Page 82 of Mafia And Maid
Ethan still stays rooted by the doorway, not moving a millimeter, and I can tell he’s torn between wanting to trust me and wanting to stay as far away as possible. Inhaling a deep breath, I remind myselfthat this will take time. Building trust isn’t something that can happen overnight.
“Do you know what Mr. Fluffy loves?” I say, trying a different approach. “He loves when people give him belly rubs. And I bet he’d love one from you.”
Ethan’s big brown eyes widen a little. “Really?” His voice is barely above a whisper.
“Really,” I say with a nod. “He won’t hurt you, I promise. If you want to, you can come and sit next to me.”
Ethan stands there, frozen. But then, very carefully, he tiptoes into the room, as if he’s not entirely sure this is a good idea. I just stay where I am, letting him come to us on his own terms. Mr. Fluffy senses the tension, and lifting his head slightly, he wags his tail slowly.
Ethan reaches us, and I can see the uncertainty in his eyes. “It’s okay,” I say in a quiet, gentle voice. “You can put your hand out and let him sniff it. He likes it when people do that.”
Ethan hesitates, but then he reaches out. Mr. Fluffy sniffs the offered hand, his wet velvety nose nudging against Ethan’s fingers. Then, unable to help himself, the dog licks Ethan’s hand with a quick soft swipe of his tongue.
Ethan gives a tiny giggle—a sound that makes my heart swell—and before I know it, he’s sitting down next to Mr. Fluffy, and his tiny hands are running tentatively along the animal's fur. And as the time passes and Ethan starts to relax, his movements become a little more confident. “Can I give him a belly rub now?” he whispers.
“Sure,” I nod. And I watch as Ethan gives Mr. Fluffy a careful touch on his tummy, the dog instantly rolling over onto his back and wagging his tail with enthusiasm, eager for more.
I sit back and let them bond, feeling a small sense of relief. This is a good start—a tiny step toward something more. I know there’s still a long way to go, but for now, I’m just really relieved and happy to see Ethan smiling.
***
I sit too straight and too rigid to appear natural as Ethan sits across from me.
His cards are fanned out on the coffee table across from my own, the deck separating the two. Rosa is cleaning somewhere down the hall.
Over the last two weeks, I’ve slowly made progress. I’ve made my steps light and quiet. I’ve lowered my voice, being calm and gentle as I speak to him. I let him decide when and for how long we interact. And today’s the first day he’s allowed Rosa to leave without rushing after her.
“Any blues?”
Ethan shakes his head. He still won’t say much, but I do get his fleeting smiles across the table at mealtimes. Each one knocks the wind out of me, making me feel like I’ve won the fucking lottery. Like mother, like son, it seems.
I draw a card, adding it to the line of cards.
“Any greens?” he whispers.
I slowly scoop the three cards together and slide them toward him. That’s all he needs to win the hand. Did I let him win? Maybe, but the way his eyes light up loosens something in my chest. The raging beast inside me relaxes, and pride eases it back like a balm.
At that moment, Rosa comes in and sets down a plate of crackers and cheese beside Ethan. To my surprise, she also sets down a small plate of cookies—made specifically for me with chocolate protein powder, rolled oats, and peanut butter. It’s become my new guilty pleasure.
“Thanks, Rosa.”
“Momma, I won against Uncle Millo.” Ethan smiles up at her.
“You did?”
He beams at her, showing her his winning pile of cards.
“Great job, honey. Eat up now. It’s gonna be a while until dinner.” She bends down, giving me a perfect view of her plump ass, to press a kiss to Ethan’s head. My eyes track her as she walks back out of the room to finish up whatever chore she was doing.
“Would you like to stop for the day?” I ask Ethan. This the by far the longest we’ve interacted, and I don’t want to push my luck.
His lips purse, and his forehead wrinkles in thought. “No.”
I blink. I bite back the smile that threatens to pull my lips up. Progress. It’s slow, but it’s progress.
“A different game?”
Instead of answering, his eyes fall to the plate of cookies, and my brow arches. “You can have one if you want.”