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“Like Luther?”
“Is Martin Luther King Jr. really the only Black influential male you can think of?”
“Obama but that’s not really a good first name.”
My jaw drops in outrage on a squeaked. “That’s because it’s his last name!”
Laughter shakes his frame, informing me of his terrible joking, and a swat to his chest is the only thing I can think of to stop the sound. “I like Bayard after Bayard Rustin, the nonviolent civil and gays rights activist I did one of my English papers on.”
Never having heard of him has me lifting my eyebrows in shock.
“None of the courses I took in school were exactly…grand…about a more well-rounded view of subjects especially history, so my parents agreed – among themselves – to always take the extra step in providing additional education in the form of books or magazines or museum trips ever since I was a lad. And I guess it never really stopped. To this day, we still discuss topics from all over that tie to who we are. Last year, we stopped to tour the National Civil Rights Museum on our way to Graceland. It was heartbreaking and equally hope-inspiring.”
His parents’ commitment to nursing his roots fills me with the desire to do the same for me and ours. “We should totally do shit like that for our kids, too.”
“We will.” He lets a proud smile spread across his face. “We’ll make sure they have tons of books from all the over world about everything like I did.”
“Even fly fishing?”
“Probably harder to find, but we’ll make it happen.”
“What about the name Grant?”
It’s his turn to look clueless.
“After Grant Fuhr, the first Black player to win the Stanley Cup.”
Another small snicker slips loose on an amused headshake. “I bloody know you. Why didn’t I guess hockey something?”
“I must’ve fucked your brains out.”
“Must’ve.” Bigger and more boisterous laughter swiftly appears. “Remind me to start stocking up on bandages and padding the day we find out you’re pregnant. Our boys-”
“And girls.”
“-are going to always be needing them between hurling and hockey.”
“And exactly how many kids do you want us to have?”
“Eight.”
“Eight?!” The return of the high-pitched squeaking receives new chuckles. “Fucking eight?!”
“Nine if you think you can handle it.”
“Nine?!” My tone reaches dog-whistle levels. “You are aware that it’s a vagina and not a broken pinball machine, right? That you don’t just keep shoving things in it, hoping it’ll spit out more tickets, for more prizes.”
His grin becomes annoyingly impish. “I am definitely going to continue to keep shoving things in you.”
Squawks of appalment begin alongside playful swats to his chest. The first couple simply deepen his laughter and the deepening of it merely convinces me to join in on it as he counters being hit by spanking me in return.
Our flirty clowning around comes to a sudden stop courtesy of the doorbell.
In tandem, our attention turns the direction we need to be moving, yet it’s him who speaks first. “You’re sure you don’t mind my cousins staying for the weekend? It’s not too late for me to find them a hotel.”
“They’re family, babe.” I force myself to smile in spite of my returned nervousness. “And this is your house, too. You want them here then they’re welcome to be here.”
“One comment about your tits, and we’re putting them up in a Holiday Inn.”
