Page 43 of The Wright Man

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By late afternoon, the party was in full swing.

Laughter floated through the air like smoke from the grill—thick, warm, impossible to escape. Uncle Marvin—Daddy's best friend since they were boys sneaking sips of moonshine and chasing girls with ashy knees—was holding down the grill. His signature towel was slung over one shoulder, a pair of tongs in one hand, a red solo cup in the other. Every few minutes he'd holler for someone to "flip that damn chicken" before taking a sip of whatever was in that cup.

Tina was holding court herself over on the patio, talking loud and waving her arms like she was giving a TED Talk about Miami's finest Black-owned brunch spots and how she'd almost gotten detained at TSA for "looking too damn good." Half the aunties were hanging on her every word. The other half were pretending not to.

Bella had wandered out to the grass with a few of the littles—someone's grandkids, someone else's nieces—coaching them through yoga poses like it was a Saturday morning cartoon. She had a kid standing in Tree Pose, another flopped in the grass giggling, and a third clinging to her thigh like she was a jungle gym.

Daddy was at the spades table, eyes twinkling and voice booming as he clowned his friends and made the table cuss and groan in rhythm. I caught a glimpse of him through the kitchen window, slapping a card down with the kind of joy you only get from beating your friends and talking shit at the same time.

Everyone else had somewhere to be. I had a paper plate I'd rearranged four times and a cup of lemonade I kept forgetting to drink.

I was in full-blown hostess mode. Floating. Smiling. Fixing plates. Adjusting fans. Refilling coolers. Directing traffic. I hadn't sat down since 11:30. My back hurt. My lashes were probably lifting. I hadn't even tasted a deviled egg, and I was starting to wonder if the heat was melting my deodorant clean off.

But this was what I did. I hosted. I handled. I made things run smoothly. Especially for Daddy.

So when the doorbell rang again, I was halfway yelling directions to the bathroom over my shoulder—"No Tati, second door on the left baby, not the right!"—and barely even registered the chime.

I didn't even think as I swung the door open with my usual smile half-formed on my lips.

And then the world stopped.

I froze.

I stopped breathing.

Because there he was.

Maleek.

Standing on my daddy's porch in a fitted button-up and jeans, holding a gift bag like it weighed a hundred pounds.

He looked calm on the outside—like he always did—but the slight tension in his face gave him away in a way only I could see. The nerves. The weight of this moment.

And looking at me like I was a ghost.

Everything in me seized. I couldn't even hear the music anymore. Couldn't hear the kids. Couldn't hear anything but the drumbeat of my own damn heart punching me in the throat.

He looked different. Older. Broader through the chest, deeper in the beard. He had on a soft cream button-up that fit too well for my sanity, a gold chain resting against smooth, caramel brown skin.

A small scar above his eyebrow that I didn't remember. Tattoos covering every inch of skin on his right arm before disappearing under his sleeve. A shadow under his eyes that told a story I hadn't been part of.

But damn if the fade and the tattoos didn’t make him look grown and dangerous and fine enough to ruin lives by accident.

But those eyes… They were the same.

Big. Brown. Soft and sad and steady. He looked at me like he was trying to memorize me. Like I might disappear.

I didn't know what my face was doing. I didn't know how long I'd been gripping the doorknob like it was keeping me vertical, but my fingers were numb and my knees were suspiciously unreliable.

We stared at each other.

Silent.

Still.

Like the whole world had stepped back to give us room.