I bite my bottom lip. No doubt the last thing Stone expected to hear was that there will be chicken feet in his gumbo, but that is my grandmother—full of surprises.
“Thank you,” he says, his tone softening. “Extra chicken feet sounds great.”
Nu-Nu folds her arms over her stomach and grins with satisfaction.
He turns to me. “Hey, I was coming to see if you wanted to do some shooting.”
I pull the apron over my head. “Are they asking if I’ll join them? Is Brittany?”
“No, I just thought you might want to.”
He says it a bit darkly, and to be honest, I’m not sure if I want to go, but since shooting is a lot of fun, I peg the apron.
“I’m heading outside,” I tell my mom.
“But you hate shooting.”
“Well, I’ll be back.”
And then Stone escorts me outside to shoot.
Target practice goes great. I hit pretty close to the bull’s-eye (not right on, but close enough for me). My sister doesn’t say anything, and my dad congratulates me, saying thatthe young manI brought is also a great shot. He even did better than Brittany.
She must be burning up. No one does better than her—at anything.
Two hours later, we sit outside with my family, digging into roasted pig that’s been dug up from underground.
My potato salad and lots of other dishes my aunts created grace the two long tables that are smooshed together just for this occasion.
Hercules has a bowl next to Stone, who brought some goat’s milk so the little fella wouldn’t be hungry.
“What do you think of your first pig roasted in the ground?” Dad asks Stone.
Stone takes a bite and moans. “If I’ve died, this must be heaven.”
Everyone laughs.
“I tried filming one of these get-togethers a few years back,” Brittany boasts. “But the aunts got mad when I put them on camera.”
“You didn’t tell us we were going to be on,” Susan grumps. “I hadn’t done my makeup.”
“She wasn’t the only one who hadn’t contoured,” Margie adds. “If you want us to be in one of your little videos, you’ve got to give us time to put our faces on. Like today. I’m ready for hide-and-seek.”
“Little videos,” Jet says with a snicker. “Brittany’slittle videosget tens of thousands of views in hours.”
“That reminds me,” Mom says. “Co, how’s your job going? Is that where you two met?” She points her fork at Stone and me. “In the licensing department?”
Stone’s head snaps in my mom’s direction. “Coco doesn’t work in licenses.”
A low hush falls over the table. My aunts and uncles, cousins and grandmother, lean in to hear more.
My mom blinks. “What do you mean, she doesn’t work at licenses? Of course she does. Don’t you, Coco?” Before I can answer, she keeps going. “Why would Stone think you don’t? You haven’t lied to him, have you? I thought I raised you—”
Stone’s fist hits the table—not loud, but sharp enough to freeze every fork in midair. There’s something in his voice, fierce and raw, that knocks the air from my lungs. Not just protectiveness. Not just anger. Something older. Like this hit a nerve that isn’t just about me. As if, for a second, my mother’s words cracked something open in him, too.
“Coco is the new magical land use coordinator in the Department of Zoning and Development. That’s her job. She doesn’t work in licenses.”
Mom swallows audibly and puts her fork down. Her gaze darts from Stone to me, and she says in a lightly accusatory voice, “Why didn’t you tell us? We would have celebrated your new job.”
