“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, stepping forward. He took her hand like it mattered.
For a minute, I couldn’t breathe. Quentin here. My mom here. All of us under the same roof. And somehow, it wasn’t awkward. It was warm.
By halftime, the Steelers were down three and the whole house was loud. Darren flung his towel when Justin Jefferson hit the Griddy in the end zone.
“Man, y’all act like you ain’t never seen JJ cook before,” he hollered.
Uncle Leon stomped the floor. “That’s on the secondary! McCarthy throwing ducks and still hittin’ Jefferson wide open. Cam and T.J. better start eating.”
Daddy barked from the kitchen, apron still on. “Celebrate too early and Rodgers gon’ make you pay. Watch.”
Sure enough, Rodgers hit DK Metcalf streaking down the sideline, and the living room erupted. Quentin was on his feet, fist pumping, yelling “Let’s go!” like he’d been black and gold all his life. When Jaylen Warren broke free and Friermuth sealed it in the end zone, Uncle Leon slapped his knee, Darren waved his towel like he hadn’t just cursed the whole team, and Daddy clapped so hard his ring rattled against his palm.
And Quentin was right there with them. Laughing,trading jokes, clinking his bottle against Darren’s like they’d been boys for years.
I sat back, towel folded in my lap, half smiling, half unsettled. Because he looked too natural here. Like he belonged.
Dinner was ribs, mac and cheese, collards, and cornbread—the spread that meant Sunday was more than a game. Daddy was the kind of cook you didn’t play with. He hadn’t started out that way. After the divorce, when it was his week to have Darren and me, he refused to let us live off TV dinners or takeout. He taught himself to cook—burnt a few pans, swore at a few recipes—but kept at it until Sunday meals turned into something we craved. He never said it outright, but I knew he wanted us to feel at home with him, too. He wanted us fed. Wanted us balanced.
Mama set her fork down, licking sauce from her fingers as Daddy looked on intently. “I’ve been thinking about taking a cruise,” she said lightly, like she was testing the air. “Maybe the Caribbean. I deserve some sun.”
Darren snorted. “You can’t even sit still long enough to watch a full game and you talking about a cruise.”
But Daddy didn’t laugh. He leaned back, considering her with those serious brown eyes. “If you don’t mind,” he said slowly, “I’d like to go with you.”
The whole table went still.
Mama blinked, lips parting, then closed them again. For a moment, it was just them—almost 40 years of history and silence stretching out in the space between. Something electric passed between them. Their eyes connected—hers softening when his gaze didn’t waver.
Then Mama cleared her throat, reaching for her waterlike it was no big thing. Daddy turned back to his plate, ribs in hand, shoulders loose. Darren muttered something about “ain’t no way” and Uncle Leon coughed into his beer, but the room had already shifted.
Quentin’s hand slid over mine under the table, his fingers threading tight. When I glanced at him, his eyes saidyou saw it too.
By dessert, my stomach flipped. I blamed the nerves. The way Quentin’s hand kept finding me. But halfway through the pie, I bolted, barely making it to the bathroom before I was sick.
“Rayna?” Daddy called through the door. “I know I don’t cook every Sunday, but it wasn’t that bad!”
Quentin’s palm rubbed circles between my shoulders, quiet but firm. “You okay?”
Mom appeared in the doorway, her bob swinging, her eyes softer than I ever remembered. “You sure, baby?”
“I’m fine,” I lied, my voice cracking.
But when I looked at her, she was watching me with something I couldn’t name. Not suspicion. Not judgment. Something keener under the softness—like she saw past my words, past even me. The look clung, unsettling, as if she already knew more than I did.
We left soon after. Daddy clapped Quentin’s back like he’d earned his place. Darren smirked but kept his mouth shut. Mom hugged me longer than usual. Her eyes lingered, heavy with that same unreadable knowing, as if she wanted to speak and swallowed it instead.
In the car, Quentin laced our fingers. His thumb stroked once, slow. He didn’t ask. Didn’tpush. Just held.
And I realized, sitting there with the city sliding by, that I wasn’t just letting him into my family. I was letting him into me.
Chapter 22
The Test
The nausea hit before my alarm.
I sat up slow, head swimming, stomach rolling like the earth under my bed had shifted. One breath, then another. Sweat broke across my forehead even though the room was cool.
