Time Stops With You

Chapter 2

Two

NARDI

“I left a plate of rice and beans and oxtail on the stove for you.” I plant one hand against the doorway and balance myself, stuffing my feet into my broken-in sneakers. The shoes are so worn that they’re practically moldable, and I no longer need to bend down to untie the lacings.

Silence echoes behind me, but I keep speaking.

“Remember to put down your phone when you’re dealing with the stove or the microwave. We can’t have a repeat of last time.”

Still nothing. I might as well be talking to thin air.

“The building manager only backed down because the smoke alarms weren’t up to code. If they were, we would have been kicked out. I already have to pay back the damage from the sprinklers.”

Booming quiet is my only response.

I throw my jet-black hair behind my shoulder and spin around. My little brother, Josiah, is sitting cross-legged on the couch, doing what he does for about ninety percent of his day—play on his phone.

The sharp afternoon sunlight causes him to squint. Mahogany-toned fingers sprint across the screen furiously.

With a deep sigh, I stomp back over to my little brother and flick his head.

“Ow!” He cries. Chocolate brown eyes swirling with annoyance shoot up to me.

“I’m talking to you,” I say without remorse.

Josiah’s nostrils flare. Just as quickly as he looked at me, he returns his attention to his phone and mumbles, “Yeah.”

“Did you hear about the stove?”

“Yeah.”

“And the microwave?”

“Yeah.”

“What about the oxtail? Heat it up for three minutes.”

“Yeah.”

I roll my eyes. My little brother’s got an insanely high IQ, but with all the power in his brilliant brain, his vocabulary is pea-sized.

“What are you even doing?” I sit on the arm of the sofa we dragged upstairs all the way from a local thrift store and try to peer at the phone.

Like an untied spring, he yanks the device flat against his chest. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? You’re concentrating that hard on ‘nothing’?”

“Yeah.”

That’s about as much as I can get out of Josiah, so I stop trying. He might be distracted and particular, but he’s a good kid. I doubt he’s watching or doing anything he shouldn’t.

At least I hope so.

I am not ready to give my little brother the ‘birds and the bees’ talk and, since he’s only eleven, I figure I have at least a few more years until the teenaged hormones kick in.

“If today’s anything like last week, we’ll sell out fast, so I’ll be back by four the latest. Call me if you need anything.”

Nothing. Not even a grunt of acknowledgment.

“You hear me, Josiah?”

“Yeah.”

There we go.

I pick up the large, paper bag by the doorway. It’s filled with three plastic containers, each the size of a large shoe box. The containers are filled to the brim with Caribbean-style coleslaw.

Closing the door behind me, I check the doorknob once to make sure the lock is secure and then rush down the dimly-lit hallway. An impossibly thin staircase looms before me.

“Alright, baby. Let’s go,” I hype myself up.

By the time I make it from the fourth floor to the ground floor, I’m winded. I really need to get back to my YouTube exercise videos. Affording the gym is out of the picture, but there are plenty of free cardio classes online.

“Hey, mama.” An overweight man wearing sunglasses unfolds himself from the wall.

“You’re still here, Big T?” I ask, maneuvering the paper bag over my elbow. With my hands free, I pull out my keys and unlock my trusty old sedan.

“You thought I’d leave without seeing you? That breaks my heart, Nardi.”

I look over my shoulder at Big T. He’s wearing an oversized T-shirt and baggy jeans. A durag covers his wavy black hair. Obsidian eyes slide over me and get their fill before making their way back up to my eyes.

I’d normally never give someone like him the time of day and, for most of our acquaintance, I ignored his very obvious attempts to flirt with me.

But ever since I started my shop, he’s been helping me out every Saturday, lugging my giant iron pots down from my apartment to my car.

I’d die on the spot if I had to drag those industrial sized containers full of rice and beans and oxtail down all those steps. In light of all he’s done for me, Big T doesn’t seem half as bad as his first impression.

I slam the passenger door shut and hot foot it around my car to open the driver’s side. “You better get moving or you’ll be late for work.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout that, shawty.” Big T swings his hands back and forth, a sly smile growing as he says. “I’m the manager. I can take off when I want.”

Big T is not the manager, a fact I discovered when I went down to the local mart and asked for him by name. But I’m not going to hurt his feelings by pointing out the dishonesty. Men and their fragile egos can’t handle the truth.

“Thanks again for your help, Big T.” I start up my car, my mind already a million miles away from this conversation.

Big T swipes a thumb over his jangling chin. “You know how to thank me, Nardi.”

Rather than answer that, I stick a hand out the window and wave as I drive off.

Someday, Big T is going to back me into a corner and I’ll have to either go on a date or lose my reliable rice-and-beans-pan-carrier.

Happily, that day is not today.

On the drive downtown, I pop in my ear buds and listen to a business podcast. It’s the kind where the men throw around business words like ‘ROI’, ‘CPM’ and ‘Customer Acquisition Metrics’ like flower girls at a wedding.

“You see, Hostin, this is where people go wrong. ” The podcaster who makes millions selling courses to desperate people like me laughs slow and steady. “You need to know all your numbers. One time, I asked this new business owner making less than one hundred k a month what his numbers were…”

One hundred grand a month?

I zone out from the rest of the conversation, imagining what I’d do with just one tenth of that money.

First off, I’d buy Josiah a new computer. The one he rents at his fancy school for the gifted costs an eye-watering number of zeroes. I got him a nice laptop for Christmas last year and Josiah told me point blank that it was a waste of money and he wouldn’t use it. Apparently, he needs ‘more CPU power’ to run his Pythons.

Between my brother and these dang podcasters, I don’t know who uses more convoluted language.

Let’s see… what else would I do if I made ten thousand a month?

I’d get a more reliable car, move us into a nicer house in a nicer neighborhood and buy Josiah fancier clothes, the kind everyone else at his fancy school wears.

Ha!

Like that’ll ever happen.

I’d win a lottery ticket to Mars faster than I’d be able to make that money. Still, the thought of someday being able to shower my brother in luxury brands is a nice dream and I’m in a great mood by the time I arrive at my location.

Slowing the car down in the barren parking lot nearby, I get to work lugging my tent out of the car. Thankfully, it’s not a long distance from the abandoned lot to the corner where I sell my food.

The rotten stench reaches me before the voice that says, “Let me help you with that, Miss Nardi.”

“Thank you, Ebidiah.” I release the heavy tent poles to the small man in a torn windbreaker, raggedy shorts and slippers. Ebidiah’s muscles strain under the tent’s weight, but he manages to set the poles on the ground.

“What’d you make today?” He asks in his raspy, chain-smoker voice.

“Oxtail,” I say, wiping my hands against my jeans.

Ebidiah smiles, revealing a host of yellow teeth and receding gums. The guy needs to see a dentist immediately. Many of his teeth are missing and the rest are holding on for dear life.

“I’ve been dreaming about that damn oxtail.” Ebidiah rubs his belly and sighs as if a food genie just appeared to grant him three warm meals. “You haven’t made that one in a while.”

“Because oxtail is expensive out here. It’s cheaper to make stewed chicken.” I walk away from Ebidiah and return with a small folded table.

By this time, Ebidiah already has the tent set up. The spacious grey awning covers us both from the sun.

“I prefer oxtail,” Ebidiah says firmly, as if he’s the one buying my ingredients.

“Noted.” I step into the cover of the tent, put the table down, and wipe my sweat with the back of my hand. “I won’t be handing out any free plates of stew chicken then. I’ll respect your preferences.”

“I didn’t say that, Miss Nardi. I didn’t say that.” Ebidiah’s eyes fill with fright.

I chuckle. “I’m just messing with you. Thanks for setting up the tent. I’ll see you in…” I check my watch, “four hours?”

Ebidiah and I have an agreement. He’ll make himself scarce during the lunch rush and won’t beg my customers for spare change. In exchange, I’ll serve him a plate of food when everyone is gone.

It’s a subtle way to set up boundaries. As much as I want to help Ebidiah and others like him, having him around doesn’t necessarily convey the right image. It was already an uphill battle convincing people to give a street stall a chance. I need to be extremely clean to maintain my customers’ trust.

“I don’t think you’ll need four hours,” Ebidiah says.

Laughter bubbles within me. “You think so?”

“I know so! Anyone who tastes your delicious Caribbean food,” Ebidiah kisses his fingers, “immediately falls in love.”

“I appreciate the encouragement.”

Ebidiah steps back. “Alright, Miss Nardi. I’ll see you later.”

I wave goodbye to him and get busy setting out my rice and beans, stew oxtail, fried plantain, and gravy pots. Next, I make a plate, snap a photo and upload it to my social media page.

“What should I say?” I mutter. After a few seconds of contemplation, inspiration strikes and I tap out a message.

Belizean-style rice and beans, savory ox tail with lots of gravy, and Caribbean coleslaw. Come get it while it’s hot!

I tag my location, add a few emojis to sell the message and then click ‘post’.

Not long after, a few likes and comments roll in.

That looks soooo good!

I want a plate!

Save one for me, Nardi!

“No, I won’t,” I mutter, putting the phone away. When I first started selling, I believed every message I got online. I even set food aside per people’s request. Guess how many social media followers paid for those plates at the end of the day?

Zero.

Now, I only put plates aside for Ebidiah and customers who pre-pay.

Twenty minutes after setting up, my first customer arrives. He peers at the food and asks me what I’m selling. Since I don’t have a sign, I’m used to these kinds of inquiries and I give him all the information.

He takes two plates.

A few minutes later, more people start walking up to my tent.

Then a line forms.

I’m on my feet, hustling to spoon out rice and beans into takeout boxes for almost two hours. The longer the line gets, the more attention my tent seems to draw.

Every time I come up for air, I see more people waiting.

Uh-oh. My eyes jump from the food to the line. There’s no way I have enough food to feed them all.

“I’m sorry,” I say to the next customer. “I’m sold out.”

She pinches her eyebrows together. “But I see rice in there.”

“Yes, that’s called ‘ rice bun ’.”

“ Bun ? As in the pastry?”

“Not exactly. It’s a Belizean Kriol term for ‘burnt’. It means it’s not the best part of the cooked rice.”

“I don’t care. I didn’t wait this long for nothing.”

“But it won’t taste the same.”

She gives me an ‘are you stupid?’ look and rolls her eyes. “I still want it.”

If you insist…

I get to work. The tsk, tsk sound of my iron spoon scraping against the iron rice pot clangs loudly in the air. I scrape the rice that burned off the sides of the pot and serve it.

The customer behind her asks for the same. There’s barely enough ‘dregs’ for one more plate, but the woman insists. So I dish out the burnt rice, ox tail mashings, and plantain until there’s not a grain of rice or a drip of stew left.

“I’m all out,” I tell the next person in line. Leaning over, I call out to the others. “The food is finished!”

The customers grumble and shoot me evil eyes.

“Sorry! Sorry!” I call out as they disperse. “Follow me at ‘Nardi’s Belizean Meals On The Go’. I’m on all the social media sites. You can pre-order too.”

Finally, I’m alone.

With a sigh, I flop into the little plastic chair and check the time. My eyes bug. Is this real?

I sold out in less than five hours.

That’s insane.

Eventually, I’ll have to think about expanding, renting out an actual kitchen and not just using my stove, hiring help to deal with the customers, buying more pots so I can double my output.

But not right now.

The heat is getting to me.

The apron sticks to the sweat on my neck.

As I sit and fan myself with a hand, the adrenaline rush fades and exhaustion sets in. My legs and arms ache, not just from setting up and selling the food but from stirring a giant pot of rice in the wee hours of the morning. Black spots dance in front of my eyes and I put my head down.

Note to self, don’t work overtime and then wake up at four am to cook.

“Miss Nardi, you okay?” The question is followed by a whiff of an awful scent. I don’t need to look up to know who’s approached my table.

“Thanks, Ebidiah. I just need a minute.”

The stench gets even stronger and I figure Ebidiah’s tiptoed closer.

In a low voice, he asks, “You want a blunt? It’ll help with the headache.”

“Uh, no thanks.”

“Suit yourself then.”

He stands nearby and I try my best not to throw up.

For a while, all that can be heard is the rumble of vehicles driving by, the hum of machinery from the car wash a few miles up and the humming of Ebidiah as he jangles some coins in his pocket.

I know I should get up and start putting my pans away. The neighborhood cops turn a blind eye to my stall—mostly because they enjoy my cooking, but I can’t linger. However, I’m afraid that if I stand, my body won’t support me and I’ll crumple to a heap.

Just then, my phone vibrates in the pocket of my apron. Weakly, I fish it out and put it to my ear.

“Hello?” I croak.

“ Nardi! ”

Josiah? The note of panic in my little brother’s voice sends all my exhaustion skittering out the door. I’ve never heard him call my name that desperately.

I shoot to my feet, my fingers tightening over the phone. “What’s on fire?”

“N-nothing.” Josiah releases a shaky breath that sounds like hurricane-force winds blowing through the trees. “It’s… nothing. Forget I called.”

“Josiah, what?—”

The dial tone sounds.

“Did he just hang up on me?” I grit my teeth.

“Something happened?” Ebidiah asks, his eyes searching the table.

“I need to go.” I yank the empty pots off the table and carry them to the car. Ebidiah grabs a pot too. Normally, I’d shoo him away, but there’s no food in these containers anyway and this is an emergency.

Between the two of us, we pack up my car in no time.

“Oh, before I forget.” I rummage around in the giant paper bag I’d brought from home and offer Ebidiah the plate I’d hidden before things got too busy.

His face lights up and he shows me all eighteen of his teeth. “I thought you forgot.”

“Thanks for your help.” I offer him a tight smile, jump in my car and zoom away.

My mind is buzzing around all the things that could have gone wrong with Josiah. That kid is always so distracted by his phone. Did he do something worse than last time? Is the entire ceiling on fire? Is someone injured?

I call him back, hoping to find the answers to those questions.

My brother’s phone goes straight to voicemail.

Alarm bells start clanging in my head. Josiah’s a typical eleven year old who hates doing chores and prefers texting over calls; however, he has never ignored my phone calls before.

Since I leave him on his own most of the time, I’ve drilled into his head how important it is that we keep the communication lines open.

I try calling again.

Still nothing.

The runaway thudding of my pulse spurs me on. My heart has found a new home in my throat and is throbbing like a stubbed toe.

“Come on, come on,” I mutter, weaving through traffic like a madman.

I near our apartment and find a strange sight. The entire parking lot is filled with giant, black sedans. They surround the building, shiny rims sparkling in the sunlight.

Nerves chew me up inside.

Is it immigration? Is something wrong with Josiah’s visa?

I shake off the thought. Thanks to his school, Josiah was granted a student visa. I’ve double and triple-checked his papers. There’s no reason immigration should come after us. Not while Josiah’s still a scholarship recipient. Besides, I doubt immigration would be driving around in brand-new SUVs.

I point my attention to the fourth floor. Thankfully, there’s no smoke billowing from the windows. I don’t hear the tell-tale sirens of fire trucks or police cars either. Nothing seems out of the ordinary except for the fleet of brand-new SUVs gathered in the parking lot. And I highly doubt those cars have anything to do with our family.

Feeling calmer now, I lug the heavy rice pans all the way up to the fourth floor. Normally, Josiah comes out to help me cart these upstairs but, since he’s not answering the phone, I have no choice but to do it myself.

By the time I finally stumble to the fourth floor landing, I’m sweating buckets, my chest is heaving and my hair is plastered to my forehead. I dig deep to find the strength to lug the pans the rest of the way.

Finally, I stop in front of my door and set the pans on the ground. Before I grab my keys, I plant my hands on my hips and stretch my back muscles. They crackle and pop with each twist of my hips.

Oof , I’m getting old.

It’s at that moment I hear a strange murmuring sound.

Weird. Is that coming from inside our apartment?

I take a cautious step closer and tilt my ear toward the door. Muffled voices filter through the grimy walls.

That voice is not Josiah’s and it doesn’t seem like the TV either. Not that Josiah ever watches TV.

Someone’s inside of my house.

Someone’s with my brother.

I want to kick the door down and burst in like the She-Hulk, but I don’t have the strength. So I fumble for my keys and stick it in the lock instead. Wrenching the knob, I storm into the room, hands fisted and ready to fly.

“Nardi!” My brother greets me with an excited squeak and a mega-watt smile. I do a quick scan of his body.

His clothes are on.

There are no visible wounds.

No signs of distress.

He hasn’t been crying.

Then and only then do I move my gaze around the room. There are six men in suits and white gloves prowling around the living room. Three other men stand behind the sofa. They’re also in suits but aren’t wearing gloves.

The entire overdressed entourage stands behind a thin man sitting with his back ramrod straight on the edge of the loveseat. He’s the most casually dressed in a simple T-shirt and loose jeans. He also seems the most harmless, given his lean physique and somewhat of a feeble aura.

There’s a ridiculous beanie on his head, which is rather distracting and unnecessary for the eighty degree weather. Although I’m one hundred percent judging him for the beanie, some part of me categorizes his face as attractive.

But I don’t let that thought linger for long.

He and his tuxedo men are intruders and I won’t let my guard down until I know what the heck is going on.

“Who are you?” I demand, since—by all appearances—he seems like the one in charge.

“Ronan Cullen.” His eyes drop to my fist and back to my face. “Are you going to punch me?”

I don’t take my eyes off the intruder. “Josiah?”

“Yeah?”

“ Should I punch him?”

“I wouldn’t, no. But that’s just me personally.”

That’s good enough for me. I put my hands down.

“What are you doing here in my home, Ronan Cullen?”

He speaks in a calm, measured tone. “Josiah, would you like to explain this or should I?”

My gaze swings between my brother and Cullen. On one hand, I want to tell this strange man not to talk to my brother. On the other hand, Josiah is staring at his shoes in a very guilty way and I have a feeling we’re the ones in the wrong.

“What did Josiah do?” I ask, bracing myself.

My brother’s head whips up. “I didn’t do anything… much.”

Oh no.

I inhale a shaky breath. “Define ‘much’.”

“Let me google it.” He pulls up his phone and acts like he’ll look it up in an online dictionary.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Uh…” My brother squirms.

Mr. Cullen pulls his lips into his mouth.

Fed up of the silence, I snap, “Someone better start talking!”

“Nardi,” Josiah swallows hard, “it’s really not that big of a deal.”

I wave my hands back and forth. “Ah yes. Because some crazy rich guy…”

Cullen jumps. “Is she talking about me?”

“…parked all those fancy cars outside, walked up four flights of stairs…”

Cullen glances at the suit behind him and then mumbles to the floor, “I think she’s talking about me.”

“… and re-created a scene of The Godfather in our shabby living room over something you did. And you call that ‘not a big deal’?”

Yes, I’m aware that Josiah has never seen The Godfather and has no context for what I’m comparing this moment to, but I’m sure he can understand the heat in my voice. And I’m sure he can also tell that his excuse isn’t flying with me.

Turning to the stranger, I speak in as polite a tone as possible. “Sir, what did my brother do to bring you and your,” I gesture to the suits, “posse here?”

Cullen blinks a couple times as if he’s not sure how to answer that. I clear my throat forcefully and he locks eyes with me. The force of his gaze knocks me back a step. I’m riveted by the ghost-blue hue of his eyes. They’re like magical moonlight orbs stuck in his face. I’ve never seen eyes that color in my life.

“Ms. Davis, your brother broke into a billion-dollar simulation, introduced several lines of code that corrupted the database and nearly ruined a decade’s worth of confidential, government research.”

I blink, long and slow. “He did what now?”

Josiah darts a look at me and quickly looks away.

“Is this… are you…” I struggle to make sense of it all while halfway to a full mental breakdown. “How is that possible? All he has is his phone. How did he break into that kind of program?”

“The IP address traced back to,” he flexes his fingers and opens a folder in his lap, “a Galilei Newton School for The Scientifically Gifted.”

My left eye starts twitching and I turn to Josiah with fire in my gaze. “You used the school computer to break into a billion-dollar simulation?”

If he were a dog, his tail would be between his legs. Josiah hunkers down until his neck is hiding inside his T-shirt. “It’s not my fault Cullen Tech has awful security measures.”

“Yeah!” I latch onto that, desperate to claw us out of this situation. “Why were your protocols so awful that an eleven year old could mess with it?”

“Ms. Davis, you should know more than I do that Josiah is no ordinary child.” Cullen levels a look on Josiah that reminds me of Mufasa to Simba in The Lion King. ‘ Everything the light touches is yours , my son ’.

My eyes narrow in suspicion and I feel the urge to take my brother and run.

“To be fair to Josiah, he did his best to hide the school’s IP address. I only found him because he signed up for our company’s competition.”

“What competition? I didn’t know about a competition.”

Mr. Cullen temples his fingers and says calmly, “It didn’t exist until today. We moved quickly and posted about the competition right after the hacking in order to lure the culprit in.”

“It was a trap,” my little brother squeaks. “I didn’t know.”

I sit in utter shock. I can’t decide if I’m more disappointed that Josiah hacked a billion-dollar company or that he fell for such an obvious trick.

“Did you really… just… give your information to the people you hacked?” I ask through gritted teeth.

Josiah tugs on his hoodie. “They said first place could win five grand.”

I rub my forehead. “Josiah Davis, did you want a computer that badly?”

“It wasn’t for me. I wanted to win so I could buy you a new stove.”

At once, the air around me gets tight. “W-what?”

Big brown eyes meet mine. “This one only has three working burners and you’re always complaining that you have to work twice as hard to make the rice.”

My heart jerks forward painfully, almost impaling itself against my ribs.

“Ms. Davis,” Cullen interrupts, “please don’t be alarmed. Josiah isn’t in trouble. In fact, I set up that competition in order to find him. In a sense, you can even say that he won.”

I ignore that comment about Josiah winning the competition because it’s irrelevant.

“You wanted to find him and do what?” I demand, draping a protective arm over my brother’s shoulders.

Cullen turns his light blue eyes on me and the image of a lion with his cub vanishes. In its place is a wistful melancholy.

“I want to make him my legacy.”

Question marks pop up in my head.

Legacy? What does that mean?

On edge, I decide that it can’t mean anything good and I shoot to my feet, my face twisted into something dangerous.

Cullen cowers back. “Ms. Davis?”

“You’re not making my brother your anything , you creep!” I stab an accusing finger at him. “Get out before I call the police.”

Cullen’s eyes widen as if he’s never been called out to his face. Well, I’m glad to be the first. I watch the news. I know how twisted and perverted rich people can be. I don’t want that nonsense anywhere near my brother, no matter how much money he dangles in front of us.

Josiah tugs on my arm. “Nardi, you’re embarrassing me.”

I brush his hand away. He couldn’t possibly understand how evil this world is. I’m the one who has to protect his innocence.

“Ms. Davis, I assure you I am not a creep.” Cullen’s cheeks turn ruddy and he seems to struggle to maintain his composure.

“Nardi, he’s the owner of Cullen Tech.”

“So what I snap.

“So he, like, invented AI drones. He even wrote a book about the future of individual flight.” Josiah lifts the book and opens it to the page with Cullen’s freshly-imprinted autograph. “It was really good.”

“Thank you.” Cullen smiles.

“Josiah, go to your room. I need to talk to Mr. Cullen alone.”

“But—”

“Go. Now .”

My brother huffs but obediently treks away. I wait until the door down the hall slams shut and then take a seat.

My brother doesn’t hand out compliments often and he doesn’t take to people either. He refuses to acknowledge Big T, despite him dropping by every Saturday to help me. Even some of Josiah’s teachers complain that he doesn’t respect them.

I still don’t trust this Cullen guy, but Josiah seems to have a good impression of him. I don’t want to ruin my brother’s future by being hasty.

“When you said you want Josiah to be your legacy, what exactly did you mean?” I ask in as slow and measured a voice as I can.

Cullen leans forward. “I mean that I’d like to mentor Josiah and teach him everything I know with the little time I have left.”

“Little time?” I arch a brow.

“I have lung cancer,” he says casually.

I jerk back a little.

“I don’t know how much longer I’ll live,” Cullen continues as if he’s discussing the weather, the latest sports stats, or how high gas prices are these days, “but while I’m alive I’d like to teach Josiah everything I know and,” he pauses, “when I die, I’d like to leave him all my assets.”

Now it’s my turn to blink slowly. “You… what?”

“Gentlemen.” Cullen clears his throat.

One by one, the men in the white gloves approach me. I shift backward in the couch, uncomfortable when the men crowd around me.

“These are notaries from the most reputable notary company in the state.” Cullen gestures to the documents that the notaries are cracking open. “These are the original certifications for my patents, trademarks, and contracts with the publishing company for my book deal.” He waves the two men without gloves forward. “These are my lawyers. They negotiated the sale of my company to Richard Sullivan and the documents?—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Why are you telling me all this?” I squeeze my eyes shut as if pretending they’re not there will make them go away. “Mr. Cullen, I appreciate that you see potential in my brother and I’m so sorry about your health challenges, but this is too much. I don’t need to see all of this.”

“As Josiah’s guardian, it’s only natural that you have questions about me. I know how absurd this all sounds. The notaries are here to assure you that I am who I say I am.”

“It doesn’t matter.” With a tight, uncomfortable smile, I shut the velvet box holding a patent and tilt my head around the notary to look at Cullen. “Josiah can’t do anything with these. He’s only eleven.”

His eyebrows go up with what looks like bemused delight. “I’ll admit, that was a shock to me. I had a feeling he was young, but I didn’t know he was this young.”

“Yes, well, exactly. He’s too young. So… thanks, but no thanks.” I make a shooing gesture. “You and your lawyers and your notaries can see yourselves out. Maybe come back when Josiah’s eighteen and can make his own decisions.”

The notaries glance at one another and then look to Cullen for instruction. He motions them out of the house.

At once, the air feels lighter and the room isn’t as stuffy. I had no idea how small our living room was until it was cramped with people.

“Ms. Davis, I’ll be honest with you,” Cullen says quietly. “I won’t be around when Josiah is eighteen.”

I freeze, taken aback by his honesty. Eyelashes fluttering, I suggest, “Not to be cold, but have you ever heard of a trust fund?”

Cullen looks up at the ceiling as if he’s seeing a vision of the world as he wants it to be. “There are some benefits I want Josiah to have access to now. Things that will help foster his insane potential. And also,” he tilts his head to the side ever so slightly, “I want to be around when his life changes. I don’t want that change to happen long after I die.”

“Yeah, well, there’s no way for that to happen so?—”

“Actually, there is.”

“And what way is that?”

“It’s a little… unconventional.”

“Trust me, Mr. Cullen, nothing you can say at this moment will surprise?—”

“Marry me.”