I chuckled as I scrubbed the skillet.
But Sofia shook her head. “Um, you have to put in real money.”
Xavier frowned at the bills. “This is a hundred quid. It’s as real as it gets.”
“Let me see that.” Sofia yanked one of the fifty-pound notes out of his hand and examined it between her chubby fingers. After a moment, she handed it back to him. “Yup, it’s fake. I can’t do nothing with this.”
“What are you talking about? You can do more with that than a hundred dollars.”
“No, you can’t,” Sofia insisted. “It has a lady on it.”
“That’s because it’s the bloody queen of England!” Xavier sputtered.
Sofia frowned. “Um, that’s not a real place.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it isn’t!” Sofia threw me an expression that basically asked, “Who is this bozo?” without actually saying it. “This is a real place. New York City. Where I live. England is made up.”
Xavier looked like he was about ready to tear his hair out. “And why in the hell would you think that?”
“Because queens and princesses only exist in fairy tales. And fairy tales aren’t real life. Right, Mama?”
Two pairs of bright blue eyes turned over the back of the couch and lasered onto me. Lord, they were intense.
It didn’t help that she was quoting me. I did my best to counter the cultural programming she received as a little girl growing up in a world intent on teaching women to be saved rather than saving themselves. It would do her good later on, I hoped. But it certainly wasn’t helping me right now.
“Is she always this stubborn about her own idiocy?” Xavier demanded irritably.
That did it. I turned off the faucet, marched around the counter, then grabbed Xavier by the shirt collar and proceeded to haul him out of the room.
“Ooh, he’s gonna get it,” I heard Sofia telling one of her stuffed animals as we left.
“Sof, just keep watching Daniel Tiger, all right?” I called but didn’t bother to wait for a response as I towed Xavier down the hall, out to the front porch, and slammed the door shut.
“Let’s get one thing clear,” I said, ignoring his glare, yanking him down so I could look him in the eye. “She’s four. You’re thirty-two. She barely knows the difference between green and red, much less England and America. She might act like she knows everything, but only because that is all completely normal for a tiny person who is just figuring out how to be a person.”
“So, what then?” Xavier retorted through his teeth. “That means I just have to let her say the wrong fucking thing and make a fool out of herself?”
“No, it means that you, a fully grown man, don’t get to make her feel like shit about it,” I snapped right back. “Especially when you’re actually just taking out your frustration with me on her!”
Xavier had opened his mouth like he wanted to shout back, but now couldn’t seem to say anything. That was all fine by me. I had plenty more to say.
“I know this whole parenting thing is new to you, so let me spell a few things out,” I told him in a low, insidious tone that Matthew jokingly called my “Ms. Zola” voice. “As her parents, it’s our responsibility to teach her right from wrong. But only about five percent of that is what we say—the other ninety-five is what we do. If you insult her, talk down to her, or show her she is deserving of anything but respect, then that is all she will do to other people, and it’s all she will expect for herself. And Xavier? I will. Not. Have it. You treat her like that again, it will be the last time you see her. Do you understand?”
We stared at each other for a long time, playing some strange game of owl right there on my front porch. It didn’t matter that we were getting odd looks from a few of the neighbors out walking their dogs. I was going to force him to look at me until every word I said got through his thick head.
Finally, he nodded slowly, and eventually, I released his collar, allowing him to stand fully and shake out his craned neck.
And then he did the last thing I expected.
He kissed me.
It wasn’t a kiss full of passion. Well, maybe a little, bundled up with frustration and annoyance and anger and anything else he was feeling. His fingers gripped the sides of my face, fitting over my cheeks and jaw while his thumbs latched over my chin, giving me no more ability to leave than I had given him when gripping his shirt. His lips forced mine open, supple, and insistent, but only long enough for our tongues to touch.