Page 94 of 4 Corinthians

“Why?” His hand moved from my short curls to my arm, tracing my tattoo. I watched his fingers move so gently across my skin. I knew what he could do with those hands, what he had done and what he would do. Yet, against my arm his touch was light.

“Why didn’t I work with Psalms?” I looked up at him and asked. Four nodded. “Because I love Bug, but her passion is flowers, not mine.” I smiled and moved my head back into its original position. From our spot, I could see downtown and a little beyond. “I wanted something with my own name on it. I learned to cut hair in high school and, after talking to my grandparents, decided I wanted to own my own shop.” I licked my lips. “It's not easy, but it's worth it. It gives me the freedom to be an active parent.”

“You’re a good mama,” he said, then kissed the top of my head. Those little words of encouragement made my eyes water. I heard the praise from my family all the time, but hearing it from him felt different. “Judah loves you.”

“And I love him,” I replied. “Even when I didn’t know what I was doing, I loved him. I may not have shown it, but the feeling was there.”

“What do you mean?”

“There were a few months where I couldn’t be a mother,” I sighed. “I didn’t know how to be one. I was afraid to hold him, scared that I would fuck him up. I didn’t want to look into his eyes and know that I was a monster for how I was feeling, so I didn’t.”

“You wouldn’t have hurt him.” He said it so matter-of-factly that I had to look up at him again. His pretty ass eyes bore into mine, and I looked away. He put his hand under my chin to make me look at him. “You wouldn’t have.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know if that’s true,” I whispered. “The thoughts I had, they were…” I stopped talking, not trusting my voice and not wanting to see the moment that everything would change if I admitted aloud that I didn’t know if I would love him because of who I thought his father was.

Uri moved me so that I was sitting up; he put his hands on my arms and shook his head. “You wouldn’t have hurt him because you know,” he said, looking into my eyes. “Y-y-y-y-you know what it’s like to feel that p-p-p-p-pain. You w-w-w-w-w-wouldn’t have d-d-d-d-done him like t-t-t-that.” He licked his lips and nodded. “You hear m-m-m-me? You aren’t t-t-t-t-that person. E-e-ever.”

“Why do you have that much faith in me?”

“Because I s-s-s-s-see y-y-y-y-you like you see m-m-m-me.”

The Ferris wheel started to move, and Uri let go of my face. I sat beside him, not wanting this moment to end but knowing that it would. For another twenty minutes, I got to enjoy my time with him, and then we were back on the ground.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

We walked back to his car, and he drove us to the other side of town. I didn’t care where we went or how long it took. The entire car ride, he held my hand, his grip tight and strong but not overwhelming.

“Do I want to know why you remember where I live?” I asked him as we pulled into my subdivision.

“No,” he answered. He passed my house, and my brow lifted. “Chill.”

We drove down the street, turned right, then made another right, ending up on the block behind mine. Uri pulled into the driveway, waited for the garage door to open, and once it did, he pulled in, parked, and turned off the car. I watched as he got out, rounded his car, then came to open my door.

“You live here?” I asked, and he nodded. “Since when?”

Uri opened the door that led into the house, and we walked in. His house was cool, not cold but comfortable. The kitchen was beautiful with its black cabinets, marble floors, matching countertops, and stainless-steel appliances. All the lights were on.

I leaned against the counter, taking in my surroundings and loving the peaceful feeling.

“Just bought it,” he answered, taking off his shoes. He put his shoes in the corner, then approached me. “Up.” He put his hands on my waist and effortlessly lifted me onto the counter. “Food?”

I stared into his eyes, trying to figure out what he was thinking. Uri was always like this, quiet, calculating, and organically genuine. I bit my bottom lip, thinking but not coming up with any decision. He dropped his head, his hand went to my thigh, and he traced letters into my leg.

“Something simple,” I finally said. “Salad, and a protein. Whatever you have.”

He looked up at me. “Chicken?” he asked, and I nodded.

“Can I help?” I asked him.

Uri stepped back and shook his head. “No,” he answered and then walked to the fridge. He pulled out everything we would need, including a package of marinated chicken breasts.

“Why not?” I asked as he washed his hands. “I can cook.” His mouth twisted to the side, and I laughed. “I can; Judah eats my cooking.”

“He said you can make s-s-s-simple meals,” he told me. “N-n-n-n-n-nuggets, fries, s-s-s-s-spaghetti.” He looked over at me as he dried his hands. “And he hates spaghetti.”

“I know,” I laughed. This wasn’t my first time noticing that he didn’t always have a stutter, and I wondered why. “But he eats it because I don’t.” I smiled, shook my head, then lowered my gaze to my hands. I kept my nails short and manicured; a French tip was always my go-to because of work. “He’s a good kid. The best parts of me.”