Until I grew up and learned my only choice was to be who I was, how I was, including ending my love-hate relationship with my curly hair, I hadn’t really thought much about it, except putting in the work to make it look cute.
Now, I decided, I had the best hair that ever grew on a person’s head.
With my locks still wrapped around his fingers, he used them to stroke my jaw.
He did this murmuring, “Never in a million years would I think I’d have a funny, beautiful, smart curly-haired girl in my bed.”
I was no girl, and we’d thoroughly established that in this very bed not long ago.
But his words made me melt more into him, something that was easy to do from my position on top of his long body.
Even so, I gave him shit.
“It’s not fair you can be cute and hot and sweet all at once,” I complained.
“Sorry, baby,” he murmured, his lips still curled up. “Which one of those do you want me to focus on?”
“Hot, when we’re doing the business. Sweet after we’ve done the business. Cute, when you’re with Jacques.”
A soft woof from the end of the bed approved of this plan.
Knox’s smile got bigger.
“I’ll make note,” he said.
“Appreciate you.”
“You ready for sleep?”
I’d come hard, and it was late. I was seriously drowsy.
I nodded. “You?”
As answer, Knox lifted his head from the pillow, kissed my nose, then took me on the trip as he rolled to turn off the bedside light.
I slid off to his side, and he turned into me.
We snuggled. We entangled.
And homeless people might be missing, and all of that was bad, but the Angels and the Hottie Squad were on it.
And my sister might be pregnant with baby number three, without many means to take care of it, herself and her other two kids.
But in that moment, I fell asleep like I didn’t have a care in the world.
With practice, I wended my way through the jungle of plants my mom insisted we all plant as a family project when I was around the age of eight. Plants that had grown wild and unruly in the ensuing nineteen years, and she had not made any effort to cut them back, only trim them so you could get to the front door without wielding a machete.
Once I accomplished this feat, I was at the front door.
I walked right through, shouting, “I’m here!” over the cacophony of dogs—some Mom’s and Dad’s, some fosters—as they raced in to greet me.
I bent to do head scratches, body rubs, but when one very familiar fur baby stood out in the mix, my back shot straight.
“I’m in the kitchen!” Mom yelled. “Take a load off. I’ll bring you some wine!”
Slowly, I walked into my parents’ diverse living room.
One thing you could say about Scott and Louise Nelson, they were all about diversity. In ideology. In politics. In learning.
