Gods in Alabama by Joshilyn Jackson

made, and he was on top of the comforter, but he was wearing a white undershirt and a pair of pajama bottoms with lobsters all over them that I had given him for Christmas.

    “I can hear you rustling around in here,” I said.
    He put his book down on the bedside table and patted the open space beside him. “If you can’t sleep, come talk to me. I could hear you thinking in there.”
    I lay down beside him on my back, and he slipped an arm around me. I rested my head on his chest. “What did you hear me thinking?”
    “Not so much thinking,” he said, “as worrying. I can hear your gears grinding. Nervous about me meeting your family?”
    “Of course I am,” I said. “Burr, we don’t talk much about it.
    This whole thing where I’m white and you’re black.”
    “Because those are facts,” said Burr. “Here’s another fact: My car is a Blazer. We don’t spend a lot of time mulling that one over, either.”
    “That’s because your car being a Blazer doesn’t have any con-sequences except a good warranty. Oh, save me from that. But you’re coming down to meet my family now, Burr. Just wanting to meet them, that says something. About us, about where we’re heading.”
    Burr grinned. “Why, Ms. Fleet, are you asking me what my intentions are?”
    I laughed. “I guess I am. I was thinking about that night we had that big fight and you almost broke up with me. I had this idea that you were going to propose to me at dinner. Was I way off base?”
    He was silent, looking down at me. He turned on the pillow, scooting down until he was lying beside me and facing me, eye to eye. “Yeah, I was,” he said.

    “Why didn’t you?” I asked. He smelled like Crest toothpaste, and under that I caught the warm smoky smell that was Burr.
    “When I planned to ask you, I thought you’d say yes. Listening to you work over your aunt, I realized I didn’t know what you would say. You never do the little things that show a commitment. I wondered what made me think you’d do the biggest one.”
    I thought about that for a minute. I reached into the small space between us and found his hand, taking it in mine, and said,
    “If we got married, things would be different. Not so much for me. I mean, my career is going to be academic, and half of them don’t care and the other half applaud our couplehood as a political statement.”
    “That’s the white people,” said Burr. “Meanwhile, the black academics, half of them don’t care, and the other half see you as a white trophy bitch who has usurped the rightful place of a black woman.”
    I laughed again. “I’d have to be prettier to qualify as a trophy bitch. I need longer legs and fake eyelashes. Maybe some fake boobs, too. Or any boobs, really.”
    “You’re plenty pretty enough to be my trophy bitch,” said Burr. “Lena, I love you, but posit for a moment that love isn’t enough. Look at the big picture. We have the same religion, the same politics, we’re both careful with money, we both want at least two kids, and we’re best friends—that right there wipes out eighty percent of the possible divorce-level fights we could have.
    As soon as you discover what a god I am in bed, the other twenty percent goes out the window. That’s all the stuff that’s inside our house.
    “The stuff that’s outside our house? Forget it. We’re used to it.

    We can bar the door and pull down our shades. It’ll be tougher if we get married. And tougher still if we have kids. But as long as it stays outside our house, we’ll be fine. I think you’re worth it, even if you didn’t have the sense to be born a Nubian goddess.”
    I scooted towards him, wrapping my arms around him and burying my head in his chest. “You’re so smart, and you always say the exact right thing.”
    “Good for me,” said Burr. “Now get back to your bed before I ravage you and ruin you before I have officially proposed.”
    That reminded me of this story the youth minister’s wife told