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 glance at her, surprised, but pleased. She’s obviously going through some stuff, but at her core, she’s still that girl who loves being surrounded by her family and geeks out over holidays.
“That’s a great idea.” I smile at her and then at Kassim, whose face lights up at the suggestion.
“We always go around the table and say what we’re grateful for,” Deja tells everyone.
“Glad you remembered, Day,” Yasmen says, linking her hands under her chin. “You want to start?”
“Oh, sure,” Deja says. “I’m grateful for all my new followers. You can find me at Kurly Girly on the Gram and TikTok.”
Everyone laughs as expected, and Deja’s grin takes over her whole face.
Charmer.
We go around the table, each sharing what we’re grateful for. It’s good to hear from the Grits employees about things that are important to them, glimpses into their lives, especially Milk. He and I don’t talk much about Byrd, but if there’s anyone who misses her nearly as much as Yasmen and I do, it’s Milk. I’m not sure why I haven’t reached out to him more. Maybe on some level, he reminds me of what I’ve lost. Even the few therapy sessions I’ve had with Dr. Musa have helped me realize that when I’m hurt, I shut down and bury myself in work, which I knew. But I’m also realizing how much I isolate, lick my wounds alone. Maybe subconsciously, because I’ve lost so much, I’m afraid that someday I will be alone.
If I were in front of Dr. Musa, I’d laugh with him about his psychobabble bullshit rubbing off on me.
“What I’m grateful for?” Yasmen tilts her head. “Wow. I’m not sure where to start. I’m gonna have to cheat and say more than one.”
She drops her eyes to the remnants of the meal on her plate, biting her lip and toying with her fork.
“My kids. They’re honestly the reason I’m even still here.” She looks up with wide eyes, like she’s said something she hadn’t intended to. “I just mean, everyone knows it’s been a hard couple of years. Deja and Kassim, you guys mean everything. I’m grateful for friends who feel like sisters. And I think I’m most grateful for time, which doesn’t always heal all wounds, but teaches us how to be happy again even with our scars.”
Her words drift over us, landing with some even more than others. Carole blinks rapidly, toughing out the threat of tears. Even she couldn’t reach her daughter when Yas was at her lowest point. Seeing Carole here, laughing with Yasmen again, makes this holiday even more special.
“Kassim,” Yasmen says. “Your turn.”
Kassim sits up straighter, and you’d think he was at the head of a class preparing to give a report. I’m not sure where the overachiever gene was strongest, me or Yasmen, but Kassim must have gotten a double dose.
“I’m grateful for therapy,” Kassim says without hesitation. “Dr. Cabbot’s cool. I like having someone to talk to.”
It’s so simple, but so profound, this kid saying he’s in therapy and that it helps him. How many adults never admit they need help? Need someone to talk to? Never get the help I’ve begun to understand therapy can offer? A quick dart of shame pierces me. At ten years old, my son is braver with his feelings than I’ve ever been. I look up to find Yasmen’s eyes not on Kassim, but on me. Pleasure, pride—there’s some mixture of them clear in the small crook of her smile.
After dessert, some guests leave, some camp out in front of the television for football.
“This has been so great,” Vashti whispers to me. “I loved it.”
“I’m glad. You ready to head out?” She nods and I look around, but there’s no sign of my kids. “Let me tell Kassim and Deja we’re leaving.”
“Tell them goodbye for me. I’m headed to the car. I was up late and early cooking. I’m exhausted.”
“And I told you there was nothing to be nervous about,” I tease. “Carole doesn’t even bite.”
“She’s wonderful. I’m gonna tell her goodbye and thank her for everything.”
I head up the stairs, pretty sure I know where Deja is. Sure enough, she has her phone and tripod set up, along with an array of hair products. With promises not to spend the whole night on her phone, she kisses me and pushes me back out. Kassim is also in his room, wearing his headset and playing video games with Jamal. Otis drowses at his feet.
“Hey, Dad,” he says, eyes never leaving the action on-screen. “Can Otis stay with me tonight?”
I glance down at Otis. It’s not unusual, especially on holidays, for him to stay here instead of at my place, though sometimes he whines to come home. Dog can’t stand to sleep away from me.
“Sure, but I’m not coming back if he starts crying to come home.”