“Good. Because my dad refined the recipe from my Jamaican grandmother’s jerk blend, and it packs some serious punch.”
“Your grandmother’s Jamaican?”
“Uh-huh, on my mom’s side.”
“So, you got some sista in you.” His mouth ticks up again before he draws a pull from the beer bottle.
“I do. She immigrated to the States and became a surgeon at a time when women, especially Black women, were scarce in those jobs. Sadly, she died before I was born. But I got my middle name from her, Clara. It makes me feel like we have a connection.”
“I get that. I was named after my grandfather.”
I form a picture of an older, handsome Stiles. “What’s he like?”
“Stubborn and tells the worst jokes. But he’s got a lot of spirit. It’s hard for him not to be able to get around like before and do everything on his own. My mother talked about putting him in a home, but he hated that idea. He loves the house he shared with my grandmother before she passed. He loves his garden and just being there.”
“You moved in so he could stay at home?” I ask, unpacking another layer.
“Nothing he wouldn’t have done for me. Should we dig in?” he says, marking the end of the subject.
“Can’t promise to leave you much.” I pile my plate with a heaping scoop of potato salad and a saucy rack of ribs. “This is about to get messy.” I pick up a few napkins off the table and make myself a bib.
He laughs, an honest-to-goodness booming, joyful laugh. He packs his plate too, and after his first couple of bites, murmurs a delighted sound. “Man, this is good.”
Pleased, I send him a wide grin. We finish up our meal with me doing most of the talking and watching how he sinks his teeth into the ribs and licks his lips, wishing I was his feast.
“Thank you and your parents for the best home-cooked meal I’ve had in ages.” Stiles balls up the sauce-smeared napkins and lays them atop his empty plate. “I’ll clean up.”
“No way. You’re my guest.”
“Aw’right.” He rises to his feet when I do and follows me to the sink with his plate. “My grandfather didn’t raise no fool either.”
I laugh at his quick wit and stack the dishwasher. “Coffee?” I ask, wiping down the table and counters.
He eyes the Nespresso machine. “Whatcha’ got?”
“Blonde Espresso, Hazelina, and Caramel Cookie.”
“Figures—girly flavors.”
“That’s one thing I’ve never been accused of.” I rinse out the sponge and dry my hands. “Being girly.”
“No Barbie dolls and princess dresses for you?”
“Nope. I preferred digging up worms and playing soccer and field hockey.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
“I grew up a tomboy,” I confess. “I’ve always been athletic, and I love sports and being sporty. I got to travel and compete at the national level. It developed my strength, physically and mentally. But when I was younger, I often felt like I was missing out on other things, like dating, going to school dances, sleepovers…and being seen as…feminine. That’s such an anti-feminist comment. Women can be anything they want, and they come in all wonderful shapes and sizes. I believe that. I just happen to be short and muscular with no boobs.”
He gives me a once-over. “Doesn’t look like you missed out on anything to me.”
“You said women like me weren’t your type.”
“To use your word, I was a jerkass. I didn’t know I was hitting a sensitive nerve.”
