Even if that means letting her lash out from time to time. Better to use me as an outlet than popping off at some unsuspecting stranger.
I know that’s not exactly healthy, but grief is a strange beast, and I know this soul-crippling sadness of hers is only a season. Eventually her storm cloud tears will give way to sunny smiles, and I damn sure intend to be around to see them.
“Tell you what—why don’t you help out with it?”
Her nose crinkles. “With the reno?”
I nod. “Yeah, we start tomorrow. Be here at seven o’clock sharp.”
“Do I have to?” she whines and gives me puppy dog eyes.
“Sí.”
She pouts, and it takes my all not to grab her by her hoodie and yank her down the bench to me so I can kiss the frown right off her lips.
I settle for leaning into her space as I stand, loving how she smells like lavender and motor oil. Who knew the combination would be so sexy?
“Fine, I’ll be here.”
“I know.” I offer her my most winning smile and extend a hand down to help her up.
She accepts it, grumbling under her breath the entire time.
“Do I need to make sure you’re up on time?”
Seraphine crosses her arms over her chest and glares. “We’ve been over this. I’m grown.”
“I know,” I say again, keeping to myself that I was hoping she’d say yes. There’s something about her raspy morning voice that just does it for me. As sad as it is, I’ve been going out of my way to hear it.
Desi says I’m fuera de sí—out of my mind, when it comes to Seraphine, and while I always tell her she’s the crazy one, I’m starting to realize she might be right.* * *“Mi rey.” Imani runs her fingers over the shaved sides of my hair, tickling my scalp. I shiver at the sensation and lean farther into her touch. “I’ve been watching you.”
I lean back enough to catch her eyes. “Watching me?”
She nods. “You seem happier.”
“I’m always happy with you.”
She shakes her head; her beautiful corkscrew curls sway with the movement. “You’re not with me, not really.”
I try to protest, but she presses a finger to my lips and shushes me.
“In spirit, yes. In heart, always.” Her lips tip up in a tender smile. “She’s good for you—and my pollito.”
“Who?” I rack my brain, trying to figure out who she could mean. There’s no one—and I mean not one single person—who could ever replace her.
“You know,” she says cryptically.
I adamantly shake my head. “I do not know. You are my only reina—my queen.”
Imani smiles her secret smile; the one reserved for when she knows something I don’t and she can’t wait for it to smack me upside the back of my head.
“You don’t need another queen,” she murmurs. Finally agreeing with me. “But perhaps a butterfly…”
The vision of my wife wavers, her rich brown skin and radiant smile flickers in and out twice before she blows me a kiss and disappears altogether, and countless little butterflies take her place, fluttering all around me.
I call after her, begging her to come back, to explain. “Trust your heart, my king,” comes her disembodied voice. “For I am there and will never lead you astray.”
“Imani!” I shout, causing all but one of the delicate winged creatures to scatter. It flaps its intricately designed wings twice before landing on my arm.
I look down at it, but the deeper meaning sits just beyond my reach.
“Imani?” I ask one more time.
Her tinkling laughter is my only reply, and all too quickly it merges with the sound of my alarm clock.
I bolt upright in bed, trying to recall the details of my dream. But it’s no use. With the morning sunlight seeping in through my blinds, only fragments remain.
“Dad!” Desi yells from the hall outside my closed bedroom door “Dad! Get up! It’s already six-thirty!”
“Fuck,” I grumble under my breath, frustrated as hell over the bits and pieces I can remember from my weird dream.
“Heard that,” comes from the other side of my door.
“Give me fifteen and I’ll be ready.”
“I’ll start a pot of coffee.”
I grin to myself as I toss off the covers and head to my bathroom, wondering how I got so lucky to have such a good kid.
After a quick shower and shave, I dress in a pair of coveralls, shove my feet into my boots, and head to the kitchen in search of coffee.
“Good morning,” Desi chirps. She’s sitting on the countertop, dressed in her own version of work clothes, sipping coffee from a pink mug that used to be her mother’s.
“Why are you so chipper?” I pour myself a thermos of coffee, knowing I’ll have to take it with me if I want to get enough down to feel its effects.
“Am I not allowed to be happy, Dad?”