Page 7 of Roundabout

“No drains,” I say with the first grin I’ve actually felt in a while.

Stepping over the white and turquoise wall, he agrees, “No drains.” Slowly, he sits down with Jace in his arms. There usually is a tiny plug for a drain in these types of pools, but judging by where Beckett’s ass is currently planted, I’m willing to bet he’s sitting directly over top of it to keep Jace from seeing it.

As soon as Jace’s feet feel the water, his wide eyes dart around the same way they’ve done every other time we’ve tried getting him to take a bath recently. Without a second thought, I follow him and Coty in, work clothes and all, and take our son’s face in my hands, promising him, “It’s okay. There’s nothing that can hurt you.”

“And even if there was, we wouldn’t let it.”

“Beckett,” I scold, shooting him an annoyed look. I was just on the verge of letting him off the hook for making his kids shower me with fake affection.

He holds out his gigantic hands, saying, “What? It’s true,” before telling the twins to get the toys they brought over.

The pool barely fits all six of us, let alone toys, too, but somehow we make it work, squeezing in everyone except for Marc who stands outside the pool, holding Blaze’s hands while she stomps in the water, splashing and distracting Jace enough to relax on Coty’s lap. Once the pool’s about three-quarters full, Marc shuts off the water, then we all play until Paige shows up, looking for her family. Already fully acclimated to these men and their antics, Beckett’s better half doesn’t even bat an eye at the scene she walks in on, she just gets a stack of towels and dries off her kids. And husband. If there’s an opportunity for Beckett to be babied, he’ll take it…with a death grip using both hands and a smile from ear to ear that proves he is anything but innocent. Even at thirty-one years old he’s still just as incorrigible as he was when we first met. The thin, feathery laugh lines around his eyes are the only sign he’s actually matured in the last ten years.

Marc helps Blaze out, then everybody leaves so we can bathe Jace properly, with actual shampoo for his hair.

“How are we going to get all the water out of here now?” I ask Coty, using the towel on Jace’s tightly curled hair. Our son is sleepy and clean and smells like soap, and I can’t keep my smile—my real smile—off my face.

Coty drags the end of the hose from the bathroom into the girls’ room, all the way over to the window we opened earlier when the steam got too thick. Sucking on the hose’s end until water starts flowing back out, he quickly sticks it out the window to run down the outside of our house, sliding the hose as far as it’ll go so the water runs into the grass. He closes the window just enough to fit the hose since it’ll probably take a while to drain, then turns to me with his own smile.

“I love you,” I tell him, making his smile grow.

Just as quickly that smile falls though, and he busies himself taking Jace from my hold. I know exactly what he’s thinking without needing to ask. I love him but…

There’s always a but for me. Buts are the reason I still have my own separate bank accounts. Buts keep the door open in case I ever need to make a quick exit. Buts are the clause I need in every negotiation so I can pull out whenever I feel the overwhelming need to. When you’re born a runner, that urge doesn’t just go away. Over time, it lessens, but it doesn’t disappear completely. My laces are always tied, maybe not as tightly as they used to be, but they are tied, and every refusal to Coty’s many marriage proposals serves as a reminder.

Since we’ve been serious, I haven’t run. I’ve been right here, side by side with my partner, trudging my way through all the good and the bad. I’ve wanted to run, several times. I still think about it, even today. When things get hard, that’s what I was best at. It was my default setting to save myself.

But what I’ve learned these past several years of being a foster parent is I’m not the only one I need to protect anymore. It’s not all about me. There are bigger, more important, things in life than my feelings getting hurt or my trust being broken. Coty’s never broken my trust, not once, and he’s never intentionally hurt my feelings.

I’m the one that does that to him by not giving him what he needs to feel secure. I’m the one that’s been keeping one foot in the door with my constant buts.

After last month when our world was turned upside down, I’m not sure I feel that need anymore. Not with Coty anyway. He’s my Accra, capitol of Ghana—the center of the earth. The rest of my world can flip but Coty will still be at the center of it. He will always be at the center of it.

While he puts Jace to bed, I clean up, then I go up behind him when he’s brushing his teeth, propping my chin on his bare shoulder blade. We’re both wearing dry clothes now, me in a matching pajama set while he’s only in a pair of shorts. Shirtless has always been a good look on him, not only because of his sculpted muscles I’ll never grow tired of exploring, but because of the meaningful ink decorating his chest.

Staring at him through the mirror, I whisper, “Ask me.”

With a mouth full of white foam, he mumbles out, “What?” around his toothbrush.

Not blinking, I repeat myself, telling him, “Ask me.” There’s only one question he’s ever asked me that I didn’t have an answer for. Now I do.

His back tenses against my front, but he finishes brushing, spits and rinses, then wipes his mouth on a hand towel before turning to face me, his hand on the counter behind him as he leans against it.

We study each other for a while, I don’t know how long exactly, just that it’ll never be long enough. No amount of time with Coty will be.

Bending to one knee slowly, cautiously, he looks up at me, those chocolate eyes so full—full of love, of patience, of perseverance. I don’t know what he sees in mine gazing down at him but I hope it’s the assurance and gratitude and absolute adoration I have for him.

“Are you sure?”

From the very beginning, Coty told me he’d wait, and he has. He’s waited for me to be ready in everything we do together.

My hands find the back of his head, my nails teasing his hairline, not because I need to, but because I want to. My hands are always restless, as unsure as my insides usually are, but right now I am sure, more sure than I’ve ever been.

I’m ready.

“Ask me,” I say again.

“Will you marry me?”