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’m reaching for my phone when Kassim barrels through the back door and into the kitchen, face wreathed in a huge smile. Josiah follows, his pace more sedate.
“Grandma!” Kassim hurls himself at Mama, rocking her back with the force of the hug.
“Kassim, be careful,” Josiah says, but his voice is indulgent. “Don’t knock her out before she cooks my Thanksgiving dinner.”
Mama takes Kassim’s face between her hands and kisses the top of his head, then turns her attention to Josiah.
“Well, look who the cat drug in,” she drawls, deep affection in her eyes. “You better be glad you so pretty, or I wouldn’t cook you nothing.”
Josiah’s low chuckle rolls out as he takes the few steps to reach Mama and pulls her into his arms.
“I’m not gonna test my luck,” he says. “How was your flight?”
“Good.” She leans back to look up, searching his face. “You all right?”
His smile fades because he recognizes the question for what it is, evidence of Mama’s insight. Byrd made the holidays special, and no one would feel her absence now as acutely as Josiah.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says simply. “I’m good.”
“Mom, we had Indian for dinner,” Kassim says, hanging his backpack on the hook near the back door.
“I wondered where you guys were,” I say.
“Sorry.” Josiah leans against the kitchen island and plucks an apple slice from the cobbler Mama’s preparing. “I thought I mentioned we were gonna eat out after we left Dr. Cabbot’s. We went to Saffron’s.”
Mama slaps his hand and slides the cobbler out of reach.
“It’s fine,” I say, turning away to wipe the counter down so I don’t have to look at him. He’s wearing a Morehouse hoodie and dark jeans, and I’m not sure I prefer him business fine-ass or casual thirst trap. The man really needs to stop working out. And aging, because apparently that’s not helping matters either. His fineness is only getting worse the older he gets, and I can’t concentrate. I’ll wait until he leaves before I peel these sweet potatoes, or I’ll lose a fingertip surreptitiously drooling over my ex.
“Can I play Fortnite?” Kassim asks me with begging eyes. “No school tomorrow.”
“Sure, but don’t fall asleep with that thing on. I know how you and Jamal get.”
He dashes from the kitchen and takes a stampede of horses with him judging by the sound of his shoes pounding up the stairs.
“That boy and them games,” Mama mutters, turning back to her cobbler. “I’mma get in that closet while y’all in Charlotte. Last time I was here, we reorganized everything, and I bet it’s right back where it was by now.”
Josiah and I exchange a quick, meaningful glance. Every time Mama comes, she has to organize and deep clean everything within an inch of its life. The kids complain, but it’s become our inside joke. They’re going to give us so much hate when we come back from Charlotte.
“Four o’clock tomorrow for dinner?” he asks, looking to Mama with brows lifted.
“Yes, and don’t be late.” She twists her lips. “I hear you’re bringing a guest.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And did she get the list of things I’m making and she don’t have to worry about?” Mama asks, her look both challenging and teasing.
“Yes, I passed it on.” He surrenders a grin and bends to kiss her check.
“I’m looking forward to meeting her,” Mama says.
“I’m sure she’ll love you.” The openness of Josiah’s look fades a little when his eyes land on me. “I’mma bounce.”
“I’ll walk you out.” I dry my hands on a dish towel. “I want to hear how it went with Dr. Cabbot.”
“See you tomorrow, Mom,” Josiah says, leaving through the back door.
We walk outside, and he leans against his car. I leave a safe distance between us. Not close enough for his scent and warmth to wrap around me.
“So how’d it go?” I ask.
“Good. Dr. Cabbot’s pleased with what he’s seeing. He doesn’t tell me everything, of course, but he did mention that Kassim’s a little anxious about performing well enough to skip next year. He seems to have it in his head that therapy is part of some audition to see if he’s good enough to go to seventh grade.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “I guess you think that’s my fault for expecting so much? You’re probably not wrong.”
With a gentle finger, he lifts my chin to meet his eyes, surprising me with his touch.
“Don’t do that.” He grimaces. “I owe you an apology for that comment I made about putting pressure on them. I have no excuse except I’m an asshole sometimes, but it’s not your fault.”
“I know I’m a lot.”
I lean into the rough warmth of his palm. We seem to realize at the same moment that his thumb is tracing the sensitive skin above my chin, below my mouth. I’m sure it was merely muscle memory that made him touch me this way. Our bodies recall things we’ve chosen to forget. I expect him to withdraw immediately, but the way he watches me in the dimness of the half-moon night, the way his fingers drag across my jaw when he withdraws his touch, almost reluctant, traps the breath in my throat.