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“Mick bought that for him. Jerk.” But there’s only affection in her voice.
“You’ve done well, Maria—the success of your farm…your lovely home. James…the kids. I’m looking forward to meeting Mason,” I insert with more enthusiasm than I feel.
“Thanks.” She smiles in a way that tells me she’s proud of her achievements and pleased with her life. “He’ll be up in an hour or so. I put him down just before you got here, so you wouldn’t be hit with all of us at once.”
I’m grateful for her thoughtfulness. With my emotions running high, the delay is a relief. I catch up with my sister, make apple filling and immerse myself in the familiar scene of brunch preparations that could only be more complete if Papa T were here.
This is what I wished for as a child—a family to call my own. To have as mine. To last. After ten foster homes, I had been so afraid to let myself get too close…afraid that like trying to catch lightning in a bottle, the Torreses were a dream I could never hold on to.
I stayed back, protecting myself. Convinced it would be easier when they rejected me. Only they didn’t. Not ever. I’d been the one to leave, to run without any explanation.
And now through a twist of fate I’ve been gifted with Mick and my family again, their unmitigated acceptance and forgiveness, the crowning jewel. I won’t take a second of it for granted this time. I’m going to cherish it all.
ChapterThree
Micah
We make one lively, loudpuzzle. All of us are firmly interlocked, whether by blood or not, it doesn’t matter here. And Dee, no longer the observer who used to watch and want from a distance, seems to slide right in.
Good at juggling multiple conversations, over brunch she gives everyone attention. Laughs at James’ dry humor and Dani’s non-stop chatter. She thumb-wrestles with Justin—his new favorite thing; engages a reluctant Dwayde in questions about school and video games; talks to Victor about his work; shares a robust exchange with Maria, Mama T, and Isabelle about the political issues facing women. And just as easily switches gears to a lighter topic when Gabi asks her opinion on getting caramel highlights, which they discuss as if world peace hinges on it.
I like seeing her here. Connected and happy. But I note that she only eats a small portion of the huevos rancheros and none of the tortilla. It might have been lost on me if not for Dee’s confession just days ago about her ongoing issues with food and her weight, a battle she’s been fighting since childhood.
I can’t profess total understanding. I know many women face similar issues with varying degrees of insecurity. I’ve dated models whose livelihoods were based on their looks. I’ve heard Isabelle and Maria talk aboutthe latest diet or make some complaint about their so-called imperfect bodies. I’ve witnessed James and Victor shake their heads, perplexed by their wives’ perceived flaws.
Dee is beautiful to me. I couldn’t care less how much she weighs. I love her round curves. Love that she’s warm and soft. Love the way she feels beneath me. I love her for so many reasons other than just her body. I watch her take a small bite of the tamale filling and talk animatedly with Dani and Justin. She’s so pretty with her bright smile, and those plush rosy lips that I wanted to kiss the first time I saw her. She may not be the same girl I met almost twenty years ago, but my response to her hasn’t changed. Constant, hot, and craving.
When the meal is finished, Maria sends Dee to the walk-in pantry and storage area beside the kitchen for Tupperware bowls.
“Mick.” She startles when I follow her inside and cage her against a wall of shelves. “What are you doing?”
“I must be losing my touch if you have to ask.”
“Go, before someone sees you.”
“You’re cute when you’re all flustered.” I dip my head, tracing the curve of her neck with my nose. “Mmm. You smell good.”
“Stop it.” She pushes at my chest. “I have to get the bowls.”
“In a minute.” I slide one arm around her waist, frowning because I can’t get a good feel of her. “Why did you choose this long sweater?”
“So, I wouldn’t distract you,” she quips, though I doubt that’s the real answer.
“It didn’t work. You always distract me.” I close in on the fullness of her mouth. “I’m hard with wanting you.”
“Ssh…” She puts her finger to my lips. “I did leave you high and dry in the shower, didn’t I?”
I nip at her finger. “I’m not complaining.”
“I’ll take care of you later.”
“I’ll hold you to it. But for now, just one kiss.”
She pecks my lips.
“Uh-uh. Make it count.”
“Not with our family right outside.”
