Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“Sorry we’re late,” Shrieva says, plopping down into one of the two empty seats at the table. “Kitchen ran over.”
“Oh,” Mama says, her smile tight. “Good turnout this year?”
“More than we’ve ever had,” Charlie says, reaching for the corn bread before his butt even hits the seat. “Felicia’s really built that program up.”
Mama’s fork freezes halfway to her mouth at the mention of my father’s new girlfriend, maybe soon-to-be wife.
“Shoot,” Charlie says, his eyes concerned at our mother’s reaction. “I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean to—”
“Baby, it’s fine.” Mama reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. “It’s good the program is growing. Means more folks are getting fed. That’s what’s important.”
I glare at my brother as soon as Mama lowers her head and resumes eating.
Sorry, he mouths silently, shrugging.
Shrieva rolls her eyes and shoves a forkful of collard greens into her mouth. We fall into a strained silence, only broken by the scrape and drag of silverware across plates and the occasional slurp of sweet tea.
“So tell us about this new girl you got, Monk,” Mama says, that stiff smile I hate firmly fixed in place.
“What girl?” Shrieva asks, her head swinging around to study me more closely. “You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend.”
“Guess it didn’t come up in our weekly phone calls,” I say, sarcasm dripping from every word. “When was the last time we talked?”
“Is it my fault you stopped calling?” she fires back. “Stopped answering your phone?”
“If your whole life didn’t revolve around that church,” I say, “maybe we’d have more to talk about.”
“Maybe if you talked about something other than music and school,” Charlie interjects.
“I’m a college student,” I say dryly. “I talk about college shit.”
“Monk,” Mama chides. “Don’t cuss at my table.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, but lift a brow at my brother. “It’s not too late for you to go to college.”
“I’m happy at Hope,” Charlie says flatly. “If you came visit sometimes, you’d see what good work we’re doing.”
I snort my skepticism, but out of respect for Mama, drop the subject.
“So,” Shrieva tries again. “This new girl. What’s her name?”
I drag my fork through the mac and cheese, an involuntary smile working its way onto my face at the thought of her. “Verity.”
“Tell us about her, son,” Mama says, sitting back in her chair and giving me her full attention.
I shrug. “She’s a junior. Film major. Terrific writer.”
“You got a picture?” Shrieva asks around a mouthful of food.
“Yeah.” I retrieve my phone and scroll through my photos to find one of us together. “Here.”
It’s a selfie I took recently, a few days before Thanksgiving break. It wasn’t too cool outside and we had spread a quilt on the grass in the arboretum. Verity is sitting between my knees, leaned back on my chest, a copy of The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni open on her stomach. Her full lips are curved into the sweetest smile, but the secret mischief I love dances in her eyes. A bouquet of curls is gathered on her head and spills over her brows, a few tendrils escaping around her ears. She looks soft and freshly kissed. I look… wow. Besotted.
The picture doesn’t lie.
We haven’t been together that long, just three weeks, but it already feels so right with her. She skipped class the day before we left for Thanksgiving and we stayed in bed all day, reading, eating, and not caring about the crumbs in my sheets. Making love.
It’s only been two days, but I miss her so bad it’s like a dull knife lodged under my ribs.
“Hmmm.” Charlie narrows his eyes on the photo and digs into his corn pudding. “I hope y’all ain’t fornicating.”
“Every chance we get,” I say without missing a beat, holding his outraged stare defiantly.
“Monk,” Mama admonishes half-heartedly, fighting a grin. “Now, you know better.”
Mama’s not as uptight as she was when she was Hope’s first lady. She found another church, attends faithfully, and sits in a middle pew, blending in with everybody else. She sings in the choir first and third Sundays. The tension that used to exist between us because we didn’t see things the same way isn’t there anymore. She seems content to let me figure out what I believe for myself. The rest of my family, however…
“Don’t even try to abstain,” Charlie mutters.
“Ask your daddy about abstaining.” I toss a napkin over my plate and send Mama an apologetic glance. “Sorry for cussing at the table, but this self-righteous asshole—”
“Both of you.” Shrieva bounces a pleading look between Charlie and me. “Just stop!”
“He started it!” Charlie points a long, accusatory finger at me, but is interrupted by the cell phone ringing in his pocket. He pulls it out and frowns at the screen before answering. “Daddy, everything okay? You need me?”
His frown deepens, eyes slitted with irritation aimed at me. He extends the phone.