Forbidden Fruit

34. But fighting for love is work

THIRTY-FOUR

BUT FIGHTING FOR LOVE IS WORK

“ H appy birthday to you, dear Vivi. Happy birthday to you!”

Anton, Livia and I sing loudly around the glass table on the patio on August 24th. My cheeks hurt at smiling so much over the past few weeks and I feel like I’m living a dream. It’s hard to let doubt settle and remind me that nothing is permanent, but for them, I do.

My beautiful girlfriend’s soft curls fall from her shoulders to shield her face as she blows out the twenty-five candles we lit on the chocolate cake I made with the children this morning while she was studying at the pool house. It doesn’t look as good as when she makes it, but it’s full of as much love.

Vanessa’s eyes shine when she looks up at me and murmurs her thanks before cutting a piece for Livia and Anton.

After they both give her their gift—the ugliest drawings ever made that we’ll still hang on the board Vanessa made me install in the office for this purpose—the children go back to enjoying the pool under our watchful eyes.

My heart rate kicks up when I hand her a box carefully wrapped with paper. “If you don’t like it, we can send it back,” I mumble, but keep my eyes locked on her hands, which are unwrapping her gift carefully.

Her skin glows with the bronzed summer colouring she got after so much time around the pool and at the beach. I want to kiss it and lick it until I’m satiated, but touching her is never enough. No matter how many times I caress her soft curves and kiss the column of her neck, I always need more. I don’t want to stop.

“Lino,” she gasps. Her eyes widen slightly before her beautiful laugh fills the space between us.

“Do you like it?” I ask.

“Do I like it? I love it.” She squeals with a wide grin as she hugs the gift against her chest.

My cheeks heat and I preen. She holds the black t-shirt up. The embroidered pomegranate gleams with the red pearls that make up the centre of the fruit. It’s so her . I knew when I saw it, she needed to wear it. She stands from her seat then plops herself on my lap, her lips falling to mine with so much gratitude it makes my heart melt.

I always thought I was defective and not capable of feeling emotions. Turns out I just locked them so deep inside I believe they didn’t exist. Vanessa’s patience and easy love is excavating them one by one, turning me into the man I always wanted to be.

“Thank you so much, Daddy. It’s so precious, I love it.”

“You deserve the world, Vanessa. I’ll do my best to give it to you.”

Our kiss is languid and softer this time, but it shatters me all the same. Her hands thread through my thick hair, anchoring me to her as she always does. When I’m in her arms, I sometimes think nothing can reach me. No pain or hurt or anxiety.

I spend the next few weeks between work, my children and the love of my life. Every day I discover new quirks about Vanessa. How she not only loves to wear fruits on her clothes but also could survive on eating them alone, and that her favourites are figs and watermelon. How she hates bell peppers with a passion. How she clenches and grinds her teeth in her sleep. I love everything about her, even if she gags and refuses to do any type of dishes by hand, even if she always leaves cupboard doors open or forgets to turn off the tap. As she becomes more comfortable around me, around us, in my home—our home—more of her personality shines through.

We decided she’d only sleep in my bed on weekend nights to help the children with the transition, and these have been my favourites. Her muffled cries of pleasure as she tries to stay quiet but can’t hold her moans live in my dreams and are the soundtrack of my days. The subtle marks of my ropes against her smooth olive skin have been some of the prettiest sights. I don’t tire of her and I don’t think I ever will.

But depression isn’t a short-term condition that passes easily or something that can be fixed by one person only. It’s laying in wait, ever patient. And I should have known it was going to come back to haunt me.