Page 84 of The Best Shot

From the kitchen came the smell of macaroni pie and greens, every Sunday of my childhood rising up thick and salty and heavy with love and guilt.

The tea appeared without anyone asking. Hot for CeeCee. Iced and sweet for me.

Mama settled across from CeeCee and gave her everything, full attention and enough warmth to make you forget to brace.

No mention of her leaving. No mention of Shaun. No lecture about marriage.

“How many weeks now?” Mama asked after oohing at the ultrasound CeeCee had passed to her.

“Twenty-eight.”

“And the doctor’s happy? Weight? Blood pressure?”

“Everything’s good. Baby’s healthy.”

“You sleeping?”

“Trying to.” She blew across the top of her tea.

“On your left side,” Mama said, leaning in. “I know they tell you that and it sounds like nothing, but it helps.” Her hand lifted and hovered over CeeCee’s stomach, not quite touching. “Can I?”

CeeCee considered, then nodded.

Mama pressed her palm to the curve of CeeCee’s belly. Her face softened.

“Mm. Not long now. But you don’t want to be on your own when he comes. He’ll be a handful, I can tell.”

CeeCee started talking about nursery colors. Mama rested her chin in her hand and nodded along, genuinely happy.

There, at least, she wasn’t pretending. The love was real.

She’d be a good grandmother, indulgent and generous and completely over the top. I wondered if there was enough of her to go around, and what Shaun would do if he wasn’t first anymore.

The thought put a chill through me.

“Shaun was just saying the other day he wants to paint it himself,” Mama said lightly. “It’s his first child. He wants to do it right.”

CeeCee’s smile held, but her fingers went tight around the mug.

Her shoulders had dropped since we walked in, some of the stress of the workday disappearing under my mother’s pampering. Now they tightened again.

A few minutes later, the front door opened.

CeeCee went still.

Mama didn’t.

Shaun walked in like he’d been expected.

“Hey,” he said to CeeCee, his voice warm.

Then he saw me.

His face did the same quick flicker Mama’s had, pleased and then not. Except he had none of her tact. He turned on our mother. “What is she doing here?”

“Yasmine is here for dinner, don’t be rude,” Mama said. “But good timing. I’ll get another plate.”

He crossed the room and dropped into his chair.