I won’t lie.
A mix of excitement and nerves danced through my system as I got Rosita out of the car.
It had been a long time since I felt anything akin to excitement when it came to a man.
We were stopped no less than four times before we finally got on the path and started to make our way toward Dezi who was standing facing us, with a… backpack on? A… pink backpack on?
I mean, I had to respect a man who was comfortable enough in his masculinity to wear pink, but… why?
I was almost close enough to ask when he suddenly turned and I realized it wasn’t a backpack. Or, rather, it wasn’t just a backpack.
It was some weird animal carrier with this domed out plastic front so the occupant could look out.
And what was the occupant?
A tiny, fluffy white kitten.
With blue eyes.
“You got a kitten?” I asked when he turned again, pulling his backpack to sit backward so the straps were still on his shoulders, but the kitten was facing me.
“Correction, I got Rosita a sister.”
“You… what? Dezi, Jesus Christ, you can’t just keep getting me animals.”
“Do you hear the way your mother doesn’t listen to me?” Dezi asked, looking down at Rosita. “I clearly said she was for you.”
“Dezi, I can’t have a cat.”
“Sure you can. No one will even know about her.”
“Dezi, be rational.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” he asked as he squatted down, cat carrier and all, to pet Rosita.
“Life isn’t just about fun,” I insisted, even as my father’s words came back to me.
About joy.
About chasing it.
About holding onto it when you found it.
And Rosita? Yeah, she’d brought me more joy than I could have imagined. And that damn little kitten and her mewling sounds? Yeah, she was making my heart do the squeezy thing again.
“So what is her name going to be?” Dezi asked, seeming to know that my objections were going to be short-lived.
“Marie,” I said. “You know… from The Aristocats movie.”
“Rosita and Marie. From children’s movies,” Dezi said, turning to face the trail again, his hand moving out to take mine.
And I was so shocked by the gesture that I almost pulled away.
Almost.
“So, what’s with the knowledge of the kids movies? You secretly have a couple of kids out there somewhere?”
“I would never abandon my kids,” I insisted, wincing at how sharp that sounded, how easily my trauma slipped into those words. “No. It’s… I just babysat a lot in my old life. Especially as a teenager.”
In doing so, I guess I’d gotten a chance to experience things I’d missed in my own childhood. Like Disney movies. And playing board games. And learning how to make friendship bracelets.
My inner child had healed a lot over those years. My inner teenager, though, yeah, she was still creating chaos in my psyche. That rebellious, angry little brat.
“Was that your first job?” he asked, swinging our arms between us in a carefree, childlike way.
“I, I mean, sort of. I’d been doing little jobs since I was biting ankles. But those jobs were the first ones I chose to do myself.”
“What other jobs did you do?”
“I applied body glitter to strippers’ backs. Washed bar glasses when the dishwasher called out of work. Stole money out of johns’ wallets.”
I never told a single soul about that last one. Hell, I don’t think I ever even talked about the body glitter either.
“Did you say johns?” he asked, brows furrowed. “As in—“
“My mom was a hooker, yes,” I said, nodding. “To be fair, she wasn’t my whole life. She started as a bartender.
“Then, as she started to develop a habit that needed funding, she turned to stripping.
“My mom was gorgeous. And really, really tiny. So she seemed younger than she was. Which made all the guys go crazy,” I said, remembering being grossed out about that even as a little kid.
“And, of course, as she spiraled down, the stripping wasn’t cutting it anymore. Even if it did still pay enough, she was too far gone to do a full routine on stage in heels. So… she started fucking for cash.”
“At work?”
“At our apartment,” I corrected. “And she used to lecture me to sneak in and fish in their wallets for cash. She promised me that I could get a cut of it if I did it. And as a kid with no food in the cabinets, I was willing to do anything to be able to get a full belly.”
“That’s fucked up, baby,” he said, his hand giving mine a squeeze. “No life for a little kid.”
“No,” I agreed. “It could have been worse, though,” I said, shrugging. I wasn’t going to tell him about the daughters of other sex workers I knew back then. Ones who got pimped out by their own moms.
My mother had a lot of flaws, but at least my mother never did that to me.