“I don’t dread seeing them.” I roll my eyes at her knowing look. “Okay, I don’t enjoy seeing Terry and Brandon, but I miss my mama. My aunties and cousins. And I want all my mama’s food.”
“Oh, are we indulging for the holidays?”
“I still won’t eat red meat or pork, but mac and cheese, stuffing, deviled eggs, yams, sweet potato pie, collard greens, corn bread? Babeeee, all them bets are off.”
I sprawl on her bed, wallowing in the stillness I’ve had so seldom the last few months.
“Besides,” I continue, “Terry and Brandon are going to visit his mama’s people in Virginia. I doubt I’ll see them much, if at all. I’m coming back for New Year’s Eve.”
“Aww.” She turns from her closet and pokes her lip out. “It’s my parents’ fortieth anniversary, so we’re giving them a party on New Year’s Eve. You’re welcome to join us in Texas. I don’t want you ringing in the New Year alone.”
“Girl, me, Ryan Seacrest, and that big ol’ apple dropping will be just fine.”
“You sure? ’Cause if you want to—”
“I promise I’ll be okay.”
My phone pings, and I reach into my back pocket for it to check the incoming text.
Livvie:Thank you again for the cookies! You’re so sweet.
Me:No problem! It’s not much, but I hope you enjoy them.
Livvie:They’re so good! I already ate half of them and am hiding the rest from my boyfriend. LOL!
Me:I’m glad! Merry Christmas. See you after the break.
Livvie:Byeeeeee! Merry Christmas!
“That was Livvie,” I tell Takira with a smile. “Thanking me for the Christmas cookies.”
“Well I’m glad slaving over that hot stove making all those cookies paid off. Everybody seemed to love them.”
“It was fun and easy.” I shrug. “No big deal, and the crew especially work so hard. I wanted them to know how much we appreciate them.”
The doorbell interrupts us, and I hop from the bed.
“I’ll get it.”
I shuffle down the hall, practically skipping at the prospect of days with no hair and makeup, no fittings or rehearsals or dance routines or dawn pickups. When I open the door without even checking the peephole, the man on the other side is the last person I expected to see.
“Canon?”
It goes without saying he looks bitable. His hair is longer than I’m used to seeing it. The cream-colored cable-knit sweater is stark against the mahogany of his skin. The sleeves are shoved up, exposing the corded muscles of his forearms.
“Hey.” He peers over my shoulder into the house. “Can I come in?”
“Oh. Sure. Yeah.”
I step back to let him in, suddenly self-conscious of my bare feet and shiny face; of the fact that I’m wearing no bra under my maxi dress. My hair is its own solar system, the big coils puffing in orbit around my head.
For a few seconds we simply stare at each other in the privacy of the foyer, but it doesn’t feel awkward. It’s a thirsty silence. We’re drinking each other in, taking long gulps of one another when we’ve been alone so little.
“Oh!” I say, grasping for anything that resembles normal conversation. “I have something for you.”
“You do?”
He follows me into the living room, and I bend to retrieve a festive tin from under our Christmas tree.
