Page 27 of The Sweetest Return

“You heard me.”

I blinked.

The breezeway disappeared. So did the football players, the girls, the book in my hands, and nineteen-year-old Andre Jones looking back at me like he already knew he would see me again.

I was in my living room, standing in front of a wall I had changed my mind about twice, with a hammer still raised and an old blue highlighter trapped against my palm.

I turned. “What?”

Denise Bennett stood beside the kitchen island with one hand wrapped around a mug of tea she had reheated twice and forgotten to drink both times. She had traded the heels she wore to church that morning for a pair of flats she kept in the car, but everything else remained intact: sleek bob curved beneath her chin, gold hoops at her ears, deep-brown skin, and the expression she had perfected while raising two children who occasionally believed they knew more than she did.

At five feet two, my mother had never needed size to command a room. After almost thirty years in banking, she had worked her way from teller to regional vice president of community lending at Allegheny Trust, where she spent her days helping Black families and business owners get money from institutions accustomed to explaining why they could not have it.

At the moment, all that authority was aimed at me.

“You have been doing something since we got here,” she said. “The condo will survive if you stop moving.”

I looked down at the hammer, then at the highlighter, and slipped the highlighter onto the nearest shelf before anybody could ask why I was holding it like it had personally offended me.

“I skipped church specifically so I could get some of this done.”

“And yet here we are, hours later, still unpacking things you apparently needed to supervise personally.”

Daddy sat near the television console with his tie loosened and a screwdriver between his fingers. Samuel Bennett had the height neither my mother nor I received, a broad chest age had softened only slightly, dark-brown skin, and the low haircut he maintained with military consistency. He spent twenty-two years in Army logistics before retiring as a first sergeant and moving into government work. Now he directed facilities and fleet operations for Allegheny County, which meant he could manage buildings, vehicles, contractors, multimillion-dollar budgets, and apparently the assembly of every piece of furniture I purchased.

Jabari had stretched his long body across my new couch as though supervising everybody else counted as his contribution.

My fraternal twin had been born nine minutes after me, stood as tall as our father, and had spent our entire lives refusing to acknowledge any evidence that made me the elder. Same deep-brown complexion. Low cut. Neatly trimmed beard. Enough easy charm to ensure there was usually some woman calling, texting him, or being described as somebody he was “still getting to know.”

Somehow, he also found time to make aggravating me a second career.

Bari picked up one of my throw pillows and turned it over. “What is this for?”

“It is a pillow.”

“It’s the size of a folded hoodie.”

I pointed the hammer toward him. “You have not plugged in one lamp.”

“I helped with that rug.”

“The delivery men carried the rug.”

“I told them where to put it.”

“You opened the door.”

“And made sure nobody stole your rug. Security.”

Daddy laughed without looking up. “Ignore him.”

“I have been trying since we shared a womb.”

Bari dropped the pillow beside him and stretched back across my new couch like he had paid for half of it. “You keep bringing up the womb because it’s the only time you were ahead of me.”

“Nine minutes, Jabari.”

“Scoreboard don’t count until everybody on the field.”