We hit the last light before Grandma’s block and sat in that quiet that only shows up when two people want to be exactly where they are. I slid my hand higher. She caught my wrist—not to stop me. To keep it there.
“You sure?” I asked.
Her mouth tilted. “Drive, teacher man.”
I drove.
Grandma’s house sat mid-block like a note held true. White paint softened by time. Porch posts I’d painted three times over. A wind chime that never minded its business. The closer we got, the louder my heartbeat. This house had made me. Every lesson I taught, every kindness I thought I invented—I’d learned here before I had words for it.
I parked. The quiet inside the truck wasn’t empty; it was charged, right before stepping into something new.
“You’ll come get me if I start drowning?” Rayna asked.
“I won’t let you drown,” I said, realizing it wasn’t just about dinner.
The screen door creaked before we hit the porch. “Boy, if that’s you, bring whatever you brought and close my door behind you. Jada’s letting my heat out.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I called back. Rayna’s mouth curved like hearing me say it did something to her.
Inside was layered warmth—steam, butter, cinnamon, greens, lemon oil rubbed into wood.
Jada popped around the corner with a dish towel over her shoulder, smile already cocked. “So you finally brought your ghost.”
Rayna’s brows lifted. I touched her back, low. “My sister. Ignore her first three comments.”
“Rude,”Jada said, then offered her hand. “I’m Jada. And I’m glad you’re real.”
“Rayna.” She shook. “Very real.”
Jada looked her over, curious, protective. “You hungry?”
“Always.”
“Good. Grandma made the real macaroni, not the weeknight bake.”
“Jada,” Grandma warned, voice like a whip wrapped in lace.
Jada winked and stepped aside just in time for Grandma to appear—five-two, apron tied like armor, wooden spoon like a scepter, eyes keen and soft all at once. Those eyes landed on Rayna and did a full inventory: hair, posture, hands, the way she stood next to me without hiding.
“So,” Grandma said. “This the one.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rayna answered before I could. “Rayna Whitaker.”
Grandma didn’t smile first. She nodded. “Pretty. Do you eat?”
“Yes, ma’am.” A flicker of nerves, but her voice stayed strong.
“Come on in, then. Save your nerves for something that earn ’em.”
The spread was memory and promise: fried chicken, collards talking low all afternoon, macaroni bubbled brown at the edges, green beans with ham hock, cornbread with a crust begging for butter, tomatoes sliced and salted, foil-wrapped peach cobbler waiting in the corner.
We sat. My knee brushed Rayna’s under the table andstayed. Jada slid across from us, mouth already slick until Grandma set down beans and said, “Bless the food.”
We touched hands. Rayna’s fingers threaded mine, sure. She bowed her head. Grandma’s prayer was short—gratitude, names for strength, a soft amen that felt like an instruction to keep going.
The first bites undid Rayna’s shoulders; I watched it happen. Chicken, then greens, then macaroni that made her eyes close for a breath. When she opened them, she caught me staring and tried to scold me with her brows. I shrugged like a man who couldn’t help it.
Jada fired the first question. “So, Rayna—what do you do when you’re not making my brother grin at text messages?”
