Page 95 of Heathens
“For the second reading, I’d like to invite my wife to speak.” As the crowd murmurs and looks around, I wipe my hands on my long dress and stand. “For those that don’t know, my wife is not a practicing Catholic. We were married before I was ordained a deacon, and I’ve been blessed that I had the Cardinal’s approval for that.” People look to each other in disbelief as I walk up to the stand, touching his hand softly before he takes a step back and finishes. “She’s going to talk to you tonight about choice. About living your truth. About how everyone has the right to worship deities however they want.”
Taking another step back, he nods at me, and I begin.
“My name is Lilith Tempest. Father Tempest is my husband. And this is my story.”
* * *
Salem and I stroll west along Rue Saint Honoré toward our flat in the ninth arrondissement, laced fingers swinging in the late summer heat. Every once in a while, I feel the itch to place a cigarette between my lips, but since quitting together over a year ago, it gets easier with every day that passes. We talk about his sermon, our new niece—a tiny, little thing that Felix and Henry, now married, adopted from Henry’s hometown in Kenya. We talk about Evelyn and Benedict, Rosemary, Killian, Anna, the girls, and Bastian—who is now dating a nice widow from his village. We talk about my gallery on Rue Crémieux—a lifelong dream of mine that has now come true.
Salem pulls me toward the familiar, golden doors and brown awning.
“No,” I say, laughing and pulling away. “There is no way we’re getting hot chocolate in this heat,” I say, whining.
Salem chuckles, and he’s stronger than me. “Please?”
I cross my arms and tap the toes of my sandals against the stone ground. “No. Do you want to know how much weight I’ve gained since marrying you?”
“Nooo,” he murmurs, pulling me into him. “I don’t see any extra weight, mon loup. I only see your beautiful face.” He grabs my butt. “And your magnificent ass.”
I feel the cackle bubble in my throat. “You think you’re so charming, don’t you?”
I feel him shrug against me. “Yes.”
Smiling, I give him a long, resigned sigh. “Thirteen pounds Salem. Thirteen! All from your stupid dessert addiction.”
He gives me a wicked grin and moves his hands to the sides of my breasts. “It all went here, so I don’t care.” He gives me a peck on the forehead as he pulls me into Angelina.
We haven’t been back since after our small wedding, and before that, when we got engaged. It seemed fitting to go back at each interval of our relationship: our first date, our engagement, our wedding. I look at him skeptically as he pulls the chair out for me.
“You’re planning something,” I say conspiratorially. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and black trousers, and his hair is mussed up as usual. “We only come here for important things.” Salem keeps his lips closed, pretending to be distracted with the menu. He furrows his brow, and I feel myself swell with love. But, it’s more than that, too. It’s understanding. Acceptance of each other’s darkness.
When two Scorpios make a love match, it is a fierce—a tempest—of intense passion. Obsession. They move forward at an accelerated pace. Some might call it foolish. Other times, they’re mated for life; their stingers keeping all others away, their understanding of each other unlike any other.
It’s only fitting that our last name is Tempest.
The waitress comes up to our table, and I give her our order, already knowing what Salem wants. He just smiles. He likes being doted on, so I indulge him every once in a while.
I tuck my hair behind my ears and lean forward, clasping my hands together. “So? Why are we here?”
His lips twitch into a smile. “You know why we’re here, Lily.” His voice is smooth, rich. It still renders me speechless sometimes, like right now. Like when his icy, blue eyes find me and fill me with that potent severity. Still makes me knees weak, my fanny flutter.
I tilt my head to the side in confusion, sipping my water as he pulls something from his shirt pocket.
Choking, I look around with wide eyes. “Where did you get that?” I hiss, reaching forward and trying to swipe it out of his hands. He moves it out of my reach and, horrified, I notice a few people look over.
“It’s pee on a stick, Salem! In a restaurant!” I lower my voice into a whisper. “Put it away. Please.”
Smiling, he pockets it—not even looking perturbed that my urine is all over it and it’s now in the front pocket of his shirt.
“You should wash your hands,” I admonish, trying to keep my face neutral. I have to bite my lips to keep from smiling and—dammit—now he’s grinning with those white teeth and cherry lips. “Really, that’s disgusting. You touched my pee.” He doesn’t say anything, and I feel my face flame. “I was going to tell you tonight.”
And then he’s standing.
Kneeling in front of me.
Causing a spectacle, as always.
With both hands on my stomach, he looks up at me with tears in his eyes. “We’re going to have a baby?”
