Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
“I’ll try not to. What’s the plan here? What’s happening?”
“Just a few girls from school sleeping over. Did Cassie send the food I asked for?”
“Yeah. I just dropped everything off in the kitchen.” I hesitate, not wanting to cast a cloud over her day, but needing to discuss something with her. “Hey, for your cake—”
“I know.” She rolls her eyes. “Mom told me she wanted to make it. Should I warn everybody it probably won’t be any good?”
My irritation spikes. Yasmen wasn’t in the kitchen when Kassim let me in to drop off the food, but the cake she baked was on the counter under glass. I knew immediately what she had done.
“Day.” I catch and hold her eyes, touching her shoulder gently. “She made limoncello pound cake.”
“She did? That’s my favorite. Aunt Byrd’s the only one who ever made it for me.”
“I know, but I’m sure your mom found the recipe in Byrd’s notebook and wanted to try.”
“Oh.” She bites her lip. “Okay.”
“Can you just be kind to your mother for me?”
“Even if it tastes like crap, you mean? Just fake it?”
“You remember that ashtray you made when you were in second grade?”
“Yeah.” She grins up at me. “It’s on your desk at work.”
“It’s hideous.”
Her smile falls and her eyes narrow.
“If you so grown,” I say, lightening my tone, “you’re old enough to know the only reason that thing is on my desk is because you made it. I don’t even smoke. It’s not about how much I love it, but about how much I love you.”
She nods and I push thick curls away from her face, leaning down to kiss her forehead.
The doorbell rings, and she beams like sunshine.
“They’re here.”
She runs down the hallway to the foyer to open the door just as Yasmen descends the stairs. The braids are gone and her natural hair is out in a curly Afro. She’s added some color, brownish-gold highlights, and it’s a bright contrast with the deep copper of her skin.
“Hey.” She takes the last few steps until she’s standing in front of me.
“Hey.” I stuff my hands into my pockets because she looks good enough to grab. “How you doing?”
“Good.” She glances over my shoulder to the foyer, where Deja’s squealing friends spill into the house. “You ready?”
“If you are.”
Over the next few hours, the house is overrun by a pack of thirteen- and fourteen-year-old girls. They eat their way through all the food Cassie sent. A mound of wrapping paper and boxes grows as Deja opens gifts, shouting and laughing with every present revealed. She specifically told Yasmen and me she only wanted money from us because we “have no clue.”
Once the games have been played, it’s time for the cake. Yasmen seems relaxed enough as she distributes slices of the yellow cake with its ivory icing on plates to everyone. She finally makes her way over to me, offering a huge slice, not quite meeting my eyes.
“It’s delicious,” one of the girls says, slicing her fork into the cake for another bite. “You made this, Mrs. Wade?”
“Yeah.” Yasmen’s smile is hesitant, her cake on the plate in front of her untouched. “Glad you like it.”
“It tastes just like Aunt Byrd’s,” Deja says, chewing the cake and looking at her mother, no laughter in her eyes, but no malice either. “Thank you, Mom.”
Yasmen nods, smiles, and finally slices into her own piece. She looks up to find me staring and freezes, darting a look at my untouched cake.
“Scared it’s poisoned?” she teases, taking her bite.
“Nah.” I pierce the corner of my slice with the fork and bring it to my lips. “The anticipation is the best part.”
“Hmmm.” She chews, eyes never leaving my face. “Enough anticipating, Wade. Eat the cake.”
I used to watch Byrd bake this. While delicious, it was never my favorite of hers. Her chocolate cake holds that honor, but as soon as I bite into this cake, I remember why it was always such a hit. The lemon zings on your taste buds, and it’s so moist, it practically melts in your mouth. The sweet icing blends into the just-right sourness. It’s perfect.
“You’re getting pretty good at this, huh?” I lift another forkful.
“I be trying.” She laughs and uses her fork to toy with the bright yellow crumbs on her plate.
Most of the girls leave, but a few stay and head upstairs for all the teenage-girl stuff I’m afraid to think they do behind closed doors, including Soledad’s daughter, Lupe.
“Where’s Sol today?” I ask, throwing out the clear plastic plates we used for the cake.
“Lottie had stuff going on all day,” Yasmen says, washing a few dishes. “So she dropped Lupe off and ran.”
I nod, pulling the trash bag out, tying it off, and taking it to the bin in the garage. When I come back, she’s still at the sink. I stand beside her, reaching for the soap to wash my hands. Our shoulders brush, and a current of electric heat runs between us. Well, I can only speak for myself, but what I feel at the contact, it’s electric and hot, skittering across my nerve endings. I glance over at Yasmen, paused in washing the dish, hands submerged in water, her breath hitched.