“Aren’t you going to eat, Albany?” Granny Joyce asked. “It looks delicious.”
Granny’s presence here was the reason my parents were on their best behavior. Probably because the last time they’d acted a fool in her presence, she’d threatened to absorb my father’s company by hostile takeover. All because Allison had questioned her ability to run a business at her age. Grandma had told me the story through a fit of giggles.
I stared at my plate of homemade corned beef hash and eggs. It looked good enough, and I would’ve devoured the food any other day, but I had no appetite. Especially since Allison was staring at me the entire time.
Pushing my food away, I shrugged. “Not really hungry.”
“You seem distracted, Pooh,” Grandma said.
“Just thinking about all the things I have to do.” Like dawdle, watch Netflix, file my nails … anything but this.
Grandma smirked. “Oh? Do you have a date?”
Allison snickered. “Is the ink even dry on the court order yet?”
Ignoring my stepmother, I mumbled, “No date, Grandma.”
My grandmother knew me. She knew I didn’t want my parents to know anything about my personal life. She also knew that a date was the last thing on my mind.Andshe knew that I was a homebody. I preferred my own company to crowds any day of the week.
Granny Joyce cut into her waffle. “What about you, Moses?”
My brother waved the waitress over. “I already ate.” He asked her to top his coffee off. “I don’t really eat greasy food.”
I eyed Moses skeptically. “Really?” The last time I’d seen him, he had a plate full of bacon. However, I did notice that he was more bulky than lean. Like a chocolate Jason Momoa with long locs pulled into a ponytail and a confident swagger.
He bumped my arm with his elbow. “Sure.”
I smiled inwardly, convinced he was lying because he simply didn’t want to talk about his reasons for not being comfortable around our father and his wife. If we weren’t here, I would’ve been grilling him about his life, asking him why he’d never texted me back when I told him I needed to talk.
Grandma mused about the latest construction project on Michigan Avenue while I busied myself checking emails, and rereading the texts Wes sent, multiple times.
Wes: I’ll be here when you’re ready.
Wes: You should know … I can’t walk away from you. From us.
After our emotional conversation early this morning, I’d contemplated saying anything to him. My body was still on fire, still steaming with the remnants of desire. He’d loved me thoroughly, bringing me to new heights with every touch, every kiss.
Despite my best intention to appear unaffected, but sure of what I wanted, I was swimming in indecisiveness. I didn’t want to be with him, but I did. I was up and down, sure but then unsure. Simultaneously free yet bound. I hated feeling so out of control. I also loved it.
Maybe I’m just going crazy?
I knew it wasn’t a good idea, but I tapped out my text, smiling to myself:Again?
Wes: I deserve that.
Me: You definitely do. But why?
He questioned my last message, then said:Why, what?
Sighing, I responded but I couldn’t bring myself to hit send. I cursed myself because I shouldn’t have opened the door to more honesty, because his honesty was like catnip to me. I was so drawn to him because he’d always been truthful with me.Until he wasn’t.My thumb hovered over the message, warring with myself on whether I wanted to ask the question. In the end, I left him on read and set my phone down.
“You look sloppy, Albany,” Allison said. “Your skirt is too tight, and that hair …”
My eyes flashed to her, then cut to the rest of the table. Grandma and Granny Joyce had excused themselves and were currently talking to someone familiar on the other side of the dining room. Moses was gone, too.
I couldn’t remember exactly, but I had to have been around seven years old when I overheard a heated discussion between my parents. The subject? Me. And my refusal to participate in the Miss Michigan Pageant. At that youthful age, I had listened intently as Allison berated my father for defending my right to have autonomy over my own body, to have my own schedule and my own desires. During that conversation, she’d called me his illegitimate spawn, an ugly reminder of his indiscretions. I knew then that I’d never belong to her, that I was her daughter in name only. Our relationship never recovered. The part of me that wanted her approval, the piece that wanted a mother’s love, had been destroyed.
“Where’s Moses?” I asked.
