Page 171 of Things We Burn

Kane and I were sitting in the living room, the television playing in the background. Kane liked TV now. He was partial to The Real Housewives. Go figure.

Mabel was sleeping happily on his chest.

I was tucked into his side, her gentle breath caressing my face. My favorite thing in the world.

Kane had bought digital photo frames and peppered them around the house, each one loaded with pictures of her we’d snapped. I was watching that, not The Housewives.

“I love her,” I whispered, looking from her to the frame playing a slideshow of Mabel’s short but wonderful life. “I love that I’m her mother,” I continued, wringing my hands in anticipation of this confession. “But I don’t lovebeinga mother.” I avoided Kane’s eyes. “I mean, I don’t love beingonlya mother. It doesn’t fit me. I feel like I fail her because I can’t be here all the time every day without losing my mind. I need something more. I need a kitchen. I need to create food, and I need to be something else in addition to being her mother. And I feel like there’s something wrong with me for not being content with just taking care of her.”

There it was. I said it all. All of those shameful thoughts that had been simmering during the short months I’d been her mother. The short months that felt like years and seconds all at once.

My gaze blurred as I watched the pictures switch, saw her adorable, chunky face grow more beautiful, more aware, more inquisitive with each passing slide. More shame piled onto me as I watched, overcome with love.

There must’ve been something wrong with me if I couldn’t be utterly fulfilled by being there for that perfect human being.

Kane’s fingers at my chin forced my gaze to him. I readied myself for judgment, disappointment, looks I no doubt deserved. But on his handsome face was only tenderness.

“Need you to stop talkin’ shit about my wife,” he rasped in a low tone.

I scrunched my nose in confusion.

“I’m not your wife.” I voiced the first thing that came to mind since it was pretty important. “I know I’m sleep deprived, but even I would’ve remembered if we’d gotten married.”

He smirked, the expression boyish and roguishly sexy simultaneously. Although I was exhausted, overwhelmed and emotional, I felt that smirk right in the pit of my stomach.

“Yeah, well, we’ve gotta rectify that. Soon.” He stroked my bottom lip with his thumb. “Not a traditional guy, but I’m a possessive one. Want you to have my name. Want you as mine in every single way possible.”

Yeah, I felt that one again. In a big way. Evidently, my vagina was not as exhausted as the rest of me.

I didn’t know what to say to what was essentially a marriage proposal. Except he wasn’t proposing anything.

Not that the idea of lifelong commitment was completely out of the blue since we had a child together, and the man professed his love for me daily—but it still made my heart flutter.

And I was not a heart fluttering kind of woman. Especially when it came to things like marriage. I was sure I was immune to society's obsession with marriage and women’s determination to celebrate the ‘big day.’

Turned out I was just like everyone else.

All it took was a sexy daredevil with our daughter’s name tattooed on his chest—right beside his ‘Yes, Chef’ tattoo—and her sleeping in his arms to make me feel it.

“In my mind, you’re mine forever, in every kind of way,” he continued. “So I already consider you my wife. And I won’t take anyone talkin’ badly about her. Even you.” His eyes narrowed. “Especially you. Not gonna hear you talkin’ shit about the best mother I know.” He looked down at the dark head of hair nestled in his arms. Everything about him became kinder, more patient, liquifying when he touched his eyes to our baby.

Another heart flutter. A really big one.

“Our daughter is going to have the best example of what she can do with her life. How she can define herself. Watchin’ you care for her, navigating this time in our life, has only made melove you in ways I never thought possible. I watched you bring her into this world, no fuckin’ drugs, all grit and willpower.” He smiled. “My warrior, Chef. But, Chef, cooking is who you are too. I’d never dream of takin’ that away from you, of makin’ you feel like you’re defined by one thing. Actually, this is kismet. Go look on the counter.” He craned his head in that direction.

I frowned, kind of because I was trying to fight the onslaught of tears, but also because I didn’t know where he was going with this.

Though I didn’t want to leave the warmth of Kane’s body or the scent of our sleeping baby, I was curious.

I got up, picking up the manilla envelope off the counter that I hadn’t noticed till then. Granted, our house was organized chaos, and I barely noticed that I was walking around with my boob still hanging out an hour after feeding Mabel; a manilla envelope could easily get lost in the fray.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Open it and find out.” He stood, expertly depositing sleeping Mabel into the bassinet we kept in the living room. Magically, she stayed asleep.

“I don’t like surprises,” I told him, my heart hammering in my chest.

“Well, I’m never gonna beat knockin’ on this door and findin’ my woman eight months pregnant, so you can live with that one,” he teased.

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