They werethoseaunties. The ones you couldn’t live with. They’d have all your business doing laps in the streets. And they were the ones you couldn’t live without. The bless-her-heart aunties.
Miss Virginia had been showing Darius and me love for the past few days. We moved a lot, and as part of our routine, we’d indulge in a fancy meal at the beginning of each new place. Made our small family feel normal. But when I’d glanced at the menu of HC&PP … Well, we’d go hungry a few nights, even if we splita meal, so I’d rushed us out of our seats. Virginia had caught us at the door; told me kids eat free, and Tuesdays were half-price entrées. I knew that was a lie, but she didn’t let us go without filling our bellies. And I was grateful.
Virginia and Peaches had listened to the story I’d tested Darius on not responding to. The kid was too smart and chatty. He’d accidentally expose us. Virginia had welcomed us to return for celebratory homemade ice cream after I started the new job I’d lined up. Unfortunately, a family member of the owner suddenly had a “need.” Darius had harped until we returned for ice cream, then tattled that I’d not gotten the job. Virginia had hired me to start today.
Miss Peaches blocked my path into the kitchen, big hip leaning against the open door. “So, you aren’t always in robot mode?” She chuckled. “Told you, my food is irresistible. Now go flirt with my nephew.”
Nephew? “I wasn’t …”
“Mm-hmm …” Her smile radiated a challenge.
Not here to make friends, I slunk inside the kitchen.
Virginia followed me. “Sugar, it’s okay. He’s a big boy. He’ll be fine.”
Correction. A big man. That was all man. He kept his composure while I wanted to hide in horror as ifmyclothes were covered in dessert. Welp? Hiding was basically my cardio anyway, thanks to Darius’s father and his generous gifts—my beautiful son and a lifetime subscription of PTSD. Wait. Shouldn’t they be handling Birkin Lady? Oh … no. Since I hadn’t given her enough attention, she was biding her time. Keeping quiet. She. Would. Sue. She wasn’t the type to want a free meal. She’d own this place. And then …
I’d be out of a job. Again.
As if the pâtisserie read my anxious thoughts, she offered an encouraging smile, then handed Virginia two dessert plates before returning to the bakery station.
Virginia gestured to the saucers. “I’ll apologize to our guests.”
“And the lady with the braids, right?”
“Of course.”
I sighed, hoping her Creole lilt would help keepherrestaurant. “Thank you, Miss Virginia. I’m sorry,” I squeaked as the doors closed.
I marched toward the point-of-sale terminal instead of snatching this wig from my head. The temperature was ten degrees hotter than hell in Louisiana. The season wasn’t the reason, with Christmas coming in two weeks. It wasDiana Ross. The 1995 cover of “I Will Survive” was playing at the swap meet when I bought my Diana wig. Through tears, I’d slapped the beauty on my head. She turned my scalp into a sauna, though. But I couldn’t take the plunge and chop off my Sisterlocks—almost all I had left of my own life.
While other workers bustled around me, I folded my arms. The place would be even more packed come evening. Men in sharp blazers, crisp jeans, and polished loafers. Their bougie counterpartsin bright lipstick, bold jewelry, and flowy dresses. Upscale urban casual, but unmistakably NOLA. Luckily, I wouldn’t see much of the busier night crowd since my bosses understood my circumstances with Darius. Sorta.
“Big Country!” Someone hollered, and a chant broke off.
I blinked at the swinging door.
“Journey,” Peaches began, nodding her approval to the chef’s Fire on the Bayou Salmon. “You know my nephew’s a Dodger. Just won the World Series.”
What world?
The man whose swagger outshone the sugary smudge at his chest strolled into the kitchen with Virginia tucked, small and the picture of bliss, at his side. Up close? Lord, help me. He was taller than tall.
Yeah, I’d stood beneath him, but I was too busy staring at his washboard abs, I mean, the spill.
“My son didn’t introduce himself.” Virginia swatted his large bicep. “Always rushing to greet everyone.”
“I tried.” Dimples flashed in the man’s beard, and he suppressed a laugh while his straight teeth chewed on a thumbnail.
Whatever. Wasn’t like I’d held him hostage.
“Montana Louis Babineaux.” He extended his hand.
I took it. Beneath his intense stare, my breath hitched, each one hollower than the last. Hell, my cornrowed locs even fluttered beneath a gentle breeze. The sauna—what sauna?—no longer existed.
Wait, I needed to respond. That’s how communication worked. He’d said … Montana. So, I should’ve inserted my alias, Journey Carlson. Instead, I blurted, “Like the state?”
“Like the legend.”
