I walked past her into the house.
The air smelled like roasted chicken, garlic, and something sweet baking in the oven. The kind of smells that were supposed to make you feel at home.
They didn’t.
I walked into the sitting room and found Winston in his usual chair—a high-backed leather throne that he’d positioned so everyone had to look up at him when they spoke.
Alexis sat on the sofa across from him, her legs crossed at the ankle, her hands folded in her lap.
She looked up when I entered.
And smiled.
“Amai,” she said, standing. “It’s so good to finally meet you.”
She was stunning.
Exactly like the picture Mama showed me—slim thick, deep mahogany skin, hazel eyes that caught the light, a pixie cut that framed her face perfectly.
She wore a burgundy dress that hugged her curves without being too tight, and heels that made her legs look endless.
She was beautiful.
Respectable.
Safe.
And I felt absolutely nothing.
“Alexis,” I said, extending my hand.
She shook it, her grip firm but not aggressive.
“Your mother’s told me so much about you,” she said.
“All good things, I hope.”
She laughed softly. “Mostly.”
Winston cleared his throat.
I turned to look at him.
He was watching me with that expression he always wore—half pride, half disappointment, like I was simultaneously his greatest achievement and his biggest failure.
“Amai,” he said. “Sit down. You’re making Alexis nervous.”
I wasn’t.
But I sat anyway.
Alexis settled back onto the sofa, smoothing her dress over her thighs.
“So,” Winston said, leaning back in his chair. “Alexis teaches at Loyola. African American Studies. Isn’t that right?”
“That’s right,” Alexis said, smiling at him. “I focus on post-Reconstruction Southern identity and how it shaped modern Black communities.”
Winston nodded like he understood.
