I check my watch again. It’s almost noon. She’ll be here. Manners and discipline would never let Luna be late. Still, I pace the length of the driveway, the August heat rising off the asphalt in visible waves.
This neighborhood is a world away from the high-rises and glass offices where I spent most of my adult life in D.C. Our house is gray brick, two stories tall, with a wide wooden porch and gardens well tended by Gogo’s hands.
Today, I’m grateful for her high bushes and the heavy oak trees lining the block that offer a protective veil. The deep setback of the homes and the distance between lawns mean Luna can pull into the driveway without the neighborhood taking note.
As I pace, charcoal smoke wafts through the air. My father is in the backyard, commanding the grill while my mother and Gogo are in the kitchen. I can hear the melodic lilt of their voices carrying through the open window as they speak isiZulu, their chatter rising between the clatter of pots and dishes. Neo was supposed to be here by eleven, but we all took that with a grain of salt. To him, an arrival time is merely a suggestion.
I move closer to the street. Somewhere nearby, a lawn mower whirs and kids shout in play. The distant rumble of Edens Expressway is a reminder that the road back to Bayside is close, but for the next two days, we have a haven of our own.
With five minutes to spare, I see her silver sedan turn the corner. She waves with a smile, and I guide her toward the open garage. Bayside politics probably won’t reach a suburban street in Chicago, but I’m not taking that chance.
After the fallout with Anika, I know Luna is arriving with a fractured safety net. I want her to feel protected here. I want her to know I’ve got her.
Silence hums when she cuts the engine, and I tap the panel on the wall, closing the garage door behind her. The space is tidy—storage bins stacked in one corner, shelves lined with tools and old wires, my mother’s car filling the spot beside Luna’s Acura.
She steps out, and I pull in a breath. She’s wearing a white sundress with spaghetti straps, her curls loose to her shoulders. She looks soft. Accessible. The woman beneath the power suits and campaign speeches. Both versions of her fit so smoothly together that I can barely see the seam.
“You made it,” I say, drawing her into a hug, needing to feel her heart beating against mine to believe she’s really here. She smells like sunshine and flowers. I lower my mouth to hers for a quick kiss, but the want that’s been building since our night at the dunes twists low in my gut. Luna’s response is just as charged, gripping my shoulders, pulling me closer, like she’s been holding her breath for days, too.
When we finally come up for air, her eyes have that glazed look I love, and her lips are damp and slightly swollen, proof that somewhere in that kiss, time stopped existing.
“That was quite the greeting,” she murmurs.
“I’m happy you’re here.”
“I’m happy to be here too, but…” She runs her hands down the front of her dress. “Now I’m thinking the white might be a little too… bridal.”
“The dress is perfect.” Fitted bodice, knee-length, simple and pretty, elevated by the lush body inside it. “You’re perfect.”
She smiles, but it’s not the one that’s naturally home to her face. A part of her is still back in Bayside.
“Have you heard from Anika?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Not really. She confirmed this morning’s meeting by text. It was curt. All business.”
“I’m sorry, Luna. I know she means a lot to you… and it leaves everything with your campaign in limbo.”
“It’s not on you, DK,” she says softly. “I chose not to tell her. I regret that, but I don’t regret us.”
I pull her in for another hug, and she melts into my arms. I’ve already run through my mental rolodex of skilled campaign managers who might be up for a temporary move to Bayside to get Luna through the election. Though I hope for her sake that Anika comes around.
“I could try talking to her,” I suggest.
“I’m not sure that will help. I sent her a note so she knows how much I want to work this out. But I’ll respect whatever she decides. Let’s not make it the focus of the weekend.”
I nod. And voices on the other side of the door gain our attention. “Ready to do this?” I ask, kissing the tip of her nose. “My mother and Gogo probably have their ears pressed to the wood.”
Luna laughs, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders.
I grab her overnight bag while she gathers two bouquets of flowers and a gold wrapped box. I lead her to the mudroom door that opens into the house. Right on cue, my mother and Gogo scurry away thinking they’re slick, but I catch the retreat of their backs and fight a smile.
“You’ve already gotten a taste of them,” I warn lightly.
“That’s so cute,” she says. “I just hope I don’t disappoint.”
She’s usually so confident that moments like this hit me harder. It’s a window into her past, a time when she hid her vitiligo, when she struggled with her body, when she settled for scraps from weak-ass men like Hollis.
“You could never disappoint, Luna.” I take her hand, grounding us both. “I’m proud to have you here and to introduce you as mine.”
