Fifi
T his is easy.
It’s fine.
Everything is totally okay.
Until it’s not.
“Get your shoes on, Mia.” I dig through my overnight bag and search for something casual to wear. We’re heading to the office before the markets, but it’s Saturday, which means I don’t have to wear heels. Nor a suit.
I don’t even have to brush my hair if I don’t want to.
I mean… I will. But I don’t have to.
I select a dress from my pile, a flowy, flowery piece with daisies that almost match Mia’s shorts and a halter neck that ends with a bow that dangles against my bare back.
Walking toward the bedroom door, I pass Charlie’s dressing table, crowded with bits and bobs, folded and discarded squares of paper.
Pens. Gum pieces. Gum wrappers. It’s a collection point for all the things Charlie Fletcher transports in his pockets on any given day, implying this is probably where he comes first every time he arrives home.
I see it in my mind, the way he strides through the apartment, ignoring the kitchen and living room. Possibly even ignoring his daughter, in favor of tossing his badge, setting his weapons away safely, and emptying his pockets.
Because he won’t be able to relax until he’s done that.
He couldn’t comfortably hug his baby until the holster was off his shoulders and the weapons had been locked away.
Eyeing the top two drawers, the handles that are worn so much more than those below, I figure they’re not regular drawers at all. But his gun-keep. This is his arsenal and his safety.
And I don’t dare touch any of it.
Instead, I grab the door handle. “Mia? I’m getting dressed now, then we can head out and?—”
“I’m ready!”
“Argh!” I startle back and slam my elbow to the top of the drawers, and though a swear word tickles the end of my tongue, a word that starts with an S and ends with a violent H-I-T, I lock the sound behind my lips and hiss.
“I’m sorry, Miss Fifi!” Too sweet, too empathetic, Mia rushes in and rubs my elbow, ignoring the things that fall to the floor.
Paper. Gum. A notebook. Not a gun, thankfully .
She pulls her hand back, presses a noisy, juicy kiss to her palm, then she lays it over my elbow again and gently rubs.
“I’m sorry for scaring you. I didn’t mean to. ”
“It’s okay. I’m fine.” I ball my dress and tuck it under my arm, then, lowering into a crouch, I pick up some of the things that fell. “I’m not used to having a kid around first thing in the morning, so I wasn’t prepared for you to pop up so quickly.”
“Cato says I’m so fast, I could be the next Caitlin Clark.” She dashes around me and picks up the notebook and the things that fell out of it. “I can even shoot a basket now.” She lowers her voice. “When he picks me up.”
I snicker. “And I have no doubt he loves helping you.” I stack each thing and do my damnedest not to look at anything too closely. I refuse to violate Charlie’s privacy. I refuse to put myself in a position where I might want to. And when I do, finding out things that hurt my feelings.
Ignorance is bliss.
“Uncle Cato always looks like he’s having fun when he’s hanging out with you. And you’re pretty tall already, so maybe you will be the next star of the NBA.”
“WNBA,” she counters confidently. But then a page falls out of the notebook in her hand, a small, Polaroid-sized photograph that was long ago laminated and stared at, considering the peeling corners.
Curious, she turns it over and tilts her head to the side, then she flashes a broad smile and shows me.
A picture of her mom and dad from a long, long time ago.
Such big, beautiful smiles. Pure contentment in their eyes, back when the world wasn’t so harsh and the reality that their relationship would unceremoniously disintegrate, not even a thought in their minds.
Jada sits happily on Charlie’s lap, her legs up on the couch and her head tucked under his chin, while he fists a beer in one hand and wraps her up close with the other arm.
Damn, they looked happy.
“I like looking at this picture.” She spins it back around and strokes her father’s face.
“This was when I was in my mom’s tummy still.
I must’ve been tiny.” She brings honeycomb eyes up to mine.
“Her tummy was still small in this picture, so I must’ve been the size of a,” she pinches her fingers together, closing one eye and squinting at the minuscule gap she leaves between them. “Like a piece of rice, dontcha think?”
“Sounds about right to me.” I offer my hand and wait for her to place the notebook in my palm, but I don’t take the picture.
I wouldn’t dare. Collating all the things I dropped, I stand again and set them back on the drawers.
“You look like the perfect mix of your mom and dad, don’t you think?
You have your dad’s eyes. The same shape and color. But you have your mom’s cheekbones.”
“My mom was very pretty. Which means I’m going to be pretty, too.” She straightens out and snags my hand, then she drags me back to Charlie’s bed and climbs up to sit on the edge. “I can’t wait till I look as pretty as her.”
“You’re already so beautiful, Moo.” I lower to the edge of the mattress and search her eyes.
“I like to think beauty has nothing to do with people’s skin or nose or lips or whatever their face looks like.
I think beauty is about how kind your soul is.
The people with ugly, mean souls don’t look very nice on the outside.
And the people with beautiful souls are beautiful on the outside.
Which means you,” I gently poke her chest, “are the most beautiful, inside and out. You don’t have to wait for anything. You’re already exquisite.”
“So I guess your soul is beautiful, too.” She leans against my arm and snuggles in. “Because I think your face is beautiful. You should be on magazines or some fin . Or on bus seats.”
“On bus seats?” I run my fingers through the end of her piggy tail and give it a gentle, barely there tug. “You want people to sit on my face while they’re waiting for a bus? That doesn’t sound very fun.”
She giggles. “Or maybe you should be on the TV. Do you know Miss Emma?”
“Uh…” I look around the room, like this Emma might appear out of thin air. “I don’t think so.”
“She has lovely red hair wif curls. And a really pretty face.” She looks down at her parents’ picture again. “She’s on the TV and does ballet and stuff. Like, wif the Wiggles.”
“Oh! That Miss Emma?” I breathe out a heavy exhalation and sweep aside the annoying jealousy trying so freakin’ hard to turn my soul ugly. “Miss Emma from the Wiggles! I know who you mean.”
She gasps noisily. “You know her? Can I meet her?”
“I don’t know her.”
“But you know ballet, too!”
“I don’t know all the ballerinas in existence,” I laugh.
“It’s a big, wide world out there, Moo, and it would be impossible for anyone to know everyone.
But…” Go ahead, stupid. Promise her the world.
“I swear, if I ever meet her, if by some crazy, insane happenstance that I end up in the same room with her, I’ll call you and get you wherever she is as soon as possible. ”
“Thanks.” She so easily accepts my words, tucking them away for later, then she settles against my arm and exhales a soft sigh. “It’s kinda weird how there are so many people, though, huh? You were born somewhere else, a really long time ago.”
Not that long.
“And I was born somewhere else five years ago. But now we know each other, even though there are so many other people we could have met instead.”
“I’m really glad I met you.” I draw the piggy tail off her shoulder and enjoy the soft ends on the pads of my fingertips.
“It’s always a little funny when we think about how these things happen.
That I worked at the George Stanley, which is how I met Aunty Minka, which is how I got to know Uncle Archer a bit more, which led me to,” bickering with your father , “becoming friends with your father. And now here we are. We get to have a fun sleepover, a limo ride together, and soon, a visit to the markets.”
“And you came to my mom’s last party.”
God . She’s so oddly well adjusted. So pure and sweet and kind.
“Yeah, I went to your mom’s last party, too.”
She looks down at the photograph and traces Charlie’s face with the tip of her finger. She’s thinking. Wondering. Mourning, probably. And missing her dad.
I consider sliding off the bed and hurrying us out the door. Anything to escape a conversation that includes that photograph, but before I get the chance to move, she swings around and searches my eyes.
“Are you going to marry my dad someday?”
Dammit, I should have gotten up!
“Um—”
“Because he was married to my mom before, but he’s not married to her anymore. And you’re allowed to get married twice if you want. If you love somebody.”
“Well—”
“And I think my dad loves you, Fifi.”
Fuckkkkkk.
“He always smiles the biggest when we talk about you. When I say how pretty you are, he says how pretty you are. Plus, he said I could stay wif you last night, which means he knows you were gonna keep me safe. And I think that means he loves you.”
“Mia—”
“When somebody loves somebody, they get married. That’s why Cato’s not married yet.
He found lots of people he likes.” She scrunches her nose.
“But none he loves yet, ‘cept Aunty Minka. But she’s already married, so even though you can get married twice if you want, you can’t get married twice at the same time . ”
“No,” I choke out, snickering. “You can’t get married twice at the same time. And seeing as how she’s married to a policeman, and being married twice at the same time is illegal, I bet Aunty Minka knows not to break the law like that.”
“Cos she’s smart,” she nods, positively diverted. Thank God. “So, do you think you and Daddy will get married someday?”
Shit !
“Can we talk about something else, Moo?” I push off the bed and meander toward the door, but I keep my movements gentle. Calm. This isn’t rejection. It’s just… fighting for my life. “I don’t feel very comfortable discussing this right now.”
“Oh. Okay!” She pops off the bed and follows me into the hall. “I won’t ask you about that anymore, then. Promise.”
“Thank you.” I step into the bathroom and toss my dress to the vanity, and grabbing the door, I close it most of the way. “I’m not mad or anything like that, okay? I’m not cranky or sad that you asked. I just don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“Okay.” She holds the photograph behind her back and flashes a bright, beaming smile. “We can talk about something else. Easy peasy.”
“Why don’t you get your shoes on, since you still don’t have those. Then give me a minute to get changed. We’ll be done about the same time, then we can go.”
“Alright!” She spins on her heels and darts along the hall, so I close the door and whip my shirt off, tugging on my jaw and snapping my mouth closed until the ache travels all the way to the back of my skull. I hiss, but I toss my shirt down and snatch up my dress instead.
“Miss Fifi?” Mia shoves the door open, her eyes bright and wide as I scramble back and slam against the shower stall. I bash my knee and earn my third injury in as many minutes. But I hold my dress up to cover my half-naked body.
Good lord, please don’t tell your father I changed in front of you.
“Mia?” I gulp and squirm, my bare skin prickling with goosebumps in response to the cold shower door pressed to my back. “Um… I’m getting changed.”
“I know. It’s okay. I don’t mind if you didn’t put your clothes on yet.” She carries her shoes into the bathroom and plops onto the closed-lidded toilet to pull them on. “I like your underwear, Fifi. The flowers are pretty.”
Kill me. Kill me now.
She giggles, her cheeks warming a bright red. “I can see a bit of your butt, though. And I didn’t know you had tattoos on your back.”
PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY! Please!
“I have a different question, since you don’t like to talk about weddings.” She brings her hands up and covers her eyes. “You can put your dress on if you want. I won’t look at your tattoos. But I like tattoos, so’s you know. Daddy has some, too.”
I wave my hand in front of her face—swish, swish, swish—to make sure she can’t see. Then I whip my dress forward and quickly step into the fabric. “What’s your question? I’ll try to answer that one.”
“Thanks!” She drops her hands and catches me, one leg in, one leg out. “Sheesh, you take a long time to get dressed, huh?”
“What’s your question, Mia?”
“Oh!” She reveals the photograph again and turns it around for me to see. “Where do babies come from?”