Page 40 of The Best Shot

“He needs his wife back, Yasmine. He needs her home so they can fix this.”

“That’s between them.”

“It’s family business.”

“Shaun is a grown man, Mama. CeeCee is a grown woman. If she doesn’t want to talk to Shaun, that’s her choice.”

“She’s being dramatic. Marriage isn’t something you quit because your feelings got hurt.”

CeeCee was the least dramatic person I knew. Steady to the point of disappearing. Work, home, repeat. And so patient you forgot patience had a limit. What had finally pushed her past it?

“What did happen?” I asked carefully. “Exactly?”

Mama’s eyes flickered. “They had a disagreement about the future. But couples fight and Shaun needs stability right now. She knows that.”

I sighed. Shaun had a gift for making his consequences communal. “Mama, I’m not going to convince CeeCee to do anything. If Shaun wants her back, he can talk to her himself.”

“She won’t take his calls.” Her jaw set. “You always do this. Your brother is hurting and you’re sitting here acting like it has nothing to do with you.”

“It’s not my place.”

“She’s family.”

“I’m not getting involved.”

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her purse. “Fine. When this family falls apart, just remember you stood here and did nothing.”

The door clicked shut.

I stared at the screen until the photo blurred. Then I picked up my phone.

Hale’s text thread sat near the top, six unanswered messages. A cat eating shit mid-jump. A woman running after a car she’d forgotten to put in park. Stupid stuff, sent at random hours. Nothing that touched the bathroom or the parking lot or that single step he’d taken toward my car before I put it in reverse and left.

I’d been busy. That had been my whole personality this week. Busy was easier than honest.

I scrolled past Hale. Past Annie. Past the muted group chat, and stopped at CeeCee’s name.

My mother’s voice floated back to me. She’s family.

She was family, but she was Shaun’s first. And Shaun didn’t share his things.

Don’t get involved, Yasmine. Not your business.

I set the phone back down.

Then picked it up again a minute later and sent the message before I could change my mind.

The next day, I sat at the coffee shop on Ridge Street. It had exposed brick and overpriced oat lattes and just enough background music to keep two people from being overheard. I’d picked it for that last part.

I got there early, ordered something I wouldn’t drink, and picked a table near the back where I could see the door.

She came in fifteen minutes late. The breath went out of my lungs.

Pregnant. Visibly, unmistakably pregnant. Far enough along that my brain reached for numbers and came back useless.

She paused inside the doorway, scanning the room, and when she found me her face did something complicated. I clocked it as recognition, then resignation. That smallest flicker of here we go.

She walked over and lowered herself into the seat across from me, slow and careful, one hand braced against the table.