I expected to find Zio, maybe his momma but It was like a summit of the aunties waiting. Mrs. Brenda was at the stove. Two other women I vaguely remembered as “Auntie Clara” and “Tasha” were at the table. It was a Monday morning—nobody had a job?
“Look who’s joined the living,” Tasha chirped, not even looking up from her plate.
Mrs. Brenda turned, a spatula in one hand and a mug in the other. She didn’t look at my face; she looked straight at my hips. “Well, I see the clothes fit.” She didn’t sound mad or happy about it—it was just a comment.
“Good morning, Mrs. Brenda,” I croaked, my voice sounding like I’d swallowed a handful of gravel.
“Sit down, baby,” Auntie Clara said, sliding a plate of grits and eggs toward an empty chair. “You looked like you were having a hard time yesterday and woke up still having one. Zio carried you up those stairs like a sack of potatoes.”
I felt the heat crawl up my neck.
“I’m so sorry about that,” I started, the words tumbling out like a landslide. “It’s just… my momma and daddy ruined me. They’ve been married thirty-seven years and they make it look like a Hallmark movie, so I thought if it wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t worth it. But now my momma says it was all a delusion on my part because they aren’t perfect. So I… and then Zio started talking about love, and I acted like a fool because I was terrified he was going to wake up and realize I wasn’t ‘wife material.’ I’m a writer. I’m overly dramatic and scatterbrained. I’m a mess. I write about this stuff because I can control the ending, but I don’t know what I’m doing.”
I stopped to breathe, my face burning. I waited for judgment. I was judging myself.
Mrs. Brenda turned from the stove, her expression softening for the first time. “I been with Zio’s daddy since I was nineteen. You think I didn’t want to pack my bags when he spent our mortgage money on a car that didn’t even run? Or when I felt like I was losing myself in those kitchen walls?”
She walked over and sat down heavily in the chair next to me, taking my hand in hers. Her palm was warm and calloused.
“Fear is just a sign that you’re paying attention, baby. You think you’re ‘not wife material’ because you don’t fit some mold? Zio don’t want a mold. He’s a chef—he wants something with flavor. He wants someone who’s going to stand on their square evenwhen the kitchen is on fire. Yesterday you were messy and you were loud, but he didn’t care.”
“But I was so embarrassing,” I whispered.
“Honey,” Tasha said, finally looking up with a smirk, “I once caught the bus across town to catch my man cheating, found him drinking beers with a buddy after work, turned around and blamed it on him, and made him drive me home. We’ve been married twelve years since then. Life can be embarrassing sometimes. You stop worrying about being perfect and start focusing on being present. Zio’s already all in. Just say yes.”
I looked at the three of them. Before I could figure out anything to say, Mrs. Brenda chimed in.
“Now eat those eggs,” she commanded, patting my hand. “Zio will be back in a minute. I had him go pick up some things at the store for me.”
I picked up my fork, the silence in the kitchen feeling less judgmental. I shoveled a forkful of grits into my mouth to keep from having to respond.
Zio walked in about fifteen minutes later with a bag of groceries, looking fresh, showered, and entirely too handsome for a man who wanted me. He saw me, and that smug, slow-burn smile spread across his face. He put the groceries down, didn’t care who was watching, and pressed a kiss to the top of my head.
The three women awwed in unison.
I ducked my head. He leaned down.
“Ready?” he asked.
“More than ready,” I whispered.
We made our exit through a chorus of “Don’t be a stranger!” and “Bring her back for the fish fry!”
“You okay?” Zio asked, unlocking the truck. He helped me in.
I nodded. “I’m sorry. I was drunk and high.”
Zio laughed, a deep, vibrating sound that usually made me want to climb him like a tree, but that day I just leaned my head back against the headrest.
“You want to talk about Willow?”
“No.” I hoped he never brought that up again.
“Okay.” He said simple. “And by the way. We aren’t going to your place,” he informed me as he pulled out of the driveway.
I opened one eye. “Zio, where are we going? I need my bed. I need my laptop. I have three chapters due for the Patreon, and my brain is currently fried.”
He reached into the backseat and pulled out my laptop bag. “I grabbed it while you were passed out. Clothes, your tea, your ‘World’s Okayest Author’ mug—everything you need is in the back except the bed and mine is better.”
