“You did this on purpose.”

I flip down the visor mirror to study the bright red mark on my neck. I should have left that bathroom, but no, I just couldn’t resist. Grip’s shower ended like so many do—with me up against the wall.

Grip lets out a salacious chuckle from the driver’s seat. He’s one of the few people allowed to drive my car, and as he navigates back roads on our way to his mother’s house, I’m glad I trust him to do it. As nervous as I am, I’d probably run off the road.

“So, you think in the middle of shower sex, I had the presence of mind to give you a hickey?” Grip flicks me a disbelieving glance. “Just to embarrass you at my mom’s house?”

“Yes, I absolutely do, because you’re always looking for ways to embarrass me.”

“Babe, I don’t even know if the sky is blue when I’m inside you.”

“You’re so full of shit.” My laugh takes flight on the wind with the top down. “Your sweet talk doesn’t work on me.”

His knowing look picks my bravado apart, because his sweet talk totally works on me and he knows it.

“As if I’m not nervous enough.” I play with the cuff of my linen shorts, focusing on that small movement instead of the next few hours meeting Grip’s friends and family. I’ve met some here and there over the last few months, of course, but with Grip on tour all summer, not many.

“Don’t be nervous.” Grip’s frown comes quickly now that he sees I’m legitimately not looking forward to this. “Amir will be there, and Shon. You know them and they love you, and my mom is asking about swirl grandbabies every time we talk, so I’m pretty sure you’ve won her over. Once we procreate, you’ll have her eating from the palm of your hand.”

“Swirl . . . wait, what? Oh, my God.” I’m not sure if my stomach flips over inside because of his mother’s outrageousness or at the thought of having Grip’s kids. I never saw myself as maternal—like, at all—but imagining myself pregnant with Grip’s child is a different matter altogether. I’m assaulted with images and feelings better examined alone than when I’m heading into what feels like social battle.

“Everybody at this party,” Grip says, “they’re guys I grew up with, neighborhood ladies who whooped my ass when I was a snot-nosed kid, people from Ma’s church.”

“Church?” My hand flies to my neck to cover the bite marring my skin. “Oh, God.”

“It’ll be fine.” He grabs my hand from my lap and kisses my fingers, not taking his eyes from the road.

“I want them to like me,” I say. That’s hard to admit because I can count on one hand the people I want to like me, and it’s been that way all my life. I was born with a limited amount of fucks, but all of a sudden I need the approval of Ms. James and this whole group of nameless, faceless people who may hold the same views as Jade.

Ugh, Jade.

“Will Jade be there?” I ask, braced for the affirmative.

“Probably.” Grip’s shoulders lift and fall, quick and careless. “Look, Jade gets on board with us, or she doesn’t. I don’t give a damn.”

He says that, but I know how happy it made him to restore their relationship, and the last thing I want is to be the reason it falls apart again. I’m still considering that when we pull up to the house where Grip grew up. The narrow street is lined with cars, trucks, bikes—everything from the infamous Impala to three-wheelers.

Some mix of nerves, dread, and anticipation climbs up to lodge in my throat where I can’t gather enough breath. This is ridiculous. I run a record label. I make stars for a living, literally pluck people from obscurity and do whatever it takes to propel them into planetary stardom, from no-name to household name in the manner of an album release—and yet a house full of strangers on this crowded Compton street fills me with trepidation.

But it’s not them. It’s him.

Grip opens my door, the color of his skin even richer against the pink polo shirt he’s wearing with army green cargo shorts. His eyes are set to simmer as he peers down at me in the passenger seat. He leans down and takes my lips between his softly, tenderly, like I’m the most precious thing in his world. His eyes say that, and he tells me all the time. He’s the reason for my trepidation. Relationships, friendships—especially longstanding ones, familial ones—mean the world to him.

Would he always put me first?

I know he would.

Would it hurt him if he had to make those choices?

I know it would, and part of loving someone is doing everything in your power to make sure they don’t hurt.

There’s barely room to walk in the driveway with all the cars slotted into the tight space. Grip weaves his way between the vehicles, single-filing us in the narrow passages, his hand wrapped reassuringly around mine. The sounds flooding Ms. James’ stamp-size front porch—90s Snoop Dogg, raucous laugher, and dozens of voices clamoring to talk over each other—reach us before he opens the screen door.

There is what must be a code-breaking number of people squeezed into the front room, running over into the hall, and presumably spilling into the back yard. The smell of grilled meat wafts past my nose, joining a tangle of other sensations. The whir of a fan oscillating in the corner of the crowded living room. The rich palette of colors—skin tones ranging from gold to bronze to copper, nutmeg to hazelnut to walnut, but none that match my skin, barely sun-kissed, stark and pale among the rich range of pigmentation.

They greet Grip, enthusiasm and undeniable pride in their words and the affectionate embraces they offer him. When their eyes latch onto me, though, they hold questions, speculation. They don’t know me. They aren’t sure I can be trusted with the boy they watched grow up and do better than most ever imagined anyone from this neighborhood could. I swallow my discomfort, determined to fit in, determined to shake off my sense of displacement and get to know the people Grip loves, the ones who obviously love him.

“Bristol, hey!”

I turn toward the familiar voice in the crowd, hoping there’s a familiar face to go with it. I’m grateful to see Shondra, Amir’s longtime crush and maybe now girlfriend.

“Shon, hi.” I reach for her like a lifeline, accepting the hug she folds me into.

“You got this girl,” she whispers, a genuine smile spread across her pretty face. “These folks ain’t nothing to be scared of.”

Shon bore witness to the carnage of confrontation between Jade, Ms. James, and me the first time I was here. She spoke up for us, for Grip and me, and I’ll never forget that.

“What are you whispering about, Shon?” Grip asks, pulling her into a tight hug. “No, don’t tell me. I probably don’t wanna know. Where’s your boy?”

“And what boy would that be?” Shon lifts her brows in challenge.

“Whoa.” Grip’s grin turns into a full-bodied laugh. “You got more than one? Does Amir know?”

“Gotta keep him on his toes,” she says with an audacious wink. “He’s out back playing bones and losing.”

“I’ve never seen Amir win at dominoes. I might whoop his ass in Spades later, too.” Grip laughs, but is distracted when a gorgeous girl, no higher than his breastbone, walks up and places her hand on his arm, an invitation stamped clearly on her heart-shaped face.

“Grip, hey baby,” she purrs, her wide eyes and the dark hair curling around her shoulders a seduction. “Welcome home.”

My discomfort and nervousness dissipate at the sight of this beautiful woman with her richly golden skin practically petting my boyfriend. I’m standing right here. He’s holding my hand. We’re obviously together. I suppress the possessive growl curling at the base of my throat; better to let Grip handle it instead of behaving unreasonably and alienating people any more than I have to.

“Sierra, hey.” Grip deliberately lifts her tiny hand from his arm. “It’s been a minute. I heard you opened that shop down off Central Ave. Congratulations.”

“Same to you.” She tips her head back, the long hair winding down her spine and nearly touching her curvy backside. “You done good. Come a long way since we snuck behind the bleachers at football games.”

Her sultry laugh grates on my nerves, and my fingers tighten around Grip’s in a warning. If he doesn’t back this bitch up, I will.

“Uh . . . yeah. That was a long time ago.” Grip clears his throat and pulls me forward. “I don’t think you’ve met my girlfriend Bristol.”

Sierra’s subtly scornful glance starts at my wedge-heeled espadrilles, crawls over my legs in mint green mini shorts, gains momentum when she searches my face, and finally is downright rude by the time she reaches the artfully messy bun I gathered my hair into.

Fuck. Her.

“Hi.” I extend my hand and smile politely. “Nice to meet you.”

She stares at my hand like it’s palsied for a moment too long before taking it between her French manicure-tipped fingers.

“I guess you’ll miss Grip when he moves to New York,” she says, watching for my response.

“Not really, since I’m moving with him.” I widen my eyes innocently. “Grip says this is my going away party, too, so thank you for coming.”

Grip catches his half cough, half chuckle in a fist at his mouth.

“It was good seeing you again, Sierra,” he says neutrally. “Good luck.”

“Well maybe we could—” she starts.

“Sierra, your sister’s looking for you out back,” Ms. James interrupts, suddenly appearing at my side.

“But I was just—”

“I know, baby.” Ms. James turns Sierra by one slim shoulder toward the back yard. “But she said something ’bout potato salad. Child, you better get out there. We need that potato salad.”

Ms. James waits for the tiny thorn in my side to get out of earshot.

“She always was a fast tail girl.” She tsks and shakes her head, her neat dreadlocks swooshing with the motion. “Been after my boy since training bra days. She don’t ever give up. Marlon, why you always late? You stay on CP time. You can take the boy out the hood, but you can’t take the hood out the boy. Bristol, come to this kitchen and help me with these greens.”

And she’s gone.

In a flurry of lightning-strike words, affectionate admonishments, and dreadlocks, she’s gone, plowing her way through the knot of bodies slowly realizing Grip has arrived and lining up to greet him. At the threshold of her neat kitchen, she turns, one brow lifting and reminding me of her son.

“You coming?” She rests a fist on one slim cocked hip. “These greens won’t cook themselves.”

Grip widens his eyes meaningfully and cocks his head for me to follow his mother.

“Don’t shoo me,” I mutter, untangling our fingers. I can’t hold back a smile, though, over what just happened. Ms. James put that “fast tail” girl in her place and chose me—I mean, she just chose me for collard greens, but I’ll take it.

“Hey, wait.” Grip tugs me back into his hard body, one hand palming the small of my back. He squats enough to kiss my nose then settles his lips over mine, lingering and taking his time to stake a claim on my mouth. “Don’t be too long. I want everybody to meet my girl.”

Pleasure blossoms inside me. I hope when we’re half blind and soaking each other’s dentures, he’ll still call me his girl. I’m feeling so good, even the weight of many pairs of eyes—curious, speculative, assuming—bearing down on my shoulders and back the whole way up the short hallway leading to the kitchen can’t short-circuit my grin.

They can’t, but Jade does as soon as I see her leaning against the kitchen counter. Our eyes clash and our smiles fade in sync. Her hair is neatly braided into rows, and her smooth skin is the color of burnt caramel. The big doe eyes narrow on my face, and she doesn’t try to hide her irritation when she tosses her ever-present Raiders cap onto the counter.

“Hey Jade.” I brighten my voice, hoping the undercurrents that always run through our interactions won’t be as strong today.

“What’s up,” she responds dispassionately, not trying as hard. Apparently, I’m much better at faking than Jade is . . . or maybe I just care more.

“Put this on.” Ms. James passes me a red apron with Thug Life printed on the front. Her full lips tip into a smile.

“That was Marlon’s idea of a joke one Christmas. Just put it on so your pretty outfit won’t get wet.”

“Wet?” I tie the apron over my clothes and await further instructions. “You wanted me to help cook the collard greens, right?”

I try not to sound too eager. My heart should not skip a beat at the prospect of finally learning the secret to the greens she makes for Grip.

But it does.

“Oh, no, little girl.” Ms. James pats my shoulder. “You ain’t ready for heat yet. You’re on wash duty this first time.”

“Excuse me?” I glance at Jade for a clue about what wash duty means, but she’s grinning down at her phone, fingers flying furiously over the keys. “Wash duty?”

Ms. James hefts several bags of greens onto the counter.

“Wash all these.” She grabs a knife, using it to wave me closer. “Watch me now. You gotta take the leaves off the stalk just like this.”

She demonstrates, cutting the leaves away and discarding the center stalk while I stare at the massive pile of greens.

“And then I get to cook them?” I ask tentatively.

“No, baby. You ain’t graduated to cooking yet. Today your lane is just washing.” She heads for the door without looking back. “Stay in your lane. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Let me go check on this grill—you know Amir is out here grilling these links, and ain’t no telling what he’s messing up.”

She blows out of the kitchen as swiftly as she blew into it, and in her wake, I stand clutching the knife in one hand and a bushel of greens in the other. I really wanted to cook, but sense that she’s testing me. I’ve never met a test I couldn’t pass, and this one—though I don’t fully comprehend the point of it—will be no different.

While Jade continues texting, laughing under her breath intermittently, I set myself to methodically washing and cutting. The muted sounds of laughter and conversation from the living room along with the shouts of men playing dominoes in the backyard settle my nerves. I’m here, but not here. Nothing is expected of me for a few minutes. It gives me time to collect myself, and maybe that’s what Ms. James wanted to happen. Maybe she saw past my serene façade to the uncertain girl floundering inside and knew I needed a few minutes alone.

Well, alone with Jade, who wears a huge grin and keeps texting as if I’m not in the room. I clear my throat to remind her I’m here and ready to be her friend. I’m an idiot. I should be glad she’s not castigating me or looking at me like I’m pocket lint, but instead I’m drawing her attention. Why? Because though she’s a bitch, Grip loves her. I know he wants her in his life, which means she’ll have to be in my life, and I’ll have to be in hers.

Thus, the trying so hard.

“Someone special?” I ask, looking up from the greens with what I hope is a natural smile.

Jade’s answer is a cocked brow and dead eyes.

“Huh?” she asks, voice flat. “What’d you say to me?”

“Um . . . I just saw you texting and smiling and thought maybe . . . there’s a guy or—”

“I don’t do dick.”

My hands freeze under the stream of cold water. I can’t keep my foot out of my mouth around this girl. Did Grip tell me she was a lesbian and I forgot?

“Oh, that’s fine.” I shrug and keep smiling. “I mean, I’m fine with that.”

“Glad I have your permission to fuck who I want.” She rolls her eyes like I’m stupid, and I feel stupid most of the time when I’m talking to her. I know people. I get people, I figure them out. It’s part of my job to understand and charm them and, well, it sounds bad, but use them to get what I need for my artists. But, I can’t understand Jade, and I sure as hell can’t charm her.

“I didn’t mean it that way, Jade. I just find myself grinning like an idiot when I’m texting Grip and thought—”

“So now I’m an idiot?”

I toss a leaf into the sink, frustration making my movements jerky.

“Would you stop picking apart everything I say?” I draw a calming breath in through my nose and push it out through my mouth. “I’m trying to make conversation, that’s all.”

The slow, sweet smile that slides onto Jade’s face is incongruous and should be my first clue that she’s up to tearing me apart.

“Okay. Let’s make conversation, Bristol.” She straightens from the counter and crosses over to stand beside me. “Since you all in my grill and up in my business, I’ll tell you who I’m texting.”

She pauses, eyes riveted to my face for my response. I school my features and won’t give her one.

“It’s Qwest.”

That name should not give me heartburn, but every time I hear it, it’s like a lit cigarette behind my ribs. Maybe it was seeing Qwest with Grip all those weeks and knowing he was fucking her, fearing that she was fucking his feelings for me right out and I would be left lonely and still in love with him. Maybe it was Black Twitter rallying behind her and turning on me, painting her as the victim and me as the villain. I don’t know why I feel this way when I hear Qwest’s name, but she is my sore spot, and Jade knows it. She’s twisting her knuckle into a bruise on my heart, and even though I was prepared, I know my face doesn’t hide it.

“Oh, I didn’t know you and Qwest were together.” I laugh, trying to make a joke of it . . . a bad, awkward joke, which is the only kind I can seem to manage with Jade.

“Oh, no. Not me and Qwest. She loves dick.” Cruelty engraves a smile onto Jade’s smooth, pretty brown face. “Just ask Grip. He knows.”

These are the cleanest greens anyone will ever eat. I’m scrubbing this one leaf mercilessly, almost to the point of translucence, training my eyes on the sink so Jade doesn’t gain any ammunition from the hurt I know she would see. All I want is to be this girl’s friend, and she can’t tolerate five minutes with me. She’s carrying on an entire conversation with Qwest while I’m standing right here trying harder than I’ve ever tried with anyone.

“I meant that I didn’t realize you two knew each other,” I mumble.

“We didn’t really, until recently. I’m writing some stuff for her new album.” Her pause fills with anticipation of something I know will be at my expense. “Grip introduced us a few weeks ago.”

The knife slips off the stalk, slicing into my finger, matching the tiny nick Jade just made across my heart. It’s not a big deal; rationally, I know that. Grip is contractually bound to work on Qwest’s next album, writing and producing. Hell, I negotiated the deal, but he wasn’t mine then—only he’s always been mine, even when I didn’t claim him, and it screws a wrench through my eye that I’m the one who threw them together, that Qwest knows the weight of his body because of me. That glorious fullness when he swells within me—she’s had that. The sweet heat of his panting breath in my ear when he comes—she felt that before I did. I can’t ever take that knowledge from her, but I want to strip every memory of him from her mind, body, and heart. So, I know it’s not the tiny injuries Jade inflicts now that are at the bottom of my irrational response; it’s all my old self-inflicted wounds that haven’t quite healed.

“You know it’s just a matter of time, right?” Jade tilts her head, considering me. “He’s not the first black man turned out by some white pussy.”

“Shut the hell up.” I snap my eyes to her face. “Don’t talk about us. You have no idea.”

“You’re just a high to him.” Jade’s full lips curl around her derision. “And just like any high, he’ll come down. You’ll wear off once he gets tired of explaining his blackness and answering your dumb questions. One day he’ll want to be understood, not just fucked.”

“I do understand him.” I’m certain of it, but in a way, she carries the same brand of charisma Grip does, the same confidence that, even twisted around a lie, entices you to believe.

“Just watch him with Qwest the next time they’re together,” she sneers. “They fit. Everyone sees it except you. She’s just waiting for him to wake up from this dream, shake off that jungle fever. Maybe you’re a black man’s fantasy, but she’s real life, and when it comes down to it, Grip is nothing if not real. Deep down, you know it.”

Her lies and speculation circle me like rope, slowly restricting me. For a frozen moment, I can’t speak, and even though Grip’s love is gospel to me, my religion, my truth, some little voice within me whispers, What if she’s right?

Jade doesn’t say more words. She’s quiet, allowing the ones she’s already spoken to take root. I know she’s hoping she’ll get under my skin, but she won’t. Even with that tiny granule of doubt, I try not to let her. I’m still staring at the blood surging from the tiny cut on my finger when Grip walks into the kitchen.

“Babe, what’d you do?” He moves my finger under the flow of cold water, concern clumping his brows.

“It’s just a cut.” I swallow against the unreasonable hurt that he introduced Jade and Qwest.

“Well I don’t like any kind of cut on you.” His voice admonishes and caresses at once. “Jade, where are the bandages?”

“God, Grip. The girl’s fine.” Jade huffs an exasperated sigh. “It’s not like she’s gonna lose a finger.”

Grip angles a glance at her, his frown deepening. “Would you just go find a Band-Aid?”

Jade’s eyes connect with mine before she shrugs and heads out of the kitchen.

Grip watches the door for a moment, even after Jade leaves, questions queuing up in the eyes he turns back to me.

“She bothering you?” he asks. “I know she’s still coming around about us.”

Is that what he thinks? Jade shows no sign of coming around any time soon, but even irritated with her, I see the affection, the place she holds in his heart, and I really don’t want to come between them—especially not when that relationship is so newly restored.

“No, it’s cool. She’s . . . just being Jade.” I try to free my finger, but he doesn’t let me go. “My finger’s fine.”

“I’ll be the judge of when it’s fine.” He offers a lopsided grin. “And who thought it was a good idea to leave you in the kitchen with a knife?”

I know he’s teasing me about my legendary culinary ineptness, but now is not the time. I’m still a little bruised from my conversation with Jade.

“I may not be a great cook, but I’m not a child.” I snatch my finger back. “Like Jade said, it’s just a cut.”

When the words come out harsher than I mean them to, Grip grabs my finger, taking it into the warm silk of his mouth, sucking and running his tongue along the injured groove. Electric current spears me down the middle, landing in my core. He sucks all the oxygen from the room, and my lungs desperately push breath from my chest. He studies me under hooded lids, knowing exactly what he’s doing to me.

“Was Jade messing with you?” he asks, his voice husky, but his mouth a firm line. He’s abusing the sway he holds over my body. I know it, but he still makes me want to confess. I close my eyes and clear my head long enough to tell him only what I want him to know. I need to make my own way with Jade, and I won’t do myself any favors if she thinks I go running to Grip to complain every time we disagree.

“No.” I meet his eyes steadily. “I was just a little surprised. She was texting Qwest about a song they’re working on, and I didn’t realize they even knew each other.”

“Yeah,” Grip says. “I introduced them.”

His eyes are clear, free of discomfort or regret. I know he doesn’t think this should be problematic at all. It shouldn’t be, but I can’t resist pressing a little.

“You didn’t tell me they were working together.”

“Should I have?” Grip bites the inside of his cheek and frowns a little. “I didn’t think it was important. Qwest was looking for new material, and Jade’s looking for artists to work with.”

“And you thought they’d be a good fit.”

“Of course.” Grip’s powerful shoulders lift and fall carelessly. “They have a lot in common.”

“Really?”

“They both have this badass sensibility. I knew Jade’s lyrics would feel right to Qwest. They’ve both overcome a lot, lived through a lot of the same things.”

Things I have no idea about, things they can easily bond around when I basically have to negotiate a treaty just to have a conversation with Jade.

“You admire her.” It’s a statement, because it’s obvious he does. “Qwest, I mean. You admire her.”

“I respect her, yeah,” Grip says. “I mean, hip-hop’s a male-dominated industry where most of us call women bitch and ho without blinking, and she shoved her way to the top. Her drive and talent and intelligence have made her one of the biggest names in the business, and she takes no shit from nobody.”

Grip watches me carefully, probably catching on to the fact that this means more to me than it should.

“Does it bother you that I respect Qwest?”

I could just say yes, but it’s not that simple. I, too, admire everything Grip just described about her. I relate to it because in many ways, those are the challenges I face in my career, too. Those aren’t the things that bother me, and I have to be honest with him and with myself about what does.

“It doesn’t bother me that you respect Qwest. I think it bothers me that you fucked her.”

He doesn’t even flinch, and I wonder if I can still shock Grip, or if he knows me so well he anticipates my thoughts, reads them in the air over my head before they make it to my mouth.

“And I hate every son of a bitch you ever fucked,” he says, his voice remaining steady though his eyes darken. “But I can’t change your sexual history, just like you can’t change mine. We can only worry about the future.”

His hand slips between our bodies, between my legs, to cup me, his wide palm hot as a brand through the thin linen of my shorts.

“And this,” he says, pressing into my pussy, “is the sum total of my sexual future.”

“Are you using my body against me?” I ask, my voice sandpapered by lust.

“I will use whatever is at my disposal to keep you with me forever.”

“And you think my pussy is at your disposal?”

Grip slides one finger over my clit through my clothes.

“You think it’s not?” He grabs my uninjured hand and presses it to his crotch. “Because this is completely at your disposal as much as you want, any time you want it, and any way you want to use it.”

He links his fingers with mine, careful of the cut on my pinky, and settles our twined hands over his heart.

“And this is yours, too, Bristol, all the time, whether you want it or not.”

My eyes rest on our hands over his heart, and I feel some peace for the first time since I walked into the kitchen to talk to Jade, maybe since we arrived . . . maybe since I woke up today with this party hanging over my head. When things are out of control, he’s always my peace, always my sigh of relief. He’s the reminder that come what may, there’s us, and we aren’t going anywhere—ever.

I step closer, his hand still between my legs, my hand still on his dick, and rest my forehead against his chin.

“I’m sorry.” I breathe the apology into the Grip-scented skin of his neck. “I just feel . . . possessive, probably even more when it comes to Qwest because I know she would never have had you if I hadn’t thrown the two of you together. I love the way you love me, in and out of bed, and the idea of someone else having you . . .”

My words trail off as his dick thickens and lengthens in my hand. My eyes zip up to his face, where his eyelids hang heavy over the dark storm of his eyes and his lips are parted on a hot breath.

“Does it turn you on that I’m possessive of you?” I ask.

“I’d fuck you in that sink right now if it wasn’t full of collard greens,” he says, his eyes speculating like he might follow through on his threat anyway.

Despite power surging through me from the knowledge that I affect him this way, and even with the air so thick with lust I could cut it with the knife I used just minutes ago, I laugh. It’s a robust sound that scrambles from the bottom of me and climbs to the very top, like I’m a mountain and this sound scaled every challenge, every obstacle, to soar.

“Is that you laughing like a bird again?” Grip’s chuckle vibrates from his chest into mine.

I slide my hands over the ridges of his abs and chest to link my wrists behind his head, peppering gentle kisses over his lips.

“You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

“Not a chance.” Grip rests his hands at my hips, pulling me into his hard heat. “You can be a bird—my pretty bird.”

I lift to touch my lips to his, ready to settle into a stolen kiss before we have to get back to the party.

“I shoulda known,” Ms. James says from the kitchen door, hands braced on her hips. “Sent you in here to get Bristol, and here you go, all booed up.”

Grip and I both laugh, holding each other loosely, our bodies cooling off as his mother approaches the sink.

“I heard you needed this.” She hands me a Band-Aid before leaning over to inspect my handiwork, nodding her approval.

“Good job.” She starts transferring the greens into a large pot of water. “That’s enough for today.”

“But I just washed!” My mouth hangs open. “I didn’t learn anything new.”

“You gotta work your way up to my greens, girl.” A quick grin creases the still smooth skin at her eyes. “Next time, you boil.”

I take in her friendly face like a balm to the abrasions from my conversation with Jade. The first time I was in this house, Grip’s mother and I weren’t friendly. We didn’t exchange smiles, and there was no affection slowly growing between us. It’s been baby steps for us, both of us loving Grip and wanting to know and like each other for his sake. If I can have this with Ms. James, I have to believe one day I’ll have it with Jade, too. This warmth I’m basking in between Grip and his mother, the sense of family with them in this kitchen and permeating the entire house—I want it. I never had it for myself growing up, and I’m adopting it as my own.

I lean into Grip’s chest, tucking my head into his neck and smiling at his mother, who watches us with eyes warmer than I ever thought they would be.

“You’re right, Ms. James.” I give her a quick nod, returning her smile. “Next time.”