Page 51 of The Wright Man

Tina pulled out her gift next—a hot pink passport holder and matching luggage tag, both stamped with "Catch Flights, Not Feelings."

Tina pressed the set to her chest like it was a bouquet, grinning. "Damn. You really might love us."

I shrugged. "Y'all tolerable in small doses."

They both laughed, and for a second, it was like I'd never left.

"You better go enjoy the party," Bella said, fluffing her bob like she wasn't two seconds from crying. "It's really good to have you home, 'Leek."

I smiled. "I will. Just gotta give out one more gift."

Their eyes cut to each other, then back to me.

"Oh, we know who that's for," Tina said, one brow arched high.

"You know where to find her, right?" Bella added, eyes way too damn knowing.

"Of course."

They let me go, grinning like cats who got the cream.

"Don't fumble, soldier!" Tina called after me.

"Fix your face before you go in there looking like a lost puppy!" Bella added, then: "And pop a tic tac or something!"

I flipped them both off with a smile and turned back toward the house, heart thudding hard and loud like it was trying to run ahead of me.

One more gift.

Chapter Eight

Maleek

The sliding glass door groaned a little when I opened it—same as it always had. Even after all these years, the damn thing still stuck on the track, like it was offended at being touched. I gave it the same little jiggle I used to as a teenager, and it slid open just fine, like it remembered me too.

The floorboards creaked under my boots. Different shoes, same sound. I didn't have to look where I was going. I could walk this route blindfolded.

Up the steps. Past the framed photo of Cap and the girls at the zoo—Bella mid-scream on Cap's shoulders. Past the bathroom with the busted towel rack we broke during a game of hide-and-seek and never confessed to. Left at the linen closet where Angelica used to steal all the good bath towels for her "self-care Saturdays."

Her door was still the same soft, pale yellow. New paint, maybe, but the color hadn't changed. The nameplate she made in middle school was still crooked on the door: "Angelica's Room—Stay Out Unless You're Carrying Snacks."

I exhaled. Hard.

My hand hovered over the doorknob, heart thudding against my ribs like I was 17 again, sneaking in to steal a hug or a laugh or a few minutes of peace.

I opened the door.

It looked different, of course. Grown woman touches from her visits home from college. A vanity covered in perfume bottles and edge control. A wall-mounted shelf full of books with titles about healing, leadership, and Black history. A plush bench at the foot of the bed instead of her old beanbag chair.

But the bones were the same.

The bed, still facing the window. Her favorite bedspread with the sunflowers on it, still folded at the top. That framed poster of Love & Basketball still hanging above her desk, next to a black-and-white photo of Mama.

And then there she was.

Angelica.

That first look was no fluke. She looked good. Distractingly good.