Page 39 of The Prez

“Oh,” I murmur and clear my throat. “Well, that’s …”

“We’re a motorcycle club, precioso. Not everything we do is legal.”

“Are you allowed to tell me this?” I ask cautiously, not wanting someone to come after me for knowing too much.

He smirks. “I’m the president of the club. I can do what the fuck I want.”

I laugh and bring his plate over to him. “I’ll trade you. The baby for the food.”

His eyes twinkle as he hands me the baby and I slide the plate in front of him. “You made this from scratch?”

“Yep,” I say with pride. “It’s a family recipe. Tell me what you think.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

“I have to feed the baby.”

Big Raf slides his plate away. “I can do that. You said carrots, right?”

“Carrots,” I say in a voice that’s weirdly choked up. It’s been a month and he’s finally coming around. Even if it’s something as small as feeding Little Raf or picking him up when he’s fussy. That’s enough.

I drag the highchair over and set the baby inside, then grab some carrots and a spoon so Big Raf can feed the baby.

I grab a plate and sit at the dining room table with them, watching as Big Raf struggles to get food in the baby’s mouth. He’s not as flustered tonight, being patient when Little Raf pushes some out of his mouth.

“Where are you from, Omari?”

I raise my head quickly, some of my lasagna sliding off my fork. I wanted us to talk and get to know each other, but I didn’t think Big Raf would be the one to initiate the conversation. He’s full of surprises today. “Ummm … I’m from here. I grew up here. What about you?”

“Cuba. Moved to Florida when I was sixteen to stay with my abuelo. Moved to Tennessee when I was twenty.”

“Do you love it?”

He looks at me like I’m crazy. “I don’t love things.”

“No? Not even your friends in the club?”

He rolls his eyes as he scoops up some carrots into LittleRaf’s mouth. “That’s different. They’re my brothers. That’s not comparative to a fucking state.”

“Language, Big Raf.”

“He’ll hear worse,” he grumbles.

Big Raf lifts Little Raf’s bib, wiping his orange-stained cheeks. He hasn’t touched his lasagna.

“Here,” I say, sliding closer to him and picking up his fork. I scoop up some of the food and hold it to his mouth. Big Raf stares at me, then looks back at the fork. I jostle it in his face. “Open your mouth.” His eyes turn half lidded and I bite back a groan. “You’re terrible.”

He chuckles and opens, allowing me to feed him some lasagna. He stares at me as he chews slowly and I hold my breath for the verdict. “That’s pretty good,” he says after he swallows, opening his mouth for more. I preen as I give him more, my heart feeling light because he likes my food.

“Do you miss home?” I ask after a few minutes.

“This is my home,” he says. Then he looks at me. “But yes, I do. I haven’t been back for more than a few weeks at a time. Too many memories for me to go back.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask what memories, but I promised I wouldn’t pry, so I don’t.

After his comment, his eyes turn sad. I’m not sure what memory just intruded on our good time, but it looks like it’s really doing a number on him. His shoulders are slumped and he has a hard set to his mouth that wasn’t there only a few moments ago. I really wish I knew what it was so I could help. Maybe in time, he’ll trust me with his secrets and his painful memories.

To lighten the mood, I ask, “You’re pretty old, huh?”

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