Page 48 of Gin and Bear It

Mom appears around the corner in a tailored dress and heels, her hair freshly done. Her frenetic, get-everything-in-its-place energy radiates off her in waves and intensifies when she spots us.

“Ashley!” Mom huffs and pulls me into a tight hug anyway. “You said you’d text me when y’all got here!”

“Well, we just got here.” I step back and let Mom hug Jada next.

“You look so gorgeous, Jada.” Mom steps back, her hands on Jada’s shoulders, and takes her in. “Congratulations, sweetheart. You’ve been a part of the family for years, but now it’s official.”

Jada’s smile is bashful and she looks down. “Thank you.”

“And Dylan!” Mom finally notices Dylan, who’s a few steps behind me. “Goodness, it’s been years, hasn’t it?”

Mom met my bandmates twice over the years, and both times were a mess. Dylan was the only bandmate she liked, and that was before things went off the rails with the other two. She was polite enough not to tell me directly, but I could read it all over her. Like a dumbass, I wrote her off as being judgmental. She was, but in the exact way she needed to be.

“It has.” Dylan accepts Mom’s hug. “Thank you for having me. Your home is beautiful.”

“Thank you.” She beams. Mom loves compliments on the house almost as much as she loves compliments aimed toward her kids. She waves us over to the kitchen, where the ample counter space is covered in trays of food and drinks, ready to be served. “Let me get y’all something to drink. Jada and Ashley, I had Wes and Rose make some custom cocktails in your honor.”

A bartender hands her two drinks, like they communicated with telepathy, and Mom hands them to us.

I taste mine and fucking hell, it’s strong. I guarantee Wes is responsible for this. I’m going to drink this slowly and stick to one or two—just enough to steady my nerves. Jada sips hers and nods.

“What’s your drink?” Jada asks.

“Taste it.” I hand it to her.

“My lipstick⁠—”

“It’s fine, Jada.” Her lipstick is just the right shade of red. Her lips are exactly what I’d draw if I had to create perfect ones from memory.

She turns the glass a little and takes a sip. Her eyebrows shoot up and she wrinkles her nose.

“That’s…a lot.” She hands me the drink.

“He did it on purpose.” I don’t bother to turn the drink around and sip. “What’s yours?”

“Basically a fancy cranberry Sprite with vodka in it. Rose makes it for me on our girls’ nights.” She sighs through her nose. “I guess they’ll have to go on hold for a while.”

“I’m capable of leaving the apartment for a night,” I say. “I’m not bound there like a ghost.”

Dylan snorts and chooses a cider instead of a cocktail. Once we all have our drinks, Mom waves for us to come outside.

She disappears again, giving us a second to breathe. I’m surprised she didn’t have trumpeters announce our arrival. I’ll take the brief moment of respite.

The backyard is decorated like a wedding venue—flower arches, ribbons, the whole nine yards. Even though we’re early, a lot of guests have already arrived. My stomach lurches and turns, which isn’t helped by the drink. The reality of it finally hits, as if I didn’t just sign a marriage license less than a week ago.

“JJ!” A little Black girl in a light purple dress sprints full tilt at us. I have no idea how old she is, but she’s tall enough to take Jada out if she doesn’t slow down. Thankfully she puts on the brakes just before impact, but Jada nearly loses her drink. “You look so pretty!”

“Thank you! So do you.”

“You’re married, JJ? Like an old person.” A little boy, who looks just like the girl, runs over, too, and joins the hug. Her niece and nephew, I’m assuming. Did she say they were eight? Or ten? I have no idea what kids look like at different ages. Their names escape me before I remember them in a panic—Maryse and Malcolm Jr.

Jada grins, light coming into her eyes fully. She’s been doing a good job at faking the smiles today, but they’re nothing compared to how she is now. She squeezes both of them tightly.

“Kid, everything I do is like an old person to you. You were practically born three days ago,” she says, letting them go. “You’re still a baby.”

“I’m not a baby.” The kid laughs, like it’s an old joke, then looks at me, eyes narrowed. “You’re her husband?”

I barely contain my laughter. He went from eight years old to middle-aged dad sizing up his daughter’s prom date in an instant.