Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
I swallow and look down at my linked hands, elbows on my knees.
“Maybe she was feeling it. Accepting that they were gone when on some level I couldn’t. Doing what it took for her to heal.” I meet the dredges of resentment in Deja’s eyes. “That takes strength.”
I’m not sure I believed that when we were going through it. Did I make Yasmen feel weak? With my expectations? With my impatience to get our lives back and to move on, with my inability to deal with all we had lost, did I add to Yasmen’s pain?
“You don’t have to defend her, Dad. I was there.”
“There?” I frown at her use of the word. “Where? You were where, Day?”
Standing and turning her back to me, she flicks off the tripod light and folds the legs in. “I just meant the divorce and all that happened. I saw it for myself.”
She walks toward the bed, yawning and not looking at me.
“You’re right,” she says, turning back her comforter. “It’s late. Night, Dad.”
Did my daughter just dismiss me?
She straightens her bonnet and climbs into bed, drawing the sheer canopy suspended over her pillow and headboard, so I’m left seeing a vague shape topped with ghosts and goblins.
“Could you turn off the big light, Daddy?” she asks.
Definitely dismissed.
I don’t call her on the avoidance tactic, but make a note to get to the bottom of her resentment toward Yasmen. I can’t just put it down to typical teenage angst anymore.
I turn off the light and close the door behind me. I make my way down the stairs, pausing on the bottom step at the sound of Clint and Brock’s garage door lifting. With our next-door neighbors home, I can leave without worrying about the kids, but I don’t move.
Am I waiting up for Yasmen?
She should be home soon, right? It’s a school night.
“Bruh, she’s not sixteen,” I say as I enter the kitchen. “And you’re not her daddy.”
I stop by the dog bed in the corner of the kitchen, where Otis lies curled up and drowsing, and pat my leg for him to come. You’d think I asked him to run a marathon instead of walk with me a few blocks to our place the way he breathes wearily through his nose, refusing to rise.
“Let’s get out of here before she comes home.”
Despite my words, I walk over to the counter where I left Mark’s damn bouquet.
“Put these in water,” I say, imitating Yasmen. “The hell I will. They’ll be compost if you’re counting on me to put your shit flowers in water.”
It would be so easy to “accidentally” knock the flowers into the trash can, but that would be immature. I glance up to find Otis watching me.
“Judgmental bastard,” I mutter.
I look past the flowers to the lasagna Kassim didn’t bother putting away. It smells good. Yasmen has many talents, but culinary skills have never been among them, so I’m curious to see how this turned out. I grab a fork from the nearby drawer and scoop up a hearty sample.
“Mmmm,” I grunt, chewing through the noodles, cheese, and ground turkey. “It’s even good cold.”
Otis walks over to see for himself, so tall he can rest his head on the counter. He sniffs, staring at the glass pan and whining plaintively.
“No way,” I tell him, tugging his collar until he slides away from the counter. “All the trouble I go to following your fancy raw diet, you think I’m gonna give you lasagna? Then I’ll be the one who—”
A small screen coming to life on the wall snares my attention. The security system we installed has a few monitors in various places—living room, our bedroom, and the kitchen. The camera captures any activity on the porch in real time. I know what I’ll see when I walk over to the small monitor on the wall.
Yasmen’s home from her date. I should leave, slip out the back door and mind my business. It’s been a long damn day, and I have a networking breakfast for Black entrepreneurs at 7:00 a.m.
But I can’t make myself go.
My feet are bolted to the floor. My eyes, riveted on the screen.
I can’t hear what Yasmen and Mark are saying, but it’s the classic first-date dance. He’s nearly as tall as I am, so she has to tip her head back to laugh up at him, and it exposes the sleek column of her neck. His smile is innocent enough, but his gaze is a torch, singeing her throat, the bare line of her arm and shoulder, lingering on her breasts.
God, she looks good tonight. I mean, it’s Yasmen, so she always looks good to me, but when she answered the door, out of habit, I almost reached for her. It used to be a game with us. She’d get dressed, then do her makeup, knowing damn well I was going to smudge it when I kissed her. Knowing there was a good chance my hand would end up down her pants, taking off her bra, cupping her breasts. I couldn’t get enough of her. Couldn’t keep my hands off her.