Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Like I said. Sometimes what we think is a fluke is really fate.
Whichever it is, I won’t let it go to waste.
Chapter Eighteen
Kimba
Coming to Mona’s cookout was a bad idea.
On so many levels.
Level one.
I could quite possibly eviscerate her guest bathroom. I’ve been either sitting on or kneeling before the porcelain throne for the last two days, digestively prolific from both ends, and I’m about damn tired of it. Between diarrhea and vomiting, I’ve been chained to my mother’s house. There’s a reason I put several states between us. We love each other, God knows we do, but after a day or so, two alpha females under one roof is a whole-ass mood.
Not a good one.
In addition to Mama’s usual lecturing, advising and “guiding,” she’s also fussed over me, assuming I’m sick, a much more logical conclusion than the truth. The detox pills that may re-start my period arrived. The catch? They have run through my body like a typhoon.
Never thought I’d say this, but I better bleed.
Several of my homeopath’s patients have not only restored their cycles through this remedy, but have gone on to have babies.
Do I even want to have a baby? I was hoping that wasn’t a question I’d have to answer quite yet, but apparently, if I want to give birth naturally, the time is now…or at least within the next year or so…or never.
But first, my period has to come back. That’s pretty much square one with reproduction.
Level two for why coming to this cookout is a bad idea?
Ezra Stern.
He’s an old friend. A blast from the past. An all grown up, broody, brilliant, intense, tall and handsome blast from the past.
And he’s taken.
Let that sink in, Tru.
I can’t stop thinking about him, though. I keep seeing him, not just as he is now—handsome and towering and sex-on-a-magic-stick—but as he was then—kind, slyly witty, compassionate, and protective. He was my solace and my secret. No one else knew how amazing Ezra was back then, and I liked having him to myself. Now he belongs to someone else, and I have to respect that.
Our friendship always went deeper than connections I’ve had with other people. Aside from how I felt with Lennix and Vivienne, no one else came close. All my life I kept waiting to feel that kind of knowing with someone else. I mean, we were thirteen. But I never have. I thought, maybe hoped, we had outgrown that visceral bond, but it’s still there. At least, I felt it immediately. It’s the fiber of our friendship. You don’t blame magnets for being drawn to each other. But if they’re far enough apart, they can’t stick. For the last two decades, Ezra and I were far enough apart not to stick, but now…
This is a bad idea.
I pull up to the address Mona texted me, surprised at the long line of cars crowding the street and wrapping around the block. If all these people are here for Mona’s cookout, she would also call Coachella “a small gathering of friends.” I park as close as I can and walk back toward her place. The Old Fourth Ward has changed a lot in twenty years. Now there are coffee shops, a yoga studio around the corner, and every other house is a newly-constructed three-story with a van or an SUV in the driveway.
Ah, gentrification. Atlanta is not immune.
I went through our old neighborhood to get here. Driving down the streets where Ezra and I used to ride our bikes, seeing the old park, now upgraded, the old rickety swings replaced with new ones, took me back to those days. Mrs. Washington’s house, where she’d pretend to be watering plants so she could hear everyone’s business, is still there, but there’s a SOLD sign out front. Probably a close and doze. Our houses, mine and Ezra’s, still stand facing each other and look almost the way they did before, just with fresh coats of paint.
I shove aside old memories. Considering the awareness between Ezra and me, revisiting the past won’t serve me well.
I climb the steps to the wraparound porch, ringing the doorbell and taking in the swing, hanging plants and fairy lights while I wait. When the door opens, Mona greets me with hooping, hollering and hugs.
“Girl, get in here.” She drags me farther into the house, which is wall-to-wall with people eating, drinking and talking.
“You found it okay?” she asks, steadily picking her way through the crowd.
“I did. Thanks for inviting me.”
The last year has been dedicated to electing Maxim Cade president. There wasn’t much time for cookouts or hanging out. I was on the road and on television a lot more than I wanted to be, but hey. That’s the job, and God and Mateo Ruiz willing, I’ll be starting up the next cycle in a few weeks. This is a reprieve and a chance for me to reconnect with my family, and this city that used to be my home.