“It’s Jabali Christopher,” I said. “I’m here to see Ms. Grindley. She’s expecting me.”
There was a pause. Then, “Yes, sir. Proceed.”
The gate rolled open. I drove up the long, winding driveway, the big house sitting at the top like something out of a movie. I parked, took a second to check the flowers, and got out. I made my way to the door, knocked, and waited.
This time, when it swung open, it wasn’t Mr. Benton in the frame. It was Aziza. She stood there in a long-sleeve shirt with tiny snowflakes on it, jeans, and socks with little reindeer faces on the toes. Her coils were in two puffs, red ribbons tied around them. Her eyes were big and curious.
“Hi,” she greeted.
Jesus, she was perfect. I wanted to hug her. I squeezed the suddenly-heavy bouquets instead.
“Hey. You supposed to be opening doors for people?” I chided softly.
She tilted her head. “Mr. Benton was right there,” she said, pointing behind her. “He said I could answer.”
Mr. Benton appeared over her shoulder. “I did, sir,” he confirmed. “The young miss is under careful supervision.”
I smiled. “Good to know the security’s tight.”
Aziza’s gaze dropped to my hands. “Who you got flowers for?”
“One for you, one for your mama. If that’s okay,” I explained.
She lit up in a way that made something in my chest hurt. Curls bouncing, she nodded eagerly.
“It’s very okay. They so pretty.”
“May I come in?” I asked.
“Oh! Yes, sir. Welcome to the Grindley residence,” she greeted seriously, stepping back like she was mimicking Mr. Benton.
“Very good, Miss,” he praised, his voice formal but full of affection.
Chuckling, I stepped into the foyer. The space by the stairs was still empty, like it was waiting. The house smelled like vanilla and lemon and something good cooking.
“Ms. Grindley is in the front sitting room,” Mr. Benton said. “Shall I announce you?”
I shook my head.
“I’ll find my way. Thank you.”
Aziza walked beside me, bouncing a little. “You got me flowers,” she said again, like she was still processing it.
I smiled down at her little upturned face. Her eyes were all me, I noted smugly. “Of course. Ladies of the house supposed to have their own flowers.”
“What kind are they?” she asked, nose almost in the bouquet.
“Those? Umm… I’on know, shorty. I see sunflowers, daisies, and some ones I don’t know the name of. I just picked the prettiest ones.”
She giggled. “They match me,” she said.
I loved that confidence.
“They do,” I agreed.
We reached the living room. The doors were already open. Kyleigh was on the sofa, knees together, hands clasped like she’d been sitting there talking to herself or praying. Max lay across her feet, snoozing. When she looked up and saw us, her whole face changed. There was softness and love for Aziza, then fear and annoyance as her gaze landed on me. She looked beautiful; I wanted to reach out and touch her in ways I shouldnotbe thinking about with a nine-year-old in the room.
She wore black leggings that hugged her thick thighs and a soft green sweater that made her skin glow even more. Her locs were pulled back, but a few had escaped and framed her face. She had lip gloss on. No heavy makeup. She didn’t need it. I’d thought about her so much over the years that seeing her, real and here, fucked with me hard.
