Page 220 of When Love Takes Root

“You asked for spicy.”

“I asked in my spirit. You answered in paragraphs.”

I laughed hard enough to shake her.

Then she grew quiet.

“I love you.”

My arms tightened.

“I love you too, Red.”

She tucked into me. I looked at the ceiling, her warmth pressed close, her locs brushing my shoulder, vanilla lingering in the sheets.

“Thank You, Big G,” I whispered.

For her.

For the words.

For the love growing in a house that used to feel too still.

Celeste’s breathing evened out.

And for the first time in a long time, my future didn’t feel like something I was waiting to build.

It felt like something already growing.

A Few Weeks Later

By the time we pulled into Josiah’s driveway, my children had already embarrassed me twice, threatened me once, and formed an alliance with Leilani’s girls through a group text I had not approved.

Skye called it “community building.”

Zuri called it “networking.”

Maya said it was “interpersonal development.”

Kayden looked out the window and muttered, “Y’all are unemployed.”

JJ, who had driven behind us, sent a text to the family group chat that simply said:

Please act like Mama raised y’all.

Skye replied with a GIF of a raccoon running away with a slice of pizza.

I wanted to turn the car around.

Instead, I pulled into the long driveway of Josiah’s big, brick house and tried to breathe through the sight in front of me. His property stretched wide and green, with oak trees shading the yard, a basketball goal near the side drive, a long patio behind the house, and an outdoor kitchen that looked like somebody had designed it for a man who believed grilling was both ministry and sport.

Cars already filled half the driveway.

Onyx’s truck was parked near the garage with Leilani’s SUV beside it. A car sat crooked across two spaces, and even before I saw him, something in my spirit said Juice. Melody’s vehicle was tucked neatly beneath a tree, reasonable and considerate, which only confirmed my theory.

One backseat was packed with covered dishes, foil pans, and enough serving spoons to suggest somebody’s auntie had arrived with authority. Near the porch, a woman with warm eyes and effortless command directed someone toward the ice chest, while a man near the grill held tongs like he was presiding over a prayer breakfast with smoke.

Uncle Zeke, who I only recognized once Josiah called out to him, stood near the grill with a serious expression on his face, as if ribs had personally asked him for excellence.