Page 5 of Sunday

Leaning my head back against the window, I peered to the side and scrunched up my nose. It was overcast again, but there was no rain in sight.

I loved rainy days as much as I loved sunny ones. What I didn’t care for was overcast days. They felt like a tease to me or an unfulfilled promise. You waited for something to manifest and then became disappointed when it didn’t, much like the lingering elephant in the room between Cedar and me.

I picked my book up again and started reading it. I got three pages in before I set it aside once more and stared out the window. I did that three times as I contemplated what I really wanted, which was a conversation.

I always wanted to tell the clouds, “Either shit or get off the pot already.” If it was going to be sunny, then I wanted to be out and about. If it were going to rain, then I wanted to cuddle up with a good book, color in my adult coloring book, or sleep the day away. As it were, it seemed I was in a period of limbo on overcast days, waiting for something to shake.

“What’s on your mind, Sunny?” Cedar asked, pulling me from my thoughts.

“What makes you think there is?” I never turned my gaze from the window.

“The fact that you’re twirling your hair on your finger. The fact that you’ve picked up that book no less than three times to read it and then put it back down again.”

“You think you know me.”

I hopped off the window seat and walked to where he plated our food. I washed and dried my hands at the sink.

“I do know you.”

“Not so much.”

“Okay. Since I don’t know you, tell me what you were thinking about.”

I giggled and shook my head.

“Nope, Mr. Jackson. You’re not slick.”

“Nobody said I was.”

He gazed at me over his shoulder, and I grew heated from the heavy-lidded gaze that lingered on me a second too long.

I took the glasses he’d pulled from the cabinets and set them on the table in the breakfast nook. I returned and grabbed a carafe of orange juice and took them to the table.

Cedar was right behind me with our plates before he returned to grab the bowl of fruit that he had set to the side. My stomach growled loudly at the sight of the pancakes, bacon, sausage, omelets, hashbrowns, cheese grits, and biscuits. Sunday brunches were a routine that we started the second Sunday after we started living together.

Every Sunday, Cedar would cook a big brunch. He was great at breakfast foods, and I usually cooked our dinners three nights out of the week, Monday through Wednesday. Thursdays through Saturdays, we were on our own, and most Sundays, hewould cook dinner as well, or we would eat with our individual friends.

“This smells so good.”

“Aht.” Cedar smacked my hand when I picked up the fork to eat. He frowned at me, and I set the fork back down.

Cedar was big on prayer, faith, and spirituality. Not that I wasn’t, but he was a stickler for certain things, like praying over the meal. He grew up in a faith-based household where they went to church every Sunday, Bible study during the middle of the week, and vacation Bible school during the summer when he was a kid.

My family was more relaxed. We believed in God and that Jesus Christ died for our sins, but we weren’t members of a church. We believed in doing good for others and letting our love for God be represented through our actions.

Cedar reached across the table and grabbed my hands. Warmth spread throughout every part of my body. His gaze held mine, and something dangerous flickered in his eyes before he licked his lips and then closed his eyes.

“Father, thank You for this amazing meal that you have set before us. Thank You for the company with which I can enjoy it. May it nourish us not only physically but spiritually as well. Amen.”

“Amen.”

I quickly snatched my hand away, grabbed my fork, and stabbed my pancake before shoveling it into my mouth. I moaned as I chewed the sweet, flaky, but fluffy concoction. Cedar always added vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, and one other ingredient he refused to share with me to his pancakes.

“Now tell me what’s on your mind.”

Shit. I thought I’d gotten out of that little trap. I squirmed in my seat and grabbed a strip of bacon. Folding it in half, I shoved it in my mouth and chewed.

“You act like your li’l ass ain’t ate in a month of Sundays, but I know that’s not true. I saw you wolf that chicken and pineapple pizza down last night.”

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