Gogo pats her cheek. “Smart girl.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Rayne
Iwatch DK with his family and see the blueprint. Not a different man—the foundation of the one I already know.
The man who carries responsibility like it was stitched into his bones. The tenderness behind the discipline. The way he loves quietly, but completely.
It all makes sense.
Their family isn’t big, but it feels full. Growing up, it was mostly me and Dad. Our own little unit against the world. I never felt like it wasn’t enough. It was love. It was home. But now, surrounded by the scent of roasting meat and garlic, the steady hum of conversation, and the melodic rhythm of isiZulu, I feel myself slipping into something just as warm and wonderful.
“Ntanami, you have strong hands,” Gogo says, guiding mine as we make the phuthu pap. She takes a large fork, showing me how to fluff the maize meal so it won’t clump together in a block. “Not too soft. Good. A woman must know how to feed herself and her people properly.”
I bite back a smile as she watches over my shoulder like a culinary drill sergeant. We move on to the sheba. I thinly slice the onions into half-moons as directed, dice the tomatoes from her garden, and finely mince the garlic.
“Yebo.” She gives one firm nod like I’d passed an exam.
DK tried checking on me twice, only to be shooed off both times. Gogo clearly runs this kitchen with an iron ladle. Through the open window, the hint of woodsmoke floats from outside. Angelo is chill—a man of few words who stays loyal to the coals and avoids both the kitchen and his mother-in-law in equal measure. Naledi lets her mother take center stage, not because she isn’t strong, but because I suspect she learned long ago which battles deserve her energy and which ones can be won with silence and a raised eyebrow. I like her. She has the same warmth as DK—the kind that is natural and doesn’t demand attention.
Neo is a whole damn circus. That man cannot be serious for a minute. He tosses playful digs at DK every chance he gets, and DK volleys them right back. But underneath it, there’s so much love. Their bond lives in the banter. In the ease. In the way DK instinctively gets Neo a beer before he voices wanting one, in the way Neo slings a casual arm around DK’s shoulders with affection.
It makes me think of Sophia. I’m not mad at him for rejecting her. Salty on her behalf? Absolutely. But not mad. Neo’s a player, that’s undeniable, but from everything I’ve heard from DK and seen so far, he’s not cruel. If anything, I think he saw something soft and untouched in Soph that he didn’t trust himself not to ruin. In his own backwards way, he probably thought not returning her interest was somehow honorable.
Dumb, but coming from a good place. Sophia deserves someone who sees her fire, not just her innocence. Someone who understands that softness doesn’t mean “too sweet.”
Watching Neo now—grinning, charming, ribbing—I can’t help thinking that the girl he was trying not to ruin might’ve been a woman capable of ruining him right back.
I tuck away my musings when Gogo reminds me that the sheba needs to be stirred.
Cooking for a celebration turns out to be a full-day affair with plenty of nibbling in between. When the meal is nearly ready, I excuse myself to the bathroom and check my phone. Anika stays on the edges of my mind. I see a message from her, and my heart does a hopeful gallop, only to stutter a second later. It’s a field team update. She’s still doing her job, but she’s cut the cord on us. The silence around our friendship feels heavy.
When I re-enter the kitchen, DK catches my eye. It’s the kind of look that asks if I’m okay while also saying it’s okay if I’m not. He’s got me either way.
I love him.
There’s no falling anymore—I’m there. And it doesn’t scare me. He’s proven time and time again that he’s nothing like Hollis. He’s a man who will hold my love like it’s sacred.
I offer him a smile before his mom steals my attention.
“Rayne, come,” Naledi says, handing me a large ceramic bowl of chakalaka. “Take this outside.”
The patio table is an extension of the kitchen’s soul. It’s covered in a vibrant, woven cloth beneath a large umbrella, overflowing with dishes that tell the story of two heritages. Bright yellow rice sits beside calamansi chicken, and the warm phuthu pap I helped fluff. Next to them is a deep bowl of rich peanut kare-kare served over tender samp instead of rice, the creamy grains soaking up the sauce. Its savory aroma mingles with curried mince stuffed into crispy lumpia. A large dish of adobo-braised greens adds a sharp, vinegary tang to the spread, while grilled pork belly waits beside the thick sheba.
We take our seats, and for a moment, the backyard goes quiet. Gogo sits at the head of the table, the royal-blue silk scarf I gave her wrapped regally atop her head.
“We give thanks,” she says, her voice low and resonant.
I’m not religious, but I respect the weight of the moment. We bow our heads. The blessing is a fluid mix of English and isiZulu, thanking the ancestors and the Creator for the harvest, the family’s health, and the company. When she finishes, she looks directly at me.
“The old ways back home may say the men eat first,” Gogo explains, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “But Ubuntu teaches us we are nothing without each other. A kingdom cannot stand on one leg, and a true king does not eat while his queen has an empty plate. In this house, we serve each other.”
Yasss, Gogo, I think to myself. I love that even as she honors her roots, she’s reshaped tradition to fit her family. No wonder DK respects women the way he does. He was raised by queens.
My gaze shifts to him. A soft smile touches my man’s mouth as he spoons kare-kare onto my plate while I slide two skewers of citrusy chicken onto his.
Once everyone’s plate is heavy with food, Gogo claps her hands together once, the sound sharp and joyful. “Now we eat until the stories are finished.”
