Page 52 of Cause When You Love Someone
“I don’t have everything. The more time I spend with you, I realize how much I’ve been missing.”
Ishmael helped me into the spacious back seat, and the partition was the first thing that caught my attention. Naughty ideas came to mind, but I knew my greedy pussy would have to wait until later.
“How long is our ride?” I wondered aloud.
Ishmael peered down at his phone. “About forty minutes, so sit back in that pretty ass gown and enjoy.”
“Mm. I would rather pick your brain.”
“All right. I’ll shoot first,” he replied. “Do you want kids?”
“Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t.” I shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind having a family of my own. Then again, I’m disturbed at the notion that I’ll be too much like my own mother.”
“You aren’t that type of woman. You won’t be that type of mother.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve been watching you.”
A second of silence passed before it was crammed with our laughter.
“That shit sounded creepy,” he suggested.
“A little, but I’ve grown to love it. Do you want kids?” I asked, putting the focus on him.
“I do. I want a big family, a wife, and all.”
“I don’t understand why you don’t have that already. You’ve been solid since we met.”
“I’ve made mistakes.”
The switch in his demeanor caused my muscles to shift under my skin.
“Things that would make me look at you differently?” I asked.
“Things I wouldn’t do again. I’ve had the opportunity to make the mistake again and again, but I didn’t slip. I learned that once you add accelerant to a flame, you become as at fault as the person who started the fire.”
Not once did Ishmael look away as he spoke. There was nothing except sincerity in his delivery. After being with a manipulator for years, I trusted myself enough to be able to spot the bullshit.
We pulled up to our location, and my mouth dropped open. The scene looked like a movie premiere, occupied by flashing lights, photographers, and fans. My eyes ascended to the marquee, and the words in place nearly stole my breath.
I couldn’t speak when I faced Ishmael, so I jumped into his arms and squeezed him like a lover being reunited with their soulmate.
“Did I do good?”
“Beyond! I haven’t been to a ballet in years! They’re so far and few on the West Coast.”
“Who you tellin’?Ivy’s Thornsonly comes to the Opera House twice a year. This is the last show.”
Overcome with emotions, I chose to hush instead of risking the chance of dropping more happy tears.
The sound of cheers from the crowd met us at the curb when our driver opened the door. Never one to shy away from a photoshoot, I strutted down the red carpet with a tight grip on Ishmael’s hand. He whispered something about giving me space to shine, but I ignored him. I used his hand as a prop and posed for the flashing cameras like a pro. A few photographers tried their luck and asked about Ishmael, and that was my cue to cut the photoshoot short.
Once we entered the Opera House, an usher escorted us to box seats. In awe, I marveled at the intricate ceiling design and the velvet fabric lining the walls. I never believed Ishmael was broke; then again, I didn’t know he was in a position to spend five figures on a date.
“I’m really trying not to scream. You outdid yourself, Superman.”
“I like hearing you say that.” He rubbed his thumb from the base of my neck to my exposed cleavage. “I really wouldn’t mind hearing you say it for . . . a while.”
