“I’m too busy to date anyone. I don’t know if you heard, but myexecutive protection business found an angel investor and we’re breaking ground on our new building in a few weeks.”
I grin. “I heard. How’s it going?”
“Great. This software is going to revolutionize the personal security industry. Thank you for making it happen.”
“I didn’t do it because I love you. I want my money back,” I joke, and we share a good laugh. “But for real, man. I can’t wait to invest more. You deserve it.”
“I love you man. Thank you. And think about that job. For real.”
When we hang up, I go to the federal jobs website and check out the listing.
I promised my mother a year. I wanted to go back to LA when that time was up.
Or at least I did.
I hang up and blow out a breath to try and dispel the anxious energy building in my gut.
I felt energized when I got home that first Sunday night. It was like a second chance. A clean slate.
My mother had put the deed in her maiden name so when they called me Kwame Dixon, I didn’t correct them. It didn’t matter what name they called me. All they knew was Kwame the lawyer, son of their former landlord, and now Sunday lunch guest. It felt so good. They’ll have to know eventually, but until it’s necessary or comes up, I’m going to enjoy the perks of my anonymity as long as I can.
Chapter Fourteen
Sin
Muscle Memory
Kwame honored my mother’s invite and has come to Sunday dinner every single week since that first visit. After his third straight appearance at the house, I asked him to help me with the dishes so I could speak to him alone and reassure him that he didn’t have to come.
As soon we got in the kitchen, he’d connected his phone to the bluetooth speaker on the window over the sink. We’d worked in a comfortable, quiet, and perfect sync through a playlist full of D’Angelo, Chaka Khan, and Charlie Wilson. He’d loaded the dishwasher, and while I’d hand washed everything that couldn’t go in there, he’d swept the floor. I’d cleaned the counters while he’d dried the pots, knives, and crockery I’d washed. By the time we were done I couldn’t remember what I’d wanted to talk to him about.
The next week, he offered to help me as soon we were done eating. Mae was thrilled to be off the hook and my mother extolled his parents for raising such a helpful, respectful son. She dropped hints about him and Mae’s simultaneous singledom and didn’t seem to notice how uncomfortable it made all of us.
My family was a lot. We argued passionately, laughed loudly, didn’t have filters, and didn’t take a lot personally. From the little I’ve gleaned about his family, he’s not used to that kind of intimacy. He’s neverseemed anything but happy to be here. He loves my dad’s stories about his boarding school days. He’s been reading Adonis’ briefs for his moot court class and doesn’t seem to mind. The hour of quiet he gives me while I do the dishes is a gift I hadn’t even known I needed.
My mother made her famous garden egg stew tonight, and the price for that is the four different pots she uses in the process.
I’m just finishing the last one when Kwame breaks the silence.
“You used to be an investigative journalist?” My hands freeze mid scrub and let the stainless steel pot slide into the sink full of hot soapy water. I turn slowly to face him.
“Why do you ask?” I ask, eyebrow cocked.
“I’m just wondering how you got so good at giving advice. I’ve yet to disagree with you.”
“You read my column?”
“Yeah, even though your name isn’t on the byline.” He returns my perplexed expression. “Is it a secret that you’re the voice behind the page now?”
“No. But the column is the draw. The writers behind it aren’t meant to be. The only thing I was allowed to change is the sign-off.”
“We’re all sinners here. I like that. It’s clever. And so is your advice. Do you get to decide what submissions you answer?”
“Thank you, and yes.” I flush at his praise and sincere interest. I turn my attention back to the pot while I talk. “Although, I’m starting to get the impression they’re sorry they gave me that power,” I admit.
“Why? I like that it’s not just ‘How do I get my husband to pick up his socks?’ kind of stuff. I loved your answer to the woman who wrote in about her para-social relationship with a content creator she follows.”
My heart flutters at the detail. He really read it. “It’s such a common problem. And one of the reasons I like being behind the page.”
