“The pet,” he moves on, “will be a cat, I believe, or Heidi will throw a fit.”
“Is she allergic to dogs?” I ask.
“No,” he answers. “Just common sense.”
At my visible confusion, he continues, “You know of Camilla Evergreen?”
I nod. Of course I know of Camilla Evergreen. We write in the same genre, and I don’t live under a rock. Not to mention, Heidi and Millie bring her up almost every time they’re on stream with Archie—especially Heidi. The girl’s obsessed. And, if Archie’s shelves are anything to go by, he just might be as well. Nearly half the books in this room are Camilla’s.
“In one of her books, a man proposes marriage with a kitten,” Archie informs me.
I am unsurprised. In the only book of hers I’ve read, a man orchestrates the apocalypse to get with his love interest. A proposal kitten seems fairly mild in comparison. “Does it matter what sort of cat we get?” I ask, thinking of Stryker and Millie’s orange behemoth. I like cats, but orange cats are… yikes.
“I believe the only requirement Heidi enforces is that it be adopted from a shelter or a street.”
“A cat, then,” I agree. “After we’ve completed our pet prep list, which you’ll see is right below point fifty-five.”
His eyes flit to the paper, then back up. “We can prep for our marriage kitten tomorrow, then get them the day after.”
Uh. “There are a lot of steps on there before we get to the kitten acquisition stage.” Including building a catio, prepping spaces in every room of the house for the kitten so that they feel like part of the family, and researching proper care and training schedules. Among other things. Any pet we bring into the household will have the very best pet life it could possibly have.
His eyes hold steady locked to mine. “We’ll get them the day after tomorrow,” he repeats. “Tomorrow will be dedicated to your list.” Authority drips off of him in scalding hot waves, threatening to undo me.
“Tomorrow,” I agree, because what other option is there in the face of such hotness?
Satisfied, he consults the list. “The rest of this I have no questions or concerns with.”
I wiggle under the words that aren’t quite praise, but also are. He has no questions, no qualms, no comments, no concerns. I have done a good job! And not entirely ruined us before we’ve even begun by having horrible wants the likes of which he would never want to fulfill.
Yay!
“Next order of business, then?”
I’m so wrapped up basking in Archie’s praise that I forget entirely to be scared about moving on to our next order of business. Until he says—out loud, straightforward, as if there wouldn’t be anything to be scared about in the first place, “Do you think your parents would prefer to come here, or for us to go there?”
My elation turns sour in my chest. “They would probably prefer we come to them,” I answer, dragging the words slowly across my tongue as I poke at a scone on my plate. “They don’t much like long car rides, and even the two hours it takes to get here from their house would be a lot for them.”
His finger taps against his bouncing knee, and I wonder if perhaps he’s more nervous about interacting with them than he’s letting on.
“They’ll come here,” he decides. “In two weeks.”
I start. “I said that they’d prefer us go to them,” I repeat. Did he mishear?
“And so they shall come to us,” he declares. “A small rebellion.”
I press my lips together. This is not funny. Of course this isn’t funny. And yet… “You don’t think my running away and getting married is any bit of a rebellion?”
Mirth dances within caramel eyes, though his words stay serious. “Did you run away to spite them? Marry me to stick it to them? Retire to really show them who’s boss?”
“Of course not.” I shudder. “I would never be so disrespectful.”
His whole face softens, and he rises from his chair to round the table. I turn into him when he settles on the couch, falling back into the cushions and pulling me all but on top of him.
“You’re incredibly respectful,” he says. “In fact, you running away and marrying me is the single thing I’ve seen you do in the last five years that could even kind of be construed as disrespectful. And I would argue that your actions are the desperate, self-preserving actions of a woman with no good choices—not the disrespectful ones of a rebellious child. It’s hard to love people you disagree with, and it’s even more difficult tolivewith them, honoring their choices for their home and in their relationship with you. You’ve spent twenty-eight years with them, Sarelia, and you’ve been a model daughter all that time. Responsible. Loving. Trustworthy. You’ve helped clean. You’ve helped cook. You’ve helped your mother weed her garden and your brother do his homework, both for hours on end, and you rarely complain. Then, when youdocomplain, you do it inyour writings, not in your conversations with friends or family where you could negatively impact someone’s opinion of your loved ones.” He sighs, shaking his head. “There is not a more respectful daughter on this planet.”
If anyone else had said this to me, I’m not sure I would have believed them. Archie, though… I’ve spent almost a decade of my life watching him. I’ve seen how big his heart is—how big it always has been. Hegives, constantly and consistently. His time, his money, his energy. He’s always thinking about other people. And, yes, he’s always mischievous and maneuvering, but he’s mischievous and maneuvering for thegood.
In other words; he’s trustworthy, and I trust him.
