He grinned, shoveling more rice into his mouth.
We pulled up to Zahara’s building just as the sun was starting to set. Yusef grabbed his backpack, but before he got out, he turned to me.
“Prime?”
“Yeah?”
“I wish you were my dad.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. Knocked the air straight out of my lungs.
I stared at him. At this kid who’d been beaten, robbed, who carried himself with more strength than most grown men I knew. This kid who Zahara had raised to be good and kind despite whatever hell they were running from.
“Yu…” My voice came out rougher than I meant it to.
“I know you’re not. And I know my… I know things are complicated. But you’re the only man who’s ever shown me stuff like this. Who’s ever made me feel like I could be strong.” His eyes were wet, but he wasn’t crying. Just being honest in that brutal, unfiltered way kids could be. “So yeah. I wish you were my dad.”
I reached over and pulled him into a hug. Something I rarely did. Something that felt awkward and right at the same time.
“You’re a good kid,” I said quietly. “And whether I’m your father or not, I got you. You understand? You need me, I’m here.”
“Okay.”
We broke apart and headed upstairs. Zahara was home, cooking something that smelled incredible. She turned when we walked in, her face lighting up.
“How’d it go?”
“He’s a natural,” I said.
“I’m so sore,” Yusef groaned, but he was smiling.
“Go shower,” Zahara told him. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
He disappeared into the bathroom and Zahara turned to me, something soft in her expression.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For this. For him. You don’t know what it means.”
“I think I’m starting to.”
We stared at each other for a long moment. That same electricity crackling between us. That same pull.
“I have to go to Grits tonight,” she said finally. “To bake for Sunday’s market.”
“What time?”
“Around ten. After Yusef goes to bed.”
“I’ll take you.”
“Prime, you don’t have to?—”
“I’m taking you, Zahara. It’s late. You’re not taking the bus at that hour.”
She looked like she wanted to argue. But then she just nodded. “Okay.”
At ten, I picked her up. She was dressed in jeans and a hoodie, her hair pulled back, looking tired but determined.
The drive to Grits was quiet. Comfortable. Her hand resting on the center console, close enough to mine that I could feel the heat from her skin.
