“Can’t. I got a girlfriend.”
Camille let out a dry, skeptical laugh. “A girlfriend? Zio, please. I never see her. You’re at this restaurant sixteen hours a day. Unless she’s a ghost, I’m not buying it.”
“Whatever you say, Camille,” I said, looking up when the front door chimed.
We weren’t supposed to be open for another two hours, but my mother, Mrs. Brenda, walked in like she owned the place. She was clutching two stacked containers of Tupperware and dressed for church—even though it was Monday. She had that look in her eyes that usually meant I was about to get lectured.
“Zio, baby,” she said, bypassing the manager and Camille entirely. She was so dismissive in the way she ignored them that they both eventually walked away. She set the containers on the stand. “You said that girl of yours likes oxtails. I made her some oxtail mac and cheese.”
I felt Camille’s eyes boring holes into the side of my head from across the room, but I didn’t bother looking back. I cleared mythroat. “Ma, you didn’t have to do that. I can cook whatever she wants to eat.”
“I did. I saw her picture on your phone,” she said, leaning in and lowering her voice just enough for Camille to hear. “She’s a prize, Zio. You better get her fat so you can keep her. A pretty, thick one like her? Men want them. The boys at the church are always talking about big behinds, and she’s got a nice one.”
I felt the heat crawl up my neck. “Ma, I can keep a woman without resorting to that. I’m not my daddy.”
She scoffed, adjusting her pearls. “Shut up, boy. You bring her to Sunday dinner. I want to see if she’s as smart as she is pretty.”
She kissed my cheek and marched toward the door before I could argue—but stopped and backtracked. “You tell her about Willow yet?”
My face tightened before I could stop it. “Why would I tell her about Willow?”
My mother studied me for a second too long. “Because she’s back. Moved home from D.C. Bank job still paying her good. She’s looking good, got hips now. She’ll be at Sunday dinner.”
I felt my jaw set. “That’s unnecessary.”
She waved a hand. “Asked you to wait for her. She’s expecting an answer from you now.”
“I stopped talking to her six years ago, Momma. Her ass is delusional.” I didn’t even like her like that—her momma was just friends with my momma, and they kind of pushed us together.
My mother’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t have to be rude, cursing. She’s like my goddaughter.”
“She should’ve taken the hint when I stopped calling her and answering her calls. I didn’t promise her anything.”
“Well, tell her that. Nicely,” my mother said. “You got a tendency to be too blunt.”
I shook my head. “I don’t care about her feelings, so naturally I’ll be blunt.”
She looked at me harder, her eye on the verge of twitching. “You should be nice. You know me and her momma are friends.”
“Okay, Momma,” I sighed, letting her have it. I glanced down at the containers. “I will.”
She made that sucking noise she did when I was on her nerves and finally turned to leave.
As she walked out, Camille reappeared beside me, eyebrows raised. “Everything good, Chef?”
“Yeah,” I said, picking up the containers. “Everything’s fine.”
I walked away, wondering if I should tell my momma I couldn’t make Sunday dinner. Sky was already antsy about commitment. I didn’t want to give her a reason to be even more anxious—but then again, if she couldn’t handle an ex-girlfriend at the dinner table, how was she going to handle a life with me?
The kitchen doors swung open to the sound of flames and steel. I set my mother’s food down and tied my apron tighter.
One problem at a time. First, service. Then, my future.
I drove straight to Sky’s house after my shift. It was after midnight. The street was quiet. I used the key she’d finally given me when I left earlier. It was the first time I didn’t have to knock to enter.
The apartment was dark, smelling like her lavender candles and old books. I moved quietly through the living room, heading straight for the bathroom. I stripped down and let the hot waterhit me, trying to wash away the grease of the kitchen and the tension of the day.
I closed my eyes, my hand drifting down to my dick. It was harder than Chinese arithmetic. I almost touched myself, but I stopped.
