Page 89 of Married to Number 22
I snort because that’s the understatement of the year and she nudges me in the side with her finger.
“Behave,” she orders. “But just because it’s not traditional doesn’t mean that I’m going to give you up, sweetie. In case you missed it, I like you, peanut, and you might have slipped from our grasp once, but us Blacks don’t plan on letting that happen a second time.”
Butterflies fluttering through my belly. “Is that coming from you or Aiden?”
She grins. “Both of us.” A beat. “Separately.” Her grin widens. “And together.”
That should probably be creepy.
A lot.
But it’s also sweet.
And it’s Kathy.
“I missed you,” I murmur, drawing her into a hug. “But I’m also glad we get to know each other now.” My voice is watery and my eyes start to sting.
“Me too,” she says, and I don’t miss that she’s choked up either. “And sweetie, we’ll talk about you pushing us away—nowandthen—but on another day. One we’re not punctuating with cake.”
Fear slides through my insides—talking about that is a terrifying notion.
She touches my cheek. “Be brave, kiddo,” she whispers. “Be yourself. And don’t be afraid to grab on to your happiness.”
I exhale, those tears rising, my lungs threatening to hitch on a sob. “Kathy?—”
“You’re going to change the world.” A tug of my ponytail. “You can handle a conversation.”
But can I?
“You can,” she answers the unspoken question. “Youcan.”
Then she hugs me tight, and in her arms, I think that maybe she’s right, maybe I can, maybe Iamstrong enough.
Maybe it’s less than me actuallybeingstrong enough and more having people on my side who believe I am.
“Thanks, Kathy.”
“Anytime, my beautiful girl.”
I sniff.
Shesniffs.
Luckily, before we can devolve into tears and leave the rest of the flowers we need to arrange for the party celebrating Aiden and me to wilt, there’s a knock at the door.
“I’ll get it,” Kathy says, dashing a finger beneath each eye. “And then we’ll finish the party prep.”
“Great,” I say dryly, earning a light punch on my shoulder before she disappears out of the kitchen. I start opening packets of paper plates and napkins, putting plastic utensils into a little organizer that Kathy brought over.
It’s paper and not porcelain, plastic and not stainless steel, maybe not something that my brother or father would think is appropriate, but I love it.
The colors, the care, the fact that we’re having food catered in from Aiden’s favorite barbecue restaurant, that our cake is flavored with hot cocoa and topped with marshmallow cream frosting.
It’s us—thenewus, the beginning of Aiden and me.
No secrets. No shame. No hiding.
No—
