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Like, loud. Kirk Franklin, out of Mama’s phone, propped up against the fancy espresso machine. The whole house smells like butter and nutmeg. The chef’s standing in the corner with his hands folded in front of him like he’s waiting outside the principal’s office.

And my mama’s at the stove.

Purple housecoat. Rollers. Every single burner going. There’s four sweet potato pies cooling on the island. A pot of greens. A ham. A pan of mac and cheese the size of a car door.

And Sasha’s standing in the doorway on the other side of the kitchen in a black T-shirt with his arms crossed, looking at her.

I stop on the bottom step.

“Morning, son,” Mama says. She doesn’t turn around.

“I’m older than you.”

“Mm-hm.” She stirs her greens. “Your oven runs hot. First pie’s in the trash.” She points her spoon at the chef without looking at him. “I told him.”

The chef nods. Real small.

“We have caterers,” Sasha says.

“I met your caterers.” Now she turns around. Looks at him over her glasses. “They brought little food. On little spoons.” She turns back to her pot. “Not at my baby’s wedding.”

Sasha doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t say anything. This man had a guard on his knees in his driveway two months ago. This man broke a dude’s wrist like a pretzel in front of three hundred people. And he’s standing there in his kitchen getting told about little spoons, and he’s just taking it.

I put my hand over my mouth.

Misha comes in from the patio with a cup of coffee. He looks at the pies. He looks at Mama. He picks up a fork on his way past the island.

“Not till after,” Mama says. Still not turning around.

Misha puts the fork down.

I make a sound. I can’t help it. It comes out my nose.

Every head in that kitchen turns and looks at me.

Sasha’s eyes land on me on the bottom step. In my bonnet. In my old UCLA hoodie. With my ring on. And his whole face changes. Everything that was flat and calm a second ago goes dark and hot and hungry, like he hasn’t eaten in a week and I’m the plate.

One night. I’ve been gone one night.

My knees go weak on that step. I have to hold the banister. My nipples go hard under my hoodie, right there in front of my mama and the Kirk Franklin, and he sees it, and his jaw goes tight, and he takes one step toward me.

“Uh-uh.” Mama points her spoon at me. “Turn around. You don’t see him till four.”

“Mama, I just wanted coffee…”

“Misha. Take her some coffee. Upstairs.”

Misha picks up a mug.

I look at Sasha. He’s still looking at me. Not moving. But his hands are in fists at his sides now, and I can see that muscle jumping in his jaw, and I know exactly what he’s thinking. I know what he’d do to me if my mama wasn’t standing in that kitchen with a spoon.

I turn around and go back up the stairs.

I can feel him watching my ass the whole way.

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