I closed my eyes, swallowed hard. Jabali came to sit beside me and linked his fingers with mine. He kissed my temple.
“Thank you for saying it out loud,” I said.
“Kyleigh, we love you,” Mama whispered.
“I believe that. That’s what hurts the most.”
I ended the call before they could answer.
For a long moment, I just sat there, phone in my hand, heart beating slow and heavy. Then I tossed it on the bed and pressed the heels of my palms to my eyes like I could hold back the tears.
They had lied. They had admitted it. I guess I should feel better. I didn’t. Pain just moved from one part of my chest to another. And grief… I felt so much grief for what Aziza had lost, what Jabali and I may have lost. Under all that pain and anger and sorrow, though, I felt something else. It was quiet and hopeful.
I felt possibility.
Because if the story I’d been told in the past was false, then maybe, the future could be different.
And now here I was, feeling out that possibility with my excited little girl and her father who seemed to be having as many thoughts as I was. Freedom’s Field glowed under strings of lights. The little booths of the Christmas Village lining the edges. A mixtape of R&B Christmas songs played over the speakers. Kids ran in packs, parents ran behind them, and my nerves were up.
At least I wasn’t alone. Jabali walked on my right, one hand wrapped around his cup, the other brushing mine every few steps like he was trying to hold my hand without making a thing of it. Aziza walked between us, both hands cupped around her cocoa, cheeks flushed with cold and joy. Her new knit hat had a ridiculous pom-pom on top that bobbed every time she bounced. My baby looked too cute.
“This cocoa slap,” she announced after a sip.
“You gotta say that about everything you like?” I challenged, kissing my teeth.
She side-eyed me. “Auntie Taniyah said it.”
“Auntie Taniyah says a lot of things you shouldn’t repeat.”
Next to me, Jabali chuckled. “She right, though. This cocoa do slap a little.”
I felt my nose turned up. “Both of y’all on punishment.”
He gave me one of those half-smiles that had gotten him out of trouble since we were teenagers. “You look good out here,” he said. “Lights look better on you than on the hill.”
“You just came up with that?”
He leaned closer. “Nah. I thought it last night, too, when I saw you naked. Them titties in the moonlight... Mm-mm-mm.”
Heat rushed up my neck at the memory. My soft sheets, his talented mouth, my greedy hands. I took a long drink of cocoa so I wouldn’t say something stupid. He smiled.
Aziza pointed ahead. “Mama, look! They got people doing face paint. Can I get a snowflake?”
“You already got cocoa on your face,” I pointed out.
She looked offended. “I can have layers.”
“Definitely my kid,” her father proclaimed proudly. “Come on. We’ll see.”
He steered us toward the little face-paint tent. A woman from church was working with a squirmy toddler, drawing a lopsided reindeer on his forehead. Aziza waited her turn, bouncing in place, talking the agitated artist through every design.
“She gon’ want the most extra option, ain’t she?” Jabali asked.
“Definitely your kid,” I parroted.
We fell into that easy, irritating, wonderful rhythm we used to have. He stole sips of my cocoa without asking after he drained his. I pretended to be mad and then held the cup closer. People stared, but not all of it felt hostile. Emory waved from a distance, mouthed “You cute” like she approved. Mr. Hargrove tipped his hat. A couple of kids pointed toward the hill.
“Mama, that’s the tree lady,” one of them whispered.
