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)
“Daddy wants to speak to you.”
I suck my teeth. “He can keep wanting because I—”
“Wright Bellamy,” Mama cuts in, her expression taking no excuses. “If you don’t talk to your daddy.”
I lock eyes with her, and the stern lines of her face soften.
“Please, Monk,” she says. “For me.”
“Shit,” I curse under my breath, and snatch the phone from my brother. “What you want?”
There was a time when I would not have dared speak to Pastor Wright Bellamy so disrespectfully. I didn’t believe all the things he preached, my innate skepticism making me doubt a lot of things I heard from the pulpit, but I believed he was who he said he was. With his lies, he became just another fake-ass nigga, a snake oil hustler trying to get over, and I have treated him accordingly ever since.
“I heard you were home,” my father finally replies, his deep baritone much less changed than my opinion of him. “You’ve blocked my number, so figured I’d try to catch you while Charles was there with you.”
“My food’s getting cold,” I say, sharpening the edge in my voice. “So again I ask, what do you want?”
“Just wanted to say Happy Thanksgiving. I love you, son.”
That ice around my heart cracks a little because his approval was a habit it took me a long time to break. When I was growing up, he was always at the church, so when he came home, his attention felt like gold. It felt like God’s, but this man has ashy feet of clay. I never needed him to be perfect. Just to be what he said he was.
“Okay.” I sound bored, but I’m really just mad and ready to be done with these emotions and this conversation. “That all?”
“Um, yeah. Can I speak to your mother?”
“Hell naw.” I hang up and toss the phone back to Charlie. “I’m going for a walk.”
“Monk,” Mama calls, but I don’t stop.
“I’ll be back.” I close the door to her apartment and think about the big brick house she was so proud of, the one she made our home. Technically, that house is the parish, so it stayed with the pastor, even though Mama wouldn’t. In the short distance to the sidewalk, I draw in a lungful of fresh air. I always knew I wouldn’t follow in my father’s footsteps. Even before he cheated, the career I wanted was taking me down a path he didn’t understand or approve of. I never thought, though, that we’d be here.
I take out my phone and scroll to the pic of Verity I showed Charlie. Without thinking too long, I pull up her contact and dial.
“Hey.” She sounds the way she does when she wakes in the mornings or when she’s blissed out after making love. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” I reply, a smile already quirking the corners of my mouth. “You napping?”
“That itis got me.” She yawns and laughs. “I ate too much, but it’s the only time I get neck bones.”
I bark out a laugh. “Wait, wait, wait. Did you say neck bones? Damn, Vee. How country are you?”
“Y’all don’t eat neck bones?” I hear the smile in her voice. “I’m revoking your country-boy card.”
“We do eat oxtails, so I should get points for that.”
“The Country Council will take it under consideration,” she says, giggling. “How’s home?”
“About the way I thought it would be.” My grin fades, the conversation with my father playing back in my head. “Ready to get back to campus.”
“I love seeing my aunts, but I’m ready to get back to you.”
“You have no idea,” I groan. “I miss you, Vee.”
“I’ll be back Sunday.”
I glance toward Mama’s apartment and my fractured family. I haven’t had this relationship long, but it feels like the best thing in my life right now. “I’ll see you then.”
EIGHT
Verity
January
“So when we gon’ meet this boy?” Aunt Roz asks. “You spent half Christmas break on the phone with him.”
“You’re exaggerating.” I adjust my earbud as I cross the yard at a brisk pace. I’m running late for my screenwriting class. As if I didn’t already dread going. Being late won’t help. Things have been so hectic, squeezing in a call with my aunts while I walk to class is the best way to catch up.
“And you went to see him over break, but he never came to see you,” Aunt Grace reminds me. “Is he a gentleman or what?”
Technically, we met at a hotel halfway between Georgia and Virginia. Twice. Three weeks of break was too long to go without seeing Monk. It was two days each time and we barely left the cheap hotel room because we were so consumed with each other.
“You’ll meet him soon,” I say, giving in to a smile. “You’ll love Monk.”
“What kinda name is Monk?” Aunt Grace demands.
“It’s actually Wright Bellamy. His middle name is Thelonious and so… never mind. We call him Monk.”