“Okay,” I say. “A sip for a sip, how’s that?”

Brandon’s index finger circles the top of his mug, he arches a brow and my lips widen into a charming smile which I hope will make him say yes. He doesn’t. Instead, he continues staring at me and I am forced to place a hand over his, bringing his attention back to the flowered cup. A corner of his lips lift but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes and my hand finds his knee under the table to squeeze it. He’s making a big deal out of it.

His Adam apple bobs, his tongue comes out to wet his lip and I laugh when his hair falls into his eyes when he tries to shake his head in response to my suggestion. Anyone watching us right now will think he is preparing for an arduous task when all I have asked him to do is take a sip of my whipped coffee. I nod, urging him with my eyes to man up and do it, take a sip. It’s still coffee but with a lot of sugar, the good stuff.

“One sip, Brandon,” I say and squeeze his knee again. “Don’t be a quitter, just take a sip.”

The clenching of his jaw would have scared me days ago but now, it only encourages me to pull on his beards and chuckle. Someone laughs from across the diner and I withdraw my hand from his face. My eyes lower to my thighs, a shy smile flits to my lips, I forgot we were still in public and the thought makes me recoil. Shy isn’t a word that’s usually associated with me but of recent, that’s all I have been. Shy. Horny. Desperate and wild.

Brandon wraps his hand around my wrist to say, “I can’t be a quitter if I never started.” He brings my fingers back to his beards, I play with them for a moment before pulling away due to the intensity of the stares from people around us. “El, stop doing that.”

Casting a glance around the diner, I see no one paying special attention to us, most of the customers are in groups, having a quiet conversation without care for Brandon and I. My shoulder sags, my imagination must be playing tricks on me. I tap the cup and stamp a foot into the ground, I want him to have a taste of my creamy goodness now.

Seconds roll by, Brandon has not made any move yet, I nod and reach for his cup of coffee, scrunching my face when the dark liquid hits my tongue. The bitter, slapping taste that instantly floods my senses almost has me throwing up and I cringe, what is this? His coffee tastes like sadness with a sprinkle of guilt to spice it up and I understand why he can’t let go of his past. Taking this bitterness as much as Brandon does is enough to make anyone depressed or incapable of feeling any emotion related to happiness.

“El, it’s not as bad as you are making it look,” Brandon comments. “Swallow it.”

His tone reminds me of my first and last attempt at a blowjob, I nod and swallow. The coffee travel down my throat, my eyes close and I smack my lips as if it will rid me of the bitter taste. Brandon laughs beside me, I ignore him until I have taken a bite of the cake-like thing and a sip of my whipped coffee. I moan in delight and Brandon’s fingernails dig into my knees, I laugh, this is the only acceptable coffee and I tell him that.

“That thing you took doesn’t count as coffee,” Brandon murmurs and I reply with an eye roll. “Real coffee lovers know that the only way to take it is black and plain.”

“Your turn,” I start and rub my hands together. “Remember, a sip for a sip.”

“I never agreed to that deal,” he starts and my jaw drops. I blink twice to be sure those words are coming from him and his moving lips confirm what I already know. “You made a suggestion and you went ahead without getting verbal confirmation from me.” I scoff, surprised he is coming at me with this technical bullshit. “I don’t want a sip.”

A strange feeling claws its way to my chest, I scoff again and shake my head. All of these to get away from taking a sip after I already went ahead with the plan. “Quitter.”

“Quitter? A quitter is one who starts but never goes through with it, I never even agreed to it to begin with,” he defends. I offer him a tight-lipped smile and nod; it will be stupid of me to get into an argument with him over coffee. What he needs is a sound knock.

Our booth grows quiet and I resume eating the pastry, taking sips of my whipped coffee in between while Brandon’s mug remains untouched. I am a bit disappointed that he isn’t willing to try out something new and I refuse to look at him until there’s only one cake left on my plate. My eyes dart between his cup and my near-empty plate, I grimace. It was supposed to be shared equally and I didn’t even notice five pieces were gone.

“You can have it,” he mutters as if sensing my inner conflict and I shake my head. I push the plate away and he takes a long sip from his mug. Lines mar my forehead; his coffee must have grown cold by now but he doesn’t seem to mind as he takes another sip.

Brandon returns the plate to my front and I cross my arms over my chest. “El. You can have it,” he murmurs and I shake my head. “I’m off sugar, I can’t eat that. Okay? Eat it.”

“Well, you should have said something, why make me order it if you are off sugar?” I fire back. My voice reduces to a whisper when a few heads raise, “I don’t want it anymore.”

“You looked excited to order it,” Brandon replies with his brows furrowing. I sigh. His explanation makes sense but the scowl on my face doesn’t disappear and he bops the tip of my nose. “Come on, El.” He brings the cake to my lips. “Don’t let it go to waste.”

Rolling my eyes, I try to snatch the snack from him but he’s having none of that. I glare at him and he chuckles. He wants to feed me himself. With a frown, I take the first and second bite, making sure my teeth skim the pad of his thumb more than once. His jaw clenches, I stifle a laugh and continue my antics until there’s nothing more left to eat.

My coffee finishes so I reach for the small cup of whipped cream at the same time as Brandon, I try to pull away but I am not fast enough. Our fingers brush, parts of the cream stick to my fingertips in my haste to return my hand to my laps and I step on his foot without a glance at him when he winces, I didn’t hit him hard. I know I should be over it but I am still upset with him for refusing to try out my coffee. It was wonderful.

When Brandon grabs my wrist, I try to remain impassive as his tongue swipes over the cream, sucking it off my fingertips. I shiver and focus on the table, noticing for the first time that it’s made of wood. Goosebumps from Brandon’s touch and people gawking at us spread all over my body. His grip around my hand tightens when I try and fail to yank my hand from his grasp. I scoff at the smirk playing on his lips, he doesn’t care.

The glares boring into us makes me want to disappear but Brandon isn’t letting go of my wrist. The arrogant smirk says he’s enjoying the attention. “People are watching,” I whisper.

“Let them.”

But I can’t. I am not comfortable with his public display of affection and the eyes turned to us makes me feel guilty for my unknown crimes. Brandon finally releases my arm and I sigh in relief, tucking my hands between my laps. I chew the inside of my lip until he pulls down my lower lip, his finger lingers there and my breathing becomes shallow.

I want us to leave.

“Can we go?” I mutter but his hand on my leg stops me from standing. “Please.”

The bell rings, a couple walks in with their smiling child between them, they head straight for the counter and I smile in fond memory as the boy’s father ruffles his hair. The kid bounces on his feet, points to an item in the show glass and giggles. I don’t know what his mother told him but his lips turn down in a scowl and he lets out a shrill sound that causes some people, including Brandon, to plug their fingers into their ear. I giggle, he is cute even with the pink colour staining his cheek and snort running down his nose.

“I want kids,” I mutter absent-mindedly. “I want four kids, two boys and two girls.”

“I don’t want kids.” Brandon’s voice pulls me from my thought and I glare at him. “I don’t want kids, El,” he repeats in a sturdy voice.

Waves of shock crash over me, I blink morosely as if trying to process his words then turn away from him. A heavy feeling settles in my chest and I shake my head. We will not have a conversation as important as our future kids here in public. I look back to the boy who is now eating his chocolate cupcake with an elegance only a kid can possess.

“I want kids.”

The statement spills from my lips before my brain can register it and I shrug, I don’t regret reiterating it. I have always wanted to have children, they are precious gifts from God and I will not pass on the opportunity of having four kids to call me Ma. To recreate some of my favourite childhood memories with me doing my best as a mother to them. I will not miss out on those beautiful moments because of him.

Brandon touches my shoulder and I shrug to get his hands off me. He cannot say something like that and expect me to be happy with him. “El, don’t do this here.”

“I’m not doing anything,” I reply in the same hush tone he used. “There’s no future for us without kids involved. I’m not backing down on this, I want four kids, my own babies.”

For some women, being mothers is all they strive for, it is a huge achievement for them and I can say that I will share in the same feeling when my time arrives. I want a career and babies, just like Ma but with more kids so we can raise them in our big, empty mansion with the same love my parents showered on me. My chin raises in defiance; I will not compromise on this for him no matter how much I want us to be together.

“Okay,” he mutters. His shoulder sags, a line appears between his brows and my thumb goes to smoothen it, I had been afraid it will take more to convince him. “Okay.”

Our waitress returns to our table, causing my reply to die in my throat and I squeeze Brandon’s hand under the table. She smiles at us and we reciprocate the gesture, none of us saying a word as she stacks the mugs on the tray. The apron around her waist has stains all over it and her notepad is peeking out from her pocket. On a closer look, the bags under her eyes are prominent and she pauses once to keep her hair in its bun.

Her fingers drum a staccato onto the table, she calls out our balance to us with a kind smile which does nothing to hide her tiredness. Patting my pockets, a sigh leaves my lips when my search comes up empty, I didn’t think to come out with money when Brandon asked us to take a walk and I have no idea how to ask him. She deserves a huge tip.

“Thank you...” Brandon trails off to look at her nametag, “Anaïs. Merci beaucoup.”

The smile she rewards him shows that he got the pronunciation right and I repeat the name over and over again in my head without voicing it out. Ma has taught me the importance of pronouncing a person’s name correctly and I feel bad for not getting hers right away. Unlike Brandon, I don’t have the thick, rich accent to make it sound right.

Our eyes grow to the size of saucers when Brandon drops several euro bills on the table, the high denominations stunning me into silence. He slides the money in her direction and a tear trails a line down her pale cheek. My eyes brim with unshed tears at his generosity and the tear-filled smile Anaïs sends to both of us in appreciation has me in awe of my husband whose face is passive like this is a normal occurrence with him.

This is the highest tip I have ever seen someone give a waitress and for good reasons too, that amount is equal to mine and Clarissa’s month’s rent, it can feed a family.

Brandon tells her something in French and her head bobs up and down with a speed that has my lips curling into a smile. Her excitement is contagious. They converse for a short while and I grin sheepishly at her when she transfers her smile to me. I have no idea what they had been saying but whatever it was, it must have made her happy because her face lights up. I beam, glad to be beside the man who made it possible.

“Merci Madame, merci,” she murmurs and bows a little. I want to tell her she should be thanking Brandon not me, all I did was sit and watch but I don’t want to ruin the moment or turn down the smile on her lips. She mutters a string of words in French to Brandon, he chuckles and replies her with a fluency that has me wishing I took my language classes seriously. “Merci Madame.”

“Thank you too, Anaïs,” I mutter and give myself a mental high five for getting her name right. She chuckles and sends us a final nod, the sparkles returning to her eyes.

I place a kiss on Brandon’s cheek as soon as Anaïs leaves and hide my face in my palms. His chuckles cause me to lift my head and I smile without meeting his gaze, he is full of surprises, pleasant surprises. Warmth travels down my spine when Brandon caresses the nape of my neck, tucking in the strands of hair that slipped out from my beanie.

“What did you tell her? What did she say?” I ask. “Why was she thanking me not you?”

Questions roll out my lips and Brandon flashes me a heart-melting grin. “She said you are very pretty, that we make a perfect couple.” My gaze lowers to my lap briefly and I smile, if it’s only her approval we get in this city, then I am fine with it, more than happy.

“She is very pretty too,” I mutter. “Did you thank her?”

“I did.” He takes my hand in his and starts tracing invisible lines on my palm. “I told her to take the evening off, she needs rest,” he says and bops my nose. “Are you ready?”

The smile on my face is all the answer he needs; we stand together and walk out of the diner after a goodbye to Anaïs. I intertwine our fingers, the smile still plastered on our face as we begin the short journey to our hotel. We are a few feet from the gigantic building when I stop him in his track to say, “Thank you. Thank you for all you do.”