“Sure do. That Vin Diesel is my TV boyfriend. When he drives those cars all fast, I have all kinda lustful thoughts.”
“I know what you mean.” Amadou laughs.
“Gross,” I say, “but have fun at the movie. She’s in your hands now.” I wave to Amadou as I grab a glass of water and some Advil, and then head back to Kiana’s room.
On the twenty-seventh, Grammy and I finally get word that our heat is fixed. I sigh when we walk through the door of our apartment, dropping my bags, immediate warmth greeting us. I love Kiana’s immaculately decorated house and her dads, but it’s good to be home. All the familiar smells hit me at once—Grammy’s cocoa butter lotion, lemon air freshener, and a slight charred scent from the kitchen from something I burned. All those nights away from home, in the middle of someone else’s family traditions and drama, made me appreciate what me and Grammy have even more. It may be small, but it’s ours and it’s quiet, and cozy, and full of love because we survived and made it so.
“Lord, I missed my chair and TV,” Grammy calls from her room, where she’s already flipped on some show and is making herself comfy.
“Need anything, Grammy?” I call.
“No, thank you, baby. I’m just fine, I’ll rest these bones of mine. Carl and Amadou had me thinking I was young again the last couple nights, up late laughing.”
I leave Grammy and start assessing what groceries we have left and what laundry needs to be done. When my phone dings, I practically crash over to my bed to see if it’s Juniper. Kiana and I made a very drunk pact not to contact either Juniper or Holden unless they reach out first. I keep hoping maybe—maybe she’ll reach out.
But it’s not Juniper. The text is from Jeannine telling me our store is all dried out and that shifts start up again tomorrow.
“Wonderful,” I mutter, throwing my phone down and resuming sorting dirty clothes into piles. When I check in on Grammy an hour later to see if she wants to take a walk, she’s talking on the phone to someone, her face all lit up and excited.
“It’s your mom,” she mouths. “We’re talking details about where to meet. She says hello.”
I wave awkwardly as if my mom can see me over the phone, and then shut Grammy’s door quickly.
I take a deep breath and try to calm my spiked heart rate. I’m trying not to get my hopes too high, but Grammy, she seems all in. I’m worried she’ll get hurt again. Thank goodness I have work to distract me for a while, because nothing feels in my control right now.
Too soon, Grammy and I are driving the hour to Lowell to meet my mom. Grammy is an anxious mess. For the last couple days, getting her to do anything but talk about the visit or sort through photos ofme from the last eight years to show Mom has been a chore. This morning, she woke me up at the ass crack of dawn to help her do her hair and makeup just so.
“Get me my pearl earrings,” she said when she was almost ready.
I retrieved them from her small jewelry box and helped slip them into her pierced ears. She fluffed her hair and fidgeted with her outfit. “Do I look OK?”
“You look beautiful,” I said softly. “Really beautiful.”
She smiled at me with so much hope in her eyes that I said a quick prayer that this would all go to plan.
But our moment was short-lived, because then Grammy started fussing over what I was going to wear. She immediately vetoed the jeans and T-shirt I’d picked out the night before, and demanded I put on a dress. “I will not have your mom thinking I have you out here in rags!”
“These are not r—you know what, never mind, fine.”
And that’s how I ended up in a striped black-and-white sweater dress, my hair up in a tight bun and small gold hoops in my ears. My lipstick choice, however, was nonnegotiable. I smeared on a heavy matte, blue-black lip, a lip fit for a warrior, a lip that felt like armor.
“You look like you’re going to Wakanda,” Grammy said when she saw it, shaking her head.
“Perfect,” I said. “You ready?”
Now, on the road, Grammy grips the armrest anytime I make a turn or change lanes. “You’re driving too fast!” she scolds as I pull off on our exit, almost to the Biggby coffee shop where we’re meeting Mom.
“I’m going exactly the speed limit, Grammy. I promise I’ll get us there in one piece.”
She huffs and starts to wring her hands. “We’re almost there,” I say.
We arrive at three p.m. on the dot, and despite Grammy’s worry that we’re late, Mom isn’t there yet, and neither is anybody else. The place is empty. Most people use the drive-through anyway, and it’s the day before the holiday, so nobody is hanging out here.
“Go look in the bathroom, Lyric, baby. Maybe she’s in there.”
“Grammy, she’s not here yet. It just turned three o’clock.”
“Just go look!” Grammy’s voice is high, tight.
