“Good. That boy needs something to focus on besides grief. He’s been carrying Monica’s death like a suitcase he won’t put down.” She sipped her tea. “And how are you?”
“I’m good.”
“Mmhmm.” She looked at me over the rim of her cup with those eyes that had been reading people since before desegregation. “Try again.”
“I’m fine, Grandma. Business is good, the casino’s?—”
“I didn’t ask about business. I asked about you.” She set the cup down. “Something’s different. Your energy is different. I feel a light beaming off of you.”
“A light.”
“A light. Like somebody struck a match in that dark little cave you call a heart.” She smiled. “You got a crush on somebody.”
“Grandma, I do not have a crush. I’m thirty-eight years old. Grown men don’t have crushes.”
“Grown men absolutely have crushes. They just don’t call them that because it hurts their little egos. So who is she?”
“There’s no she.”
“Boy, I raised you. I changed your diapers. I taught you how to tie your shoes and how to read a balance sheet. I taught you how to shoot a gun. You think you can sit in my kitchen and lie to my face?” She leaned back and crossed her arms. “Is it one of those two girls you were running around with? Please tell me it’s not. I never understood that situation. Two women at the same time—you’re not a damn Mormon, Quest.”
I almost choked on the pie. “No, Grandma. I’m done with all that.”
“Done? For real done, or ‘I’ll be back in two months’ done?”
“For real done. Lyric is living in the penthouse. Camille moved back in with her. I’m at a hotel. It’s over.”
“Good. That whole arrangement was just you hiding from yourself and I’ve been biting my tongue about it for two years.” She picked her tea back up. “So if it’s not them, who put that light in your eyes? And don’t tell me nobody because I will sit here all night.”
I rubbed the back of my neck and looked at the ceiling because looking at Rita when she was right about something was like looking directly at the sun. “It ain’t nothing serious. I just went skating with somebody.”
Rita’s eyebrows shot up so high they nearly left her face. “Skating? You haven’t been skating since you were seventeen years old. You used to beg me to take you to Crystal Skate every Friday and then one day you just stopped going.” She set the tea down again and leaned forward. “Who is this woman that got you back on skates?”
“Zainab’s sister. Mehar.”
“Mehar? Oh I love that girl. Zainab brings her by sometimes.” Rita was grinning now, full and wide. “So you took her skating. And you’re sitting in my kitchen looking like you just won the lottery. But it ain’t nothing serious.”
“Grandma.”
“Don’t Grandma me. I’ve been waiting for this for fourteen years.” Her voice softened and the grin settled into something warmer. “Baby, I know you’re still hurting. I know what happened with Peanut broke something in you that you’ve been trying to fix with work and money and women you’d never actually fall in love with. And I understand why.”
I put the fork down because the pie suddenly felt heavy in my throat.
“But you can’t live in that pain forever, Quest. You’ve been locked up inside yourself for so long that you forgot what it feels like to let somebody in. And if this girl is making you feel something you haven’t felt in a long time, don’t run from it. Don’t bury it under business. Don’t convince yourself you don’t deserve it.” She reached across the table and put her hand over mine. “Your grandfather made me so mad sometimes I wanted to hit him with a skillet. But he also made me laugh every single day for forty-seven years. That’s what love is—somebody who makes you crazy and keeps you sane at the same time.”
“She might be more on the crazy side,” I said.
“Good. You need crazy. Normal bores you.”
I was about to respond when there was a knock at the front door. Three hard knocks, uneven, like whoever was on the other side couldn’t decide how much force to use.
Rita sighed. “Lord.”
She knew who it was before she stood up. So did I, because there was only one person who knocked on Rita’s door like that—like they were apologizing and demanding at the same time.
I followed her to the foyer and she opened the door. Calvin Banks was standing on the porch looking like the last five years had each taken a decade off him. He was gaunt, cheekbones too sharp, clothes hanging off a frame that used to be thick with muscle. His teeth were bad—a couple missing on the bottom, the rest yellowed. His eyes were glassy and too wide and darting around the way they do when somebody’s system is running on chemicals instead of food.
“Unc,” I said. “What you doing here?”
