“Hi.” I extend my hand and smile politely. “Nice to meet you.”
She stares at my hand like it’s palsied for a moment too long before taking it between her French manicure-tipped fingers.
“I guess you’ll miss Grip when he moves to New York,” she says, watching for my response.
“Not really, since I’m moving with him.” I widen my eyes innocently. “Grip says this is my going away party, too, so thank you for coming.”
Grip catches his half cough, half chuckle in a fist at his mouth.
“It was good seeing you again, Sierra,” he says neutrally. “Good luck.”
“Well maybe we could—” she starts.
“Sierra, your sister’s looking for you out back,” Ms. James interrupts, suddenly appearing at my side.
“But I was just—”
“I know, baby.” Ms. James turns Sierra by one slim shoulder toward the back yard. “But she said something ’bout potato salad. Child, you better get out there. We need that potato salad.”
Ms. James waits for the tiny thorn in my side to get out of earshot.
“She always was a fast tail girl.” She tsks and shakes her head, her neat dreadlocks swooshing with the motion. “Been after my boy since training bra days. She don’t ever give up. Marlon, why you always late? You stay on CP time. You can take the boy out the hood, but you can’t take the hood out the boy. Bristol, come to this kitchen and help me with these greens.”
And she’s gone.
In a flurry of lightning-strike words, affectionate admonishments, and dreadlocks, she’s gone, plowing her way through the knot of bodies slowly realizing Grip has arrived and lining up to greet him. At the threshold of her neat kitchen, she turns, one brow lifting and reminding me of her son.
“You coming?” She rests a fist on one slim cocked hip. “These greens won’t cook themselves.”
Grip widens his eyes meaningfully and cocks his head for me to follow his mother.
“Don’t shoo me,” I mutter, untangling our fingers. I can’t hold back a smile, though, over what just happened. Ms. James put that “fast tail” girl in her place and chose me—I mean, she just chose me for collard greens, but I’ll take it.
“Hey, wait.” Grip tugs me back into his hard body, one hand palming the small of my back. He squats enough to kiss my nose then settles his lips over mine, lingering and taking his time to stake a claim on my mouth. “Don’t be too long. I want everybody to meet my girl.”
Pleasure blossoms inside me. I hope when we’re half blind and soaking each other’s dentures, he’ll still call me his girl. I’m feeling so good, even the weight of many pairs of eyes—curious, speculative, assuming—bearing down on my shoulders and back the whole way up the short hallway leading to the kitchen can’t short-circuit my grin.
They can’t, but Jade does as soon as I see her leaning against the kitchen counter. Our eyes clash and our smiles fade in sync. Her hair is neatly braided into rows. The big doe eyes narrow on my face, and she doesn’t try to hide her irritation when she tosses her ever-present Raiders cap onto the counter.
“Hey Jade.” I brighten my voice, hoping the undercurrents that always run through our interactions won’t be as strong today.
“What’s up?” she responds dispassionately, not trying as hard. Apparently, I’m much better at faking than Jade is . . . or maybe I just care more.
“Put this on.” Ms. James passes me a red apron with Thug Life printed on the front. Her full lips tip into a smile.
“That was Marlon’s idea of a joke one Christmas. Just put it on so your pretty outfit won’t get wet.”
“Wet?” I tie the apron over my clothes and await further instructions. “You wanted me to help cook the collard greens, right?”
I try not to sound too eager. My heart should not skip a beat at the prospect of finally learning the secret to the greens she makes for Grip.
But it does.
“Oh, no, little girl.” Ms. James pats my shoulder. “You ain’t ready for heat yet. You’re on wash duty this first time.”
“Excuse me?” I glance at Jade for a clue about what wash duty means, but she’s grinning down at her phone, fingers flying furiously over the keys. “Wash duty?”
Ms. James hefts several bags of greens onto the counter.