Page 94 of Outcast’s Vow

In one gulp, he inhales the croissant.

“I like to go to campus,” I explain, curling my fingers around my orange juice glass. “Physically go there. I like the library. I like the people.”

“You can do that tomorrow. But today, cancel your plans.”

“Before I do, can I ask where you’re taking me?”

Baptiste slowly takes a long sip of his black coffee as if he hasn’t just hijacked my carefully – and lovingly – planned schedule.

“You’ll see, Your Highness. Patience is a virtue.”

* * *

I give him my patience. And we end up in his sports car.

This isn’t the carefree, speeding Baptiste who took me for a joyride for gelato late at night, but someone far more serious. Wherever he’s taking me, it’s big. His hands grip the steering wheel.

Surely, he can’t be nervous?

I soon see why he might be. We end up on a back street in Queens, outside an unflashy, two-story brick house. A faded welcome mat lies in front of the unassuming front door.

“What’s this?” I ask him as we pull up.

Baptiste’s reply is quiet and soft.

“My mom’s place.”

Oh.

Okay.

This isn’t a date. This is something much more important. He doesn’t explain any further. Baptiste opens the passenger door for me and holds my hand as we step onto the porch. Before we reach the door, it opens.

A woman is standing there. She can’t be any older than sixty, with dark dyed hair and a stooped back. She’s smiling as she swings open the door for us. Her facial lines widen in a friendly and welcoming way. She has the same eyes as Baptiste. Forest green.

My husband lets go of my hand to hug the woman.

“Hello, Mom.”

As he pulls back, she turns to me.

“And who’s this lovely lady?” Baptiste’s mom questions.

“This is Sylvie,” her son replies with pride creeping into his voice. “My wife. Sylvie, this is my mom, Mina.”

Mina’s smile widens even more at the drop of the words my wife.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Mina,” I say.

She looks back at her son.

“This is a pleasant surprise. I wasn’t expecting visitors today.”

I, too, look at Baptiste.

“I wasn’t expecting to come here today,” I add.

My husband shrugs.