And I knew—knew—she wasn’t buying a single word of it.
“You hungry, Amai?” Mama asked, gesturing toward the pot of crawfish. “We got plenty. You welcome to stay and eat.”
“That’s very kind of you, ma’am, but I don’t want to impose.”
“Boy, hush,” Mama said, waving him off. “Ain’t no imposin’. You brought my baby home safe, the least I can do is feed you.”
She turned and walked back toward the table, calling over her shoulder. “Truth, go get cleaned up. And bring this man a plate when you come back out.”
I stood there, frozen, still covered in Fanta, watching my mama return to her dominoes like she hadn’t just invited my future employer to eat crawfish in our front yard.
Amai glanced at me.
The polite, friendly mask was still in place, but his eyes—hiseyes—were sharp and amused, like he knew exactly how ridiculous this was and was enjoying every second of it.
“You heard your mama,” he said quietly. “Go get cleaned up.”
I wanted to argue.
Wanted to tell him he didn’t have to stay, that he could leave, that this wastoo much.
But the look in his eyes stopped me.
So, I turned and walked toward the house, my heart pounding, my mind racing, wondering what the hell I’d just gotten myself into.
I showered fast, scrubbing the Fanta out of my hair, washing the stickiness off my skin, and trying to process the fact that Amai Landry was currently sitting in my front yard, eating crawfish with my mama.
When I came back outside ten minutes later in clean clothes—denim shorts and a faded LSU tank top—the scene that greeted me was so surreal I almost turned around and went back inside.
Amai was sitting at the table.
He’d rolled up his sleeves. Taken off his watch. And he was cracking crawfish like he’d been doing it his whole life, pulling the tails, sucking the heads, and tossing the shells into the communal pile in the center of the table.
Mama was watching him with that look.
The one that said she was reading him like a book and taking notes for later.
“So, Amai,” Mama said, her voice casual but her eyes sharp. “What is it you do? For work, I mean.”
“I’m a jeweler,” Amai said smoothly. “I design custom pieces. Engagement rings, mostly. Some estate work.”
“A jeweler,” Mama repeated, nodding slowly. “That’s real nice. You got a shop?”
“On Magazine Street,” Amai said. “Been there about five years now.”
“Mm-hmm.” Mama cracked another crawfish, her eyes never leaving his face. “And business is good?”
“Business is very good,” Amai said.
“I bet it is.”
The way she said it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
I grabbed a plate and started loading it with crawfish, corn, potatoes—anything to keep my hands busy and my mouth shut.
Miss Claudette leaned over and whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, “Delphine, that boy isfine.”
“Claudette, hush,” Mama said, but she was smiling.
