He was something else entirely.
Something dangerous.
Something I wasn’t sure I was ready for.
When we pulled up to the house, the sun was starting to set. The sky was streaked with orange and pink, and the air smelled like cut grass and somebody’s barbecue down the block.
Amai put the car in park and got out without a word.
I watched him walk around to the trunk, pop it open, and start pulling out bags like he’d done this a thousand times before.
I got out and met him at the back of the car.
“I can carry some of those,” I said.
He looked at me. “I got it.”
“Amai.”
“I said I got it.”
I didn’t argue.
He grabbed four bags in each hand like they weighed nothing and started walking toward the house.
I grabbed the last two and followed him up the cracked concrete walkway, past Mama’s flower bed that she’d been threatening to replant for three years, and up the three steps to the porch.
The screen door was open.
Inside, I could hear the TV—Criminal Minds, Mama’s favorite show. She’d seen every episode at least twice, but she still watched it like it was brand new.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Mama was sitting in her recliner, a glass of something amber in her hand, her eyes on the screen.
She didn’t look up when we walked in.
“You back,” she said, her voice flat.
“Yeah, Mama.”
“And you brought company.”
“Yeah.”
She finally looked over.
Her eyes went to Amai first—standing in the middle of her living room holding six Macy’s bags like he was a personal shopper—and then to me.
She took a slow sip of her drink.
“Well, well, well,” she said, a smile creeping across her face. “Look like you done found yourself a rich one this time, huh?”
My face got hot. “Mama.”
“I’m just sayin’.” She set her glass on the side table and stood up, smoothing down her house dress. “Last one you brought home couldn’t even afford to take you to Popeye’s. This one look like he owns the whole damn franchise.”
Amai’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
