Jamal took a step forward, and Phylicia immediately stepped back.
“I’ll, um, get to work,” she said before turning and disappearing into the house.
“Damn,” Jamal said in a terse whisper. He had been so close. Why had he stalled? He should have just gone for it. What was the worst that could happen? She’d slap him? He’d take a slap in the face if it meant tasting those lips again.
He had to figure out a way to break through the roadblocks she continued to put up. He knew they would be good together, if only Phylicia would give them a chance.
But he wasn’t ready to push the issue again. He was still raw from the last time she shot him down.
As usual, Jamal spent the morning working outside while Phylicia labored inside the house. Around noon, she came out, wiping her hands on a stained rag.
“Did you bring your lunch?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he answered. “Didn’t you?”
She shook her head. “I had to leave the house so early this morning that I forgot to pack something to eat,” she said. “I was wondering if you maybe wanted to go over to Jessie’s. It’s fried okra day.”
A ham sandwich, or sitting across the table from Phylicia eating some of the best food in Gauthier? Tough choice.
“I’ll drive,” Jamal said.
As they both climbed into his truck, Phylicia picked up the mail he’d tossed on the passenger seat. When he took the stack from her, she tapped the heavy, cream-colored one on top.
“Is that a wedding invitation?” she asked, gesturing to the envelope that had arrived from Arizona this morning.
“Yes,” Jamal answered, a muscle automatically jumping in his cheek. “My sister’s.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. When is she getting married?”
“The Saturday before Thanksgiving,” he said. He stuffed the invitation, along with the rest of the mail, into a compartment in the center console and backed his truck out of the driveway.
As he maneuvered around her dusty blue pickup, Phylicia said, “Hey, careful there. Just because it’s a little banged up, don’t think you can get away with swiping my fender. I know each and every scratch.”
“I can tell you’ve had it for a while.” Jamal laughed. “I’m guessing there’s a reason you haven’t upgraded?”
“It was my dad’s,” she said, stating the obvious. “That truck is as much a part of Phillips’ Home Restoration as I am.”
Jamal allowed several moments to pass before asking, “How did he die?”
He barely heard her when, staring out the passenger-side window, she said, “Heart attack.”
She glanced at him with a somber frown, then brought her gaze back to the stalks of sugarcane lining the roadway.
“He was fifty-nine,” she continued. “Way too young.”
Damn. That had to have been rough. “I’m sorry,” Jamal said, wincing at the inadequacy of his words.
“Thanks,” Phylicia said. “It hasn’t been easy. Now that I think about it, his heart attack was the starting point of the three-year nightmare I’ve been living in.”
“Three years? What’s caused your life to be a nightmare for the past three years?” he asked.
She dismissed his question with a wave. “Forget I even said that.”
“No.” Without thinking, Jamal reached over and covered her forearm. It felt as if he’d leaped over a huge hurdle when she didn’t pull away. “You can talk to me,” he said. “Why has life been a nightmare for you?”
“Jamal, I appreciate the concern, but I really don’t want to get into any of that.” She looked over at him. “Just let it go, okay?”
He nodded. He could respect her privacy. He had his own personal restricted area that he tried his hardest to avoid stepping into. Jamal could list at least a thousand things he’d rather do than talk about his relationship with his father: roll around in a pile of red ants, walk across broken glass with his bare feet, leap out of a plane without a parachute.
