with my elation.
Beth hated whenever I tried to cook for her, said I was a fucking idiot for trying because it always came out not to her liking.
“It’s too salty.”
“It's overcooked.”
“God, why does this taste so fucking fishy.”
It was complaint after complaint. Eventually, I just stopped, instead letting her handle the food, or bringing something she likes home. It’s easier that way, but I enjoy putting in the effort, especially for someone who appreciates it.
We spend the rest of dinner diving further into each other's backgrounds. There’s not a single thing I don’t wish to know about Scarlett, so I ask her everything that comes to mind.
She answers them all, no matter how silly or menial the question is.
“Okay, okay. My turn,” she says, swallowing the last of her saltimbocca. “At what age did you become an adult?”
“Eighteen,” I say, a bit confused. That’s the legal age in Connecticut.
“No!” she huffs, slapping her palms on the marble top. “Not the legal age of adulthood. When did you actually become an adult? Rarely it’s when the government says we should.”
I ponder her question over a sip of beer, thinking over every profound moment of my life, debating which is the one that morphed me from boy to man.
“Probably when my mom finally told me she was sick. My whole reality shifted then. I went from viewing my mother with rose-colored glasses to seeing the pain hidden in her eyes. After that, every day, I woke up and ran to her room, terrified that it was going to be the morning I didn’t have a mom anymore. That fear turned me into an adult faster than age ever could.”
My answer dulls the mood, but Scarlett is quick to make things better. Springing from her seat, she races between my legs and folds her arms around my neck.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles against my throat, pressing tiny kisses along my skin.
I wrap my arms around her waist in return, pulling her up until her little body straddles my waist.
“I love how you feel against me,” I mumble, holding her tight.
