Page 18 of Saint

“–Yes!” Victoria spoke up louder, moving to stand behind me.

“Oh yes! I love that. A woman should always stand behind her man. Not because she is lesser. Because she supports him. She elevates him in the same way he would for her. We submit to one another. Behind every man is a great woman. Remember that.”

Victoria placed the bouquet aside and planted her hand on my back. With my hands crossed in front of me, I assumed my stance. Though I couldn’t see her, I could feel her head resting on my back as the woman continued snapping photos. The movement prompted me to shift and gaze at her slightly. There was a moment there when she lifted her head to return my scrutiny, boring into me with those milky chocolate rounds.

“Th–thank you, ma’am.” Victoria signaled the end of our stare-off and photoshoot, collecting the phone from the woman.

“Call me Mrs. Shirley,” the woman insisted.

Before departing us, Mrs. Shirley held Victoria’s hand and summoned for mine as well. Before I understood it, she was praying for us. For our union, for prosperity, understanding, health, and even vitality. Only upon concluding the prayer with an amen did she leave us.

Alone again, Victoria moved to sit in the chair she was initially posing by. Her demeanor was noticeably different, as was mine. Mrs. Shirley’s prayer had infiltrated us both. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was the weight of her words. Maybe it was both. We’d endeavored on a life-altering event void of all the preeminence and significance it was meant to hold.

Once positioned how she wanted, Victoria nodded in my direction, signaling me to capture the final images. I snapped a few of those, and then she finally freed me from my occupation as a photographer.

“Can you send them to my phone number?”

“You don’t have a phone, Victoria.”

“Yet. I don’t have a phone yet,” she reminded me of my promise to secure her a new device.

Without further hesitation, I opened my texting application and sent the photos to her number.

“I’m hungry, Saint. Let’s go to Butter & Sage,” she suggested, pushing against the chair for leverage to stand. Instinctively, I closed our distance and held my hand out for her to steady herself as she rose.

“What’s that?” I asked, having never heard of the place. Exhaustion was wearing on me, sequestering my limbs to shut down. Between scoping out Javier and his people and dealing with her, I needed a firm bed and soft pillows, not butter or sage.

“Seriously? Have you never been to Butter & Sage? They’re a new restaurant in town. They open for dinner soon and –”

“I don’t do crowds, Victoria,” I clipped, deflating her enthusiasm. Instantly, I felt like shit as I watched some of the excitement depart from her eyes. It had been a long forty-eight hours since we’d met for the both of us. She’d spent the majority of it somber and frightened. And then there was the unsettling fact that she had only smiled once since we’d crossed paths. Maybe I could make this one adjustment for her.

“Where is it?”

Victoria

“If I’m going to be your wife, shouldn’t we get to know each other?” I asked, toying with my napkin on the private table at Butter & Sage. Since Saint had mentioned being averse to crowds, I figured he’d appreciate a seating area away from the main dining room. Butter & Sage offered VIP chef’s table seating.

“What do you mean if?” He frowned.

“I mean, since I’m your wife,” I amended.

“I mean… what’s your favorite color? Who’s your favorite actor? What’s your favorite food? Do you drink? Smoke? What do you fear? Do you have a bucket list? I need to know you. Tell me about your family, your siblings…”

I could tell from reading his face that he’d grown overwhelmed with the multitude of questions I’d unleashed on him like word vomit. It was easy for me to start rambling once I got started, especially when something was heavy on my mind.

He was heavily on my mind for a host of different reasons. Some of them were bad, but more than that, most were good. I needed to know who I promised myself to, even if it was temporary. It just made sense to make the best of our situation as opposed to behaving like two people who couldn’t stand one another. There were enough real marriages facing those types of problems. We needn’t add our fake one to the slew of statistics.

“Let’s start with your name.”

“You already know my name. And when did you figure it out anyway?” He probed, scrunching his handsome face as if he’d really been pondering the answer to that one.

“You were talking to your brother while I was in the restroom when I overheard him address you as Saint instead of Ange. Why does he call you that anyway? That nickname. Where did it come from?”

He shrugged. “My siblings think I’m my parents’ favorite. Growing up, Angel was more fitting. They used to tease that I was God’s gift to my parents. Ange is short for Angel.”

I was intrigued. Truly. I loved learning all there was to know about a person. I knew how to keep a conversation engaging just by barreling out questions. I thought Saint would continue talking, but he didn’t, which was fine. I bookmarked that little comment about him being his parents’ favorite to return to at a later time.

“I have three siblings. A little sister. An older brother. And a younger brother.”

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