I tuck my gun away and open my arms for my woman. There’s still a hint of irritation and hurt in her eyes, but nonetheless, she rushes to me and flings herself at me. Tucking my head into the nape of her neck, I admit, “This is the best present anybody has ever given me, goddess.”
“Let’s eat, baby and then, we’ll turn on some tunes, prepare some boxes, and start tossing things in them. I’m ready to lay down some roots with you.”
“Let’s plant ourselves a forest full of trees and grow them together, Letti.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
Letti
My man is shimmyingthrough the house to Disney tunes as he packs one box after another. He and Elodie are belting out the lyrics as little G and I dance around them. I’ve never celebrated Valentine’s Day in the traditional sense—I’d never been in a relationship with a man to give it any thought before now. So the whole thing was a conundrum for me. My idea was going to be a hit or miss. I was hoping for the first option.
I did the whole exchanging of cards we crafted in art class when I was a kid, had classroom parties with my peers, but it never meant anything to me outside of the sugar high I’d leave with at the end of the day. I didn’t understand the true meaning of the holiday until I saw his eyes light up when I gave him his gift.
I went back and forth wondering if it was stupid, but my gut told me to follow through with it and I’m happy that I did. I literally saw the weight lift from his shoulders, which in turn, raised my spirits by leaps and bounds.
Often, he shuffles his way over to me and gives me a light peck on either my lips, my cheek, or my temple. He keeps things very platonic whenever the kids are around, which I don’t fault him for. I never take it as a slight against me, instead, I see it as being respectful toward the youngsters we are helping mold.
I’m lost in thought as I unload the cabinets in the kitchen, little man at my feet beating the bottoms of the pots, pans, and Tupperware bowls with my wooden spatulas and spoons when Elodie comes skidding in, sliding on her sock-covered feet, nearly colliding with the wall. “Aunt Letti!”
“What?” I turn around and face her, using the same enthusiasm in my voice as she did.
“Uncle Icer just ordered cupcakes! They’ll be here in thirty minutes,” she tells me, her eyes wide with anticipation as she gleefully claps her hands together.
I give her what must be a deer in the headlights look because her excitement dims. I try to lighten things back up when I ask her, “Is that so? What flavors did he pick?”
“Strawberry for you. Chocolate for him, and birthday cake with sprinkles for me!” she says, counting them off with her fingers before pumping her arms through the air and skipping in place. “Aren’t you excited?”
I nod my head and keep the smile plastered on my face, even if my teeth are gritted as I picture her up all night, partying until the sun comes up. “Icer!” I bellow, trying to keep the tone light and airy. I don’t think I succeed because Elodie’s brows pinch together as she looks at me as if I’m the devil incarnate.
“You’re mad,” she states, her shoulders deflating.
“Not mad,” I promise her, stepping over our little guy and walking over to her, placing my hands on her shoulders. I lean down until I’m eye level with her and ask, “Do I look mad, Elodie?”
“Yes,” she honestly answers. “Your face is doing that thing my mom’s does when she’s mad at my dad.”
“What thing?” I ask, holding back my laughter by biting my bottom lip.
“This,” she says, pinching her face and puckering her lips. “That’s her, ‘you’re in hot water now’ face.”
I laugh because that’s Indiana coming out in her. “And that’s what my face looks like, huh?”
“What’s going on in here?” my man asks as he comes in, answering my call.
“Your woman is mad,” Elodie explains, dropping her hands to her sides and glancing at me as if my mere existence is offensive. I roll my eyes because this is what she does when she is upset at one of the adults. She chooses her words to where they’ll hit the target on the first strike. I’ve heard her refer to her mother as ‘that woman’ and ‘your wife’ before when talking to Indiana whenever Zoey has done something she doesn’t like.
“My woman?” he asks her, glancing up at me and blanching because whereas I tried to hide my contempt from her, I don’t with him. “What’d I do?”
I leer at him before announcing, “Two words, Viking. Sugar and Icing.”
“Aren’t those the same thing?” he inquires.
“Are we getting into semantics now?” I ask, my timbre tightening with displeasure.
“I was just asking,” he states, frowning. “She’ll either burn it off or crash, goddess.”
“That’s how you’re rectifying this?” I ask, aghast.
