I pull Locke’s oversized sweater over my body when I get out of bed. I make sure to tip toe into the bathroom to brush my teeth, and then just as silently creep back into bed, like I never left. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear Locke humming away in the kitchen as he meticulously made my favorite breakfast. This would’ve been the fourth dish he’s tried to whip up himself; I won’t spoil the gesture.
My attention finds the few social media notifications and emails that have gone unanswered. I scroll through feeds and, ten minutes in, get shown a video of three boys with microphones talking around a table.
It happens a lot. Being on the finance side of the internet means I constantly get fed big microphones and even bigger egos. Usually, I scroll.
Something compels me to watch.
While I sit through the hot takes that aren’t actually hot takes—but rather, broken justifications for their shitty behavior—my anger bubbles. One of them says they think women should go through emotional evaluations before getting hired in senior-level positions. I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste iron.
My reaction is the same as always, but my thoughts go a different path.
Before this, I’d wonder what I needed to do to change their minds. What sequence of events would have to happen, where they shift their tone from criticizing women, to praising them.
I think about Dr. Adebayo’s words. I let them sink into the nonsense opinions being spoken, and I remind myself that people like this don’t change. It’s not about respect with them. It’s about power.
Power isn’t why I pursue what I love. I’m good at what I do, and I enjoy the mix of math and strategy. I was asking for respect from people who don’t understand the meaning of it.
But I do. It’s me who can grasp the hard work, talent, and skill it takes to get to the top. The only words of respect I need to worry about, are my own.
When I scroll past the video, I’m smiling. Letting the epiphany set into my brain and my heart. They don’t get what respect really means, and who really matters, but I do. Finally, I do.
The sweet scent of breakfast starts to grow, so strong it’s hard to focus on anything but freshly griddled batter. When my mouth begins to water, Locke’s shirtless frame appears in the doorway, holding a tray of pancakes. His messy blonde hair makes my chest tighten, and his lazy grin has me wondering what I did in my last life to deserve this—to deserve him.
“Good morning, Princess.”
My phone is tossed away onto his comforter. I throw away any thoughts of negative opinions and harsh words. They don’t cling to me anymore.
Instead, all my focus goes to the man who calls me a princess and makes me feel like one.
“Good morning, love.” He leans down to kiss me quickly, and I smile against his lips. I hope he feels like his nickname, too. “Pancakes in bed?”
Locke waits for me to cross my legs, then sets the tray in front of me. There’s a stack of pancakes, cut into squares just how I like them, and two mugs of steaming coffee. One is the exact brown color I like.
I don’t think Locke realizes, in the time that he’s settling into his spot on the other side of the bed, I’ve fallen in love with him all over again.
“It’s Saturday.” He responds. “I wanted you to sleep in, so I tried to make your Saturday pancakes.”
He scratches the back of his head, blush flooding his face. My emotions go haywire. I want to cry and laugh and jump his bones. I didn’t know love like this existed. I’m tempted to throw everything off the bed and spend the entire day naked and tired.
Ghost jumps onto the comforter then. He walks around the edge for a bit before pressing his paws adorably into the fabric and curling up into himself. He’s so essential to the little world we’ve built together within this dorm and the Saturdays I love spending in it. It adds another layer ofherefeeling likehome.
I’m fully overcome with emotions of love and tenderness when I bite into the pancake. It’s so perfectly cooked, I don’t register what I say.
“I can’t wait to marry you and have this every day.”
The pancakes are too good. That’s what I blame them on. That’s why I pretend not to realize what I just said, and continue digging into them, instead of facing the wide green eyes staring at me.
I’ve thought of married life with Locke before. Too often, probably. Too quickly, some might say. We haven’t defined what we are. I don’t feel the need for it to be defined.
I love love. The deep emotions of it. The uncontrollable whirlwind of having it, overtaking your mind and body when you find someone who just seems to complete you. Whatever I thought I had in the past wasn’t anywhere near love. Any situation where I have to ask to feel beautiful, or request for mutual understanding and respect, is far from love. Locke taught me that.
I don’t need a label for love, either. I just like imagining the wedding Locke and I could have one day. With oranges and browns that remind me of the season we came into each other’s lives and the warmth we injected into it. There’d be little accents of green everywhere, too.
When I think of my life, and my future, that’s what I always see. Little spots of green wherever I go.
I’m drinking my first sip of coffee—that’s perfect, too—when Locke’s hand finds my hip under his sweatshirt.
“You want to marry me?” He’s staring at me with the largest grin I’ve ever seen.
