Eternal Adoration [ON PAUSE]

16. Weekends Like These

SERAPHINA

In the past, my weekends looked a little something like this:

1) Shockingly wake up at seven am, with the hope that my foster father won't be in one of his moods, and maybe only throw a few things around before making his way to work.

2) After a quick shower and hasty breakfast, get all the homework for the weekend done before the boys wake up and demand all my attention.

3) Deep clean, deep clean, deep clean. The so-called foster father demands it.

4) Make meals for the boys and entertain them as much as possible throughout the day, maybe go to the park for the day or set them in front of the TV if I need to complete more assignments.

But I am not in Bradbury Cove anymore.

So today, I wake up gently. Like those princesses in movies, blinking softly, birds chirping outside, a ray of sun slicing through the frilly white curtains. A yawn titters out of my lips, and like the lady I am, I let it out full force without covering my mouth.

I lay there a bit, enjoying the comfort of the bed, thinking over the state of my life right now. The worst of it all is my homelessness. Of course, I have a roof over my head right now, but if there's something I've learned from living in homes that are not mine, is that they might as well be destitute.

As welcomed and accepted as I've felt in this beautiful apartment, I can't put all of my eggs in this basket. Then again, there's an option that I'm being given. Keep my mouth shut, marriage, and protection. It makes sense, and the deal is so Aristide.

Aristide. Goodness, that man.

Why the hell his name sounds so breathy in my mind, I don't know. Okay, maybe I do know. The crazy man gave me his freaking-fucking-credit card to shop for 'all I might need' and then had the audacity to ask me if 'that's all' referring to the multitude of bags I acquired.

And, if that was not enough, the man carried all my bags purchased with his money out of the mall and inside his apartment, ignoring my protests that I could hold some and telling me to worry about not falling on my face when trying to chase him down.

And perhaps, the breathiness of his name in my mind also has a little something to do with his hands on my back, his breath tickling my ears, and his strong legs under my butt. My ass, I correct myself.

Aristide has noticed my clean vocabulary, which isn't surprising, the man misses little, but it means that I have to be more careful when I talk. I never thought cursing was a big deal-it was something my mother always demanded, sometimes to extreme levels, but presented as normal-but when I finally got around to other kids, I realized it wasn't exactly the norm.

After a quick visit to the bathroom with my toothbrush handy, I use the mirror mounted on the back of the door to consider myself. I wonder whether I should remove my bonnet-a satin, purple one I've had since I can remember-but decide that I girl should get to eat breakfast in comfort, so let it be.

Next, I take in my chapped lips, and promptly ruffle through my toiletries bin pushed to the side of the room to fish out my petroleum jelly, slabbering a dollop on my lips. On my freshly washed face, I slap on some lotion until I'm glistening, just like my Grandma used to do.

"Okay, not too bad." I'm wearing sleeping shorts that are not too short to be scandalous, but short enough to reveal my legs. "It's not a fashion show, girl. Calm down."

Hearing the sounds of pots from the kitchen and the newscaster's voice from the TV, my heart beats faster and I slather petroleum jelly on my legs until I'm exerted from the effort.