Page 93 of Worth the Trip

“She’s not my woman.”

“Yet.” I looked at him. He lifted both hands. “I ain’t said nothing.”

“You literally just did.”

“And now I’m finished.”

From across the parking lot, Malik yelled, “Coach smiling again!”

I didn’t turn around.

“Six laps next Saturday.”

His protest carried across the field.

Malcolm laughed. “Abuse of authority.”

“Individual accountability.”

“You got terminology for everything.”

“Several degrees, actually.”

“Go see Hershey, Big Dawg.”

I tossed my equipment bag into the back seat.

“That sounded almost supportive.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t.”

I shut the door and pulled away.

For once, Malcolm minded his business.

Mostly.

The grocery bags shifted against one another in the back of the SUV when I turned onto my parents’ street. I’d ordered everything the night before and picked it up after practice because treatment days had their own inventory. Milk. Fruit. Soup. Bread. Bottled water. The crackers Mama tolerated. Ginger candies she claimed tasted terrible but somehow kept in every purse she owned.

The dashboard read 11:58 when I pulled into the driveway. The front door opened before I reached it.

Lennox stood there in basketball shorts and one sock, holding a bowl large enough to feed a family reunion.

He looked at the bags looped over my arms. “You bought groceries?”

“I usually do when the house needs food.”

“Could’ve told me. I would’ve helped.”

“You watching me carry them right now.”

He stepped aside. “I’m supervising.”

“You’re eating cereal at noon.”

“It’s Saturday.”