Carter
I wasn’t sure what I was doing here.
I didn’t even like soul food.
Yet here I was, at seven o’clock on Sunday night, outside…I squinted into the shadows at the faded sign over the door. Mama’s. A soul food place called Mama’s.
No wonder Zoe loves this place, I thought. It was authentic, real and true, like her. Even the air outside the place smelled good enough to eat. The flame of warmth that sparked to life when I even thought her name made me nervous. I wasn’t supposed to care.
But now I was thinking about soul food. Because of her.
Ever since the ballet on Wednesday, I’d been thinking about her more and more. Four days and it felt so much longer.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered.
I should have just called her, because that’s what I really wanted to do. Plan another fake date, so I could see her again.
But there was no need. After the ballet and the picture in the paper, my poll numbers had stopped dipping.
So if I called her, it would be for me alone. Strictly personal.
“In or out, buddy?” a guy asked, standing behind me. I didn’t move and the guy stepped around me, yanking open the door. Delicious smells and warmth and light spilled out the door then vanished, and I stood again in the darkness outside.
Always outside.
I scoffed at my own melodrama. In or out, Carter? I thought. I went in.
The menu was printed on a chalkboard over the counter and on sticky plastic menus. The air was thick and heavy without air conditioning. “Carter?”
The voice was hers and I jumped, spinning around as if I’d been caught doing something illegal.
Zoe’s smile was bright, luminous even, and then as I watched, she controlled it. Tamed it and put it back under wraps. But that first smile…oh, that first smile told me a lot.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, switching her bag from one shoulder to the other. She looked tired and I reached for the bag.
“Here, let me—”
She put up a little protest, but I took the bag from her, swinging the embroidered sack over my shoulder.
“What’s in here?” I asked, astonished at its weight.
“Hard to say,” she said with a weary smile. “I need to clean it out.”
You need to take it easy, I thought but didn’t say. It wasn’t my place. Our relationship was business, and it looked as if it was coming to an end.
Besides, I was in enough trouble with Blackwell and my mother in the same city. I didn’t need to complicate things with Zoe.
And everything about Zoe was a complication.
But I still wanted her, I still wanted to brush back her hair and kiss her pink lips.
Wednesday night, I’d watched her more than the ballet. I’d watched her eyes gleam, her lips part with smiles and sighs. Her fingers dancing across her lap. I’d felt her muscles tense when the ballerina leaped.
I’d felt, it seemed, her spirit—buoyant and happy.
Her joy had been contagious, and my stark life, my strict existence, had soaked up that joy like a sponge.
“Are you here because of the photographers?” she asked.
“What photographers?” I asked, looking out the small front window onto the street.
“The ones still following me.”
My mouth dropped open for a second. “I had no idea. No one is following me.”
“Lucky you. It’s mostly one guy and his heart doesn’t seem to be into it.”
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Like a whale. On my good days. But you don’t want to hear about my swollen ankles.”
“Sure I do,” I said. And I meant it.
She watched me, her eyes measuring my sincerity, as if she were trying to find my angle. My motives for caring.
The moment got small and tight; it was the night of the ballet all over again. The air between us was cluttered with too many emotions: wariness, genuine respect and a heaping dose of lust. At least on my part. And I had the sinking suspicion that I was alone with that.
But then she cleared her throat, her eyes darting away, and the moment shattered.
Apparently my sincerity was unconvincing.
“I have a doctor’s appointment on Tuesday, and I’m sure the whale feelings are par for the course. The real question is, what are you doing here? I thought you didn’t like soul food.”
“Someone recommended this place to me,” I said and her smile was quick. A flash, like the memory of the one kiss we shared, and then it was gone. “Truth is, I’ve never had any. I mean, other than what my grandmother cooked and I imagine that was pretty tame compared to…” I gestured toward the black woman behind the cash register, who had to be ninety if she was a day.
“Mama is the best,” Zoe said and the woman behind the cash—Mama, I deduced—broke into a wide warm smile.