Page 241 of The Sweetest Return

She didn’t push.

So I told her about the business meeting instead. Chuck saying I undercut him when I stepped into problems too fast. Deja getting make-right authority in writing and looking like she had won a small war. Omar claiming mushrooms were emotional. Pops sitting at the end of the table like he didn’t need to be there and enjoying every second of my managers telling me the truth.

“And your mother brought pound cake?” Imani asked.

“And tea.”

“Of course she did.”

“Said Pops’s coffee had been disrespecting people since morning.”

Imani’s laugh hit the table warm.

“She’s right,” I said. “His coffee tastes like punishment.”

“Did she give you advice too?”

“Mama always gives advice. Sometimes she hides it under dessert.”

“What did she say?”

I rubbed my thumb along the side of my glass. “Not to let fear get a vote it didn’t earn.”

Imani’s expression changed.

“Mm.”

“Yeah.”

“That sounds like your mother.”

“It worked too. Made me mad.”

“Truth does that.”

I looked at her.

She looked back, soft but not fragile, hair down, mouth bare, sitting in my shirt at my table like she had been coming home to me for years.

After dinner, I took our glasses to the living room and turned on Thursday night football. Chicago and Dallas. Not my team, which was probably for the best.

The fireplace burned low in front of us. Imani curled beside me on the couch, legs across my lap. My hand rested on her calf beneath the hem of my shirt, thumb moving over her skin. Her anklet touched my wrist every now and then. Her toenails flashed white when she shifted.

I loved her.

That was no longer the problem.

The problem was how much life stood around that love asking for room.

She rubbed her thumb over my forearm. “You’re not watching.”

“No.”

“You okay?”

I picked up the remote and turned the volume down until the room held mostly fire and the little bit of football I wasn’t using as an excuse.

Imani shifted when I did.