Caring Fireman Daddy by Scott Wylder
CHAPTER EIGHT
Darius
One night when I know Talia will be coming home late, I cook her a special dinner. She walks in tired, but then she sees roast chicken on the table with salad and bread. There are candles flickering and soft music. I made the dining room look like a fancy restaurant, even adding a nice tablecloth to hide that it’s just a card table. Maybe this will be the night. I hope she’s not to tired. Maybe the special meal and bubble bath will recharge her batteries.
“Tonight, is a special night, Little One,” I say, while I swirl my wine. She has grape juice in her wine glass. She thinks wine is icky.
“What makes it so special?”
“It has been three months since I first met you.”
“Wow, has it been that long? It feels like it was just yesterday, and it feels like this was always meant to be,” she says. “I know that sounds mushy, but that doesn’t make it any less true.”
“I like mushy. I love it. I love you, Betsy,” I tell her totally going out on a limb. She smiles but says nothing. Her face looks so sexy and sincere in the candlelight. It is terribly romantic. I don’t care if she’s not ready to say it back. I don’t even care if she loves me back right now. I love her and that is the truth.
“There’s something you should know about me, Darius.” She puts down her fork. She doesn’t look like she wants to cry, but I can tell she doesn’t want to tell me.
My mind reels about what it might be, but truly, it does not matter. “What’s that, Baby? Nothing can change the way I feel about you.”
“From the day I met you, I haven’t been honest with you.”
I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. I straighten my shoulders, put on a brave face, and wait. I reach across the tiny table and take her hand.
“It’s OKOK, Betsy,” I say.
“That’s the thing, my name isn’t Betsy. That’s just a name they made up for me at Recess. I like ‘Betsy’ because it sounds like an old-fashioned name like from the old movies I like. ‘Betsy’ is the name for a nice girl.” The truth is flowing out of her mouth, and she can’t seem to stop it. She may feel embarrassed by this little thing she has kept from me, but I feel like this is a victory. I have finally gotten through.
“I will call you whatever you want. I just want to call you mine.” I squeeze her hand, so she knows it’s true.
“My name is Beth Anne. I was named after my grandmother. She raised me until she died when I was about three. I barely remember her. My mom was only a teenager when she had me, so my grandma was going to raise me. My mother always resented me for pretty much existing and ruining her youth. My mother called me Beth Anne when she was mad. She was mad a lot. Although I am sure my grandmother was a nice lady, and she was sure nice to raise her grandkid for as long as she did, I never want to hear that name again. I feel free of the burden of that story and of that name. I wonder if you can still love me.” She takes a deep breath. Tears well up in her eyes. This explains her fears of abandonment and being a burden.
“Then Betsy it is. You are my Betsy. You are my Baby Girl, if you want to be.” I pat her hand gently. She lets out a slow stream of air like she’s been holding her breath the whole time. We eat our dinner in peace. Maybe now that she told me her story than she can be ready to love me back. Love isn’t love if it is not based on truth.
“After dinner, I was wondering if you would like to take a bath. A special bath. A bubble bath,” I say. She deserves some pampering. I want to wash away her shame and let her become new with me.
“Yeah, I want to take a bubble bath,” she says. “Are you going to wash me?” She uses that sexy baby voice of hers.
“I’ll do whatever you let me. I want to take care of you. I want to make you feel good.”
“You already do.” That sounds like the truest thing she has ever said to me. “And yes, I would like that. I want you.”
We put down our forks and head upstairs, not even bothering to clear the table.
