Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
“Lots going on. We’ll see you for Christmas.”
“What’s Tremaine doing for the holidays?”
“The boys will spend Christmas Eve with her, and then she and Kent are going to his parents’ for Christmas Day.”
“How her folks doing?” Mama asks, the tiniest bit of reserve entering her voice.
“They’re good. The boys will see them maybe on winter break.”
Tremaine’s parents weren’t as understanding as mine about autism. They kept thinking we could just discipline the boys out of meltdowns. That the boys weren’t sleeping because kids don’t like to sleep and if we imposed restrictions, they would “cave” and sleep more at night. When we were trying elimination diets to identify any allergies the boys might have, they would ignore our instructions and feed Aaron and Adam whatever was in the house. It was always something with them, and I refused to subject my boys to their ignorance and stubborn insistence that they knew best when they didn’t know jack shit about what we were dealing with. They’ve gotten better, but I’m still wary about leaving the boys alone with them for long.
“Goodbye,” Aaron says, standing. He takes his dish to the sink, rinses it off, and loads it into the dishwasher.
Mama doesn’t miss a beat but just waves. “Bye, baby. You be a good boy for your daddy.”
Aaron doesn’t respond but climbs the stairs.
“Bye, MawMaw.” Adam stands and clears his plate, too, loading it into the dishwasher and following Aaron.
“I really know how to clear a room, huh?” Mama laughs.
“They love you, but the pull of their video games got to be too strong,” I joke, scraping the last of my rice and green beans up, grinning while I chew. “Where’s Dad?”
“On my nerves. Ever since that man retired, he’s been like a caged animal, prowling around here all the time looking for stuff to fix or hang or trim. It’s downright unsettling.”
At seventy, my father is nearly ten years older than my mother. She was twenty and he was twenty-nine when they had me. She’ll retire soon from her job as a nurse, but for now she’s still going strong at the hospital.
“Hey, at least you come home to a clean house and a home-cooked meal every night now that Dad’s home, right?” I deadpan, knowing damn well he’s asking her what’s for dinner as soon as she walks through the door.
“Boy, you know your daddy better than that.” She rolls her eyes and laughs. “But I will say he found all these easy Crock-Pot recipes online. He even made one last week. It was pretty good. I was shocked.”
“My father, Belmont Cross, cooked a meal?”
“He’s on the internet all the time now. Mostly Facebook, and he found this lady who has a recipe and a life hack for everything. She’s in Atlanta, I think.”
It could be anyone. Atlanta’s a huge city, and the internet makes the possibilities infinite, but something makes me ask, “What’s her name?”
“That Puerto Rican lady, Soledad something,” Mama mutters, brow furrowing, possibly with the effort to recall more. “Pretty. Smart. Your dad loves to watch her.”
“Must run in the family,” I mumble.
“All I know is I came home and one of her recipes was in that Crock-Pot and he wasn’t asking me for nothing. I approve. She’s great.”
“She is. I, um, know her. I mean, like in real life.”
“How so?” Curiosity spikes in Mama’s eyes.
“Remember that huge embezzlement case I worked on at CalPot?”
“Yeah.”
“Her husband was the thief.”
“You sent her husband to jail?” Mama whistles. “Bet she can’t stand the sight of you.”
“Actually”—I suppress a grin—“I think she likes me a lot. Almost as much as I like her.”
It’s so quiet, the hum of the refrigerator is the only sound for a few seconds.
“Do you mean like?” Mama’s eyes saucer. “You like her? She likes you?”
My almost-grin drops into a scowl. “You don’t have to sound so shocked that she would like me. Wow.”
“You’ve been divorced almost four years, Judah, and, as far as I know, have never shown much interest in anyone besides your boys and your laptop, so forgive me if I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Not like we’re in a relationship or anything,” I admit… reluctantly.
“Well, no, because your daddy told me she’s not dating. Got that whole hashtag datemyself thing going on.”
“You know about that?”
“Is she dating you?” Mama frowns. “Now that just don’t seem right to have all these girls running around here dating themselves when she dating you.”
“We’re not dating.”
“But I thought you said you liked her liked her.”
“I do.”
“And she likes you?”
Don’t stop.
Soledad’s parting words have haunted me ever since she spoke them, had me tossing in my sleep, playing on repeat in my head. I’ve taken those two words as something to hold on to until I can hold on to her.
“Yeah, I think she likes me, but she’s self-partnering.”
“Lord, if these girls don’t be making stuff up.”