I listened to her quietly. I knew exactly what she meant. Tanzania was in my blood, my skin, my bones. To hear her say she missed it scared the hell out of me, because it opened up possibilities I had never dared to hope for. It had always been either Rodel or the farm. And I had picked one. Home was wherever she was, and it didn’t matter if I banged my head on the ceiling each time I went down the stairs. I was that crazy for her.
“I’m in a bit of a bind because I’ve committed to the mortgage here.” She was babbling, more to herself than to me. “I could sell it, though. And hand in my resignation at the school. But what would I do at the farm? I’d have to find a job. But we’re in the middle of nowhere. Then again, what would you do here? I know you. You won’t be able to sit on your hands for long, doing nothing.”
“I could grow lavender,” I interrupted her stream of thought. “We could have a lavender farm. I know the earth and I know the sky. Between the two, I can grow almost anything. We can have babies with pink, round cheeks. Rubber duckies all over the place. You can continue teaching. Or not. Whatever you want.”
“Babies.” She smiled. “With you.” Her eyes had a faraway look, as if she were imagining their little faces. “Paint me another picture, Jack.” She closed her eyes and leaned back. “But this time, in Tanzania.”
“I could keep the farm. You could keep the cottage. It would be our little love nest. You’d pick coffee, and put up with a cranky old lady. Your boss would demand all kinds of inappropriate things from you. The hours would be long. The salary would be peanuts—just enough to make payments on the cottage. We’ll visit Scholastica. Bahati can sit in the back with Goma, but to her left. She’s half deaf in that ear now, so that works out great. We can make babies with pink, round cheeks. Rubber duckies all over the place. You can home-school them, and maybe some of the other kids too. They travel a long way to get to school right now. You could teach them how to think, instead of what to think, so when they grow up, they’re better people than us. But it would be your call. Whatever you want.”
The yellow ducky bobbed as Rodel remained silent, her eyes still closed. The top of her nipple peeked out at me through the bubbles. Wet strands of her hair disappeared under the surface. A soft curve touched her lips. Wherever she was in her head, it was a good place.
“Yes,” she said, when she finally opened her eyes. “I want that very much.”
“Which part?”
“All of it. I want it all with you. Here. There. It doesn’t really matter.” She came up to the edge of the tub until I could feel her breath on my lips. “But right now, when I opened my eyes, the picture that stayed with me was a green swing on the porch of a beautiful, white house. That’s what’s tugging at my heart. So that’s what I’m going with. Let’s go to Tanzania, Jack. Let’s give it a shot.”
There was genuineness and excitement in her voice—a spark of something that left me with no doubt that it was what she wanted, not for me, but for herself. Turns out she was an adventurer, after all—an explorer, just like the rest of her family. She was ready to take a leap with me, and it made my heart grow impossibly larger.
I captured her wet lips and was overwhelmed with the need to absorb her, to soak her in through every pore of me. I shrugged out of my clothes and got into the tub, first one leg, and then the other. Rodel squealed. The rubber duck honked as I squished it. Water spilled all over the floor.
It was slippery and uncomfortable and completely crazy, but we laughed because we were high on love and the fumes of endless possibilities.
“Hell, yes,” I growled, my teeth grazing the soft, creamy expanse of her neck. “Let’s go to Tanzania. But I hope you remember what I said. If you ever set foot there again, I’m going to claim you. You’re mine, Rodel Harris Emerson. All mine.”
ON THE DAY of our wedding, Aristurtle ran away from home. Scholastica had taken him out of his box so she could clean it. She turned around, and he had busted loose.
“Good for him.” Goma adjusted her fedora. No feathery, flowery hat for her. “If you lived up to 150 years, you wouldn’t want to spend it in that shit box either.” She lifted the half-curtain in the kitchen and clucked at the search party that was supposed to be looking for him:
Bahati, the best man and honorary maid of honor, taking selfies in his sponsored suit.
Scholastica, our flower girl, twirling through the coffee plants in her new dress, while her Aunty Anna chased after her with a hat.
Anna’s kids, playing hopscotch in the dirt, white socks rolled up in their shoes.
Rodel’s parents, trying to talk Olonana into selling them his earrings.
“Aristurtle could crawl up their leg and bite them in the ass, and they wouldn’t notice,” said Goma. “And you.” She turned to me and tried to adjust my tie, but she couldn’t quite reach the knot. “No peeking in the living room.”
Hair, Makeup, and Wardrobe were holed up in there with Rodel—the same girls who’d come to the hotel. I couldn’t wait to see Rodel in her wedding dress, but holy crap, how long was this taking?
Goma chuckled as I paced the floor. “Jack . . .” She trailed off and patted the chair beside her.
“I wish your grandfather were here,” she said, when I sat down. “He’d have been so proud. Your father and mother, too.” She stared at the table and nodded absently. “And Lily . . .” Her voice cracked as she said it. A lump formed in my throat. I put my arm around her and pulled her in. She laid her head against my shoulder, and we shared a sweet, silent moment.