CHAPTER 52

HENDRIX

I have something for you.”

I should be used to hearing those words from Maverick by now. If ever a man was determined to shower a woman with gifts, he is. The flowers arriving wherever I am. The diamond-and-platinum lower grill with my initials that showed up at Mama’s house after I casually mentioned I liked one Beyoncé was rocking. I’ve taken care of myself and others for so long, I almost forgot how it feels for someone else to want to take care of me.

Or as an adult… have I ever really known?

Because sometimes it feels like new emotions were invented for this thing that has blossomed between the two of us. I’m not sure how to name it, and it’s articulated only in the pace of my heart when I think of him. In the hitch of my breath when I first see him. In the thrum of home, home, home beneath every second we’re together. Of course, we’ve said we love each other, but that feels inadequate. Almost cliché. I’ve heard it used so often in the past, but the depth, the care that is developing in our relationship, I’ve rarely seen. Never experienced firsthand.

“What do you have for me?” I ask, resting my bottom on the edge of Daddy’s old desk. We’ve still been working out of Mama’s house for the last week, but Maverick leaves today and I’m heading back to Atlanta next week. Aunt Geneva’s doctor gave her the official all clear a few days ago.

“A gift.” He scoots the office chair closer and pulls me from my perch on the desk down to his lap. “But you don’t have to accept it.”

I lean into his neck, breathing in the clean smell of him, and chuckle.

“When have I ever turned down a gift?”

“This one carries some responsibility,” he says, pulling back to peer into my face. “For real. If you decide you don’t want this, I’ll find another home for it.”

“It needs a home ?” My brows draw together, but my smile stays fixed in place. “I think you’re taking ‘diamonds are a girl’s best friend’ too literally.”

“Not diamonds this time.” He laughs, reaching down to caress the unicorn ankle bracelet I can’t seem to make myself remove even if I’m lounging at home in cutoffs and a ratty T-shirt. “You want to see?”

I link our fingers on his chest and nod. “Gimme.”

“Okay.” He leans forward and grabs his phone, typing out a text. “It’s outside.”

“It’s outside?” I slide off his lap and stand. “You better not have gotten me a car, Mav.”

“Oh, you’d turn down a Bentley?”

“Hell, no.” I toss my head back and laugh. “You know I wouldn’t.”

“Well, this is not that.” He takes my hand and leads me out of the office and up the hall. “It’s even better. I mean, if you want to keep it.”

“Why do you keep thinking I won’t want to keep it?”

Before he can answer, a sharp bark pierces the air. I stop, keeping his hand and pulling him up short. He grins over his shoulder at me.

“You didn’t,” I gasp, not sure how I feel about what that bark portends.

“Remember.” He steps close and kisses my forehead. “You don’t have to keep her.”

“Her?”

I walk around him and rush ahead. A guy holding a tiny dog stands in the living room beside a grinning Aunt Geneva.

“Mr. Bell,” he says, stroking the dog’s head. “Got your message to come on in.”

“Thank you.” Maverick walks over and takes the little dog into his arms.

“He’s the cutest thing,” Aunt Geneva purrs, looking lovesick already.

“She,” Maverick and I correct in unison.

Maverick walks closer, not making any move to hand over the Yorkshire terrier.

“You did once tell me a dog would be the closest you’d come to a maternal instinct,” he teases, but watches me closely with lifted brows. “What do you think?”

“I’m not sure yet.” I reach out a tentative hand and rub her silky head. The fur is trimmed short, a rich caramel color streaked with dark chocolate. She peers at me over Maverick’s arm, giving me a look that must epitomize what they mean by puppy-dog eyes. My heart turns to a glob and I reach for her.

“You’re the prettiest girl,” I coo, holding her loosely against my chest. Her little paws tap my arm over and over like she hears some rhythm in her head. “You playing the drums for me?”

I laugh when her light taps continue, accompanied by staccato yelps.

“My little drummer girl,” I say with a laugh.

“Yours if you want,” Maverick interjects. “She comes housebroken and with some basic training, but if you decide you don’t want her—”

“I do.” I bury my nose in her clean-smelling fur. “I want her. Thank you, Mav.”

I kiss his cheek and blink away tears. Maverick has given me so many gifts, but this one, a tiny life I’m responsible for, moves me the most. It shows how well he knows me. I love taking care of people. My friends, my family. I have so much love to give, and it would be easy to assume that because I don’t want children, I don’t want the responsibility of caretaking. There’s nothing further from the truth. The chance to be an auntie to Soledad’s and Yasmen’s kids is an honor I’m so grateful for. Being there for my friends however they need me—one of my greatest joys. And being free to devote so much time to take care of my mother in this final stretch of her journey—

I’d never abdicate that daughter’s privilege. Maverick trusts me to choose where I pour my love instead of making the assumptions culture imposes on who should receive it. I’ve felt desired before. I’ve felt needed.

Now I know what it means to feel seen. To feel known.

Late that night, our bellies are full of Aunt Geneva’s lasagna and the laughter chimes through the whole house. My new pup’s personality may be too big for such a tiny body. She bounds all over the place, her energy brightening the room like sunshine even after the sun sets.

“Thought of a name yet?” Maverick asks from beside me on the couch, his arm draped around my shoulders.

The puppy hops from one spot to the next, pounding on pillows and tapping anything she can reach with her paws.

“Don’t laugh,” I say, side glancing him. “Sheila E.”

He snickers and shakes his head. “That’s actually perfect and feels exactly like what you would name your dog.”

“It’s the drumming.”

“Um, yeah.” He chuckles and kisses the top of my head. “I got that.”

“Want me to wrap up some of this lasagna to take with you, Mav?” Aunt Geneva asks from the living room door.

“No, I’ll be fine,” he says, smiling. “But thank you.”

“All right,” she says. “Well, I’mma turn in. Your mama’s already asleep, Hen. Working out in that garden has been good for her. She’s definitely been sleeping better lately.”

“Agreed,” I say. “Night, Aunt G.”

Maverick stands, crosses over, and gives my aunt a quick hug. “Thank you for all your hospitality. I’ll see you soon, I’m sure.”

“I hope so.” She glances at me, her look rueful and uncertain. “With Hendrix heading back to Atlanta next week, not sure when.”

I keep my features neutral, but Aunt Geneva and I need to continue our discussion about things that need to change. One of them is living arrangements. I draw a breath, already bracing myself for that tough talk. Neither my mother nor my aunt will want to hear what I have to say, but it has to be said. It won’t be easy, but after the scare we had, I think we at least have to consider it.

“You okay?” Maverick asks, settling back beside me on the couch once Aunt Geneva leaves.

“Of course.” I shoot him a quick smile.

“You just looked…” He shrugs. “Kind of sad for a second there.”

“Yeah.” I sigh, forgetting how closely Maverick watches me, how in tune he can be to what I’m feeling. “Just some hard conversations we need to have about what’s next.”

“I figured as much.”

I lay my palm against the hard, stubbled line of his jaw and smile. “That is not what I want to talk about in your last few minutes here.”

“I don’t want to go.” He leans forward and presses his forehead to mine. “Don’t want to leave you.”

“Come to the A when you’re done.”

“I will.” He frowns. “But first I want to hear what Kenan Ross and these guys he’s pulled together have to say.”

“These are all owners in the league?”

“Yeah. My team has been digging like gophers into Andy. Looking for anything we can use against him.”

“Anything surfaced?”

Taking Andy Carverson down won’t solve Aspire’s lawsuit problem, but watching him fall would give me the tiniest pop of petty joy in a dire situation.

“We’ve unearthed several former Vipers employees whose accusations of discrimination were shut down,” Maverick says. “Women who complained of sexual harassment were threatened, lost their jobs, were manipulated into silence. Black folks who left the company citing a hostile workplace. There’s something there, and I won’t stop looking until we’ve found all of it. And once we do…” A grim smile sketches lines around Maverick’s full lips. “Once we do, I’mma run his ass out the league and get my team not only cheaper than before, but without having to keep him on the board. Watch and see.”

“I believe you. I believe in you.”

I take his mouth in a kiss that burns so hot it incinerates the last of my doubts, and it tastes like hope and tenderness. It is sweet on my tongue. When his hand slips under my T-shirt to knead my breast, I bite my lip to suppress the moan making its way up my throat. Mama is a light sleeper, and I can’t count on whatever choir Aunt Geneva is ending the day with to drown out my screams. I pull away, both of us gasping with the quick-building passion that seems even more intense since we said we loved each other.

“You sure you don’t want to come back to the hotel with me tonight?” He pants into my neck, his fingers skimming my spine and making me shiver.

“I want to.” I breathe out a laugh and kiss along his jaw. “But I don’t have much time left here before I’m back in Atlanta. We’ll make up for it when you come next week.”

“I already miss you,” he whispers with a kiss.

“I didn’t think missing someone before they’re gone was a thing.” I wrap my arms around his waist and press close. “But you’ve proved me wrong.”

“You miss him already, too?” I ask Sheila E later that night out in the backyard with her while she does her business. She squats and blinks at me like I should look away and give her some privacy. “You probably don’t know him well enough yet to miss him, but you will.”

We step into the kitchen and I open the refrigerator, contemplating a late-night square of Aunt Geneva’s lasagna.

“It’s even better the next day.” I lift the foil from the pan slotted between other dishes. “And, yes, I know technically she just cooked it today, but you know what I mean.”

Sheila E settles into the bed I keep in here for her and falls into a light snooze. A muffled sound makes me pause reaching for a plate. I leave the kitchen, guided to the living room by the sound of soft footsteps and muttered speech. Mama paces in front of the living room window, every few seconds stopping to pull the curtain back.

“I told that man,” Mama mutters, the lapels of her robe gripped between her fingers as she walks a worn path in front of the window. “Old stubborn fool.”

Oh, please no.

My shoulders droop and my heart plummets. There is a part of me that wants to run and bring Aunt Geneva to handle this, for her to be the one who steps back in time to one of the most painful nights of our family’s history and bring Mama home.

But I’m here.

“Mama,” I say, keeping my voice low and even. “It’s late. Come on to bed.”

“Bed?” She whirls around, brows furrowed with worry, one of her rollers slipping from a curl. “I can’t. Your daddy still ain’t back. I told him not to go get me that ice cream.”

Her features soften into affection. “You know how he gets, though. He was determined I’d have that ice cream before bed. He’s been gone for what seems like hours, though.”

More and more, the present is becoming a foreign, fractured world of strangers. The past is familiar. The love of her life is there, alive and hale. Whole. Frozen in their best days. Is it selfish to keep trying to drag her back here? Are we the comfort? Or are we the ghosts? Having seen that fresh devastation in her eyes, I’ll never tell her again. The truth is not the most important thing. Her peace is.

“He’ll be back, Mama.”

At my words, her frightened eyes do a slow slide from the empty street beyond the window and over to me. “He will?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I approach and slip my elbow through the crook of hers. “I’m thinking while we wait, maybe we should watch a movie or something.”

“A movie? We haven’t done that in a long time.” Her expression brightens, but she searches my face as if for confirmation. “Have we?”

“No, you’re right. We haven’t.” I guide us into the living room and settle Mama on the couch.

Mama still has a DVD player because she always insisted she’d need it to play her favorite movies. I blow the dust off the technological relic and rummage through the basket of discs she always keeps close by until I find the one I’m looking for.

“ Sister Act !” I grin triumphantly and hold up the tattered disc.

“Two?” Mama asks suspiciously.

“The first one is better,” I say, smiling at our old argument. “You know that.”

“But the second one has L. Boogie.”

My seventy-five-year-old mother calling Lauryn Hill “L. Boogie” has me cackling, but I just nod and slip the disc in. As usual, when we reach Lauryn’s solo, “His Eye Is on the Sparrow,” Mama hums along. We both do. As the credits roll, Mama turns to me, staring at my profile long enough that I’m forced to turn and meet her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“You see that poem right there?” She nods to the opposite wall where “Footprints” has hung for as long as I can remember. It’s always been one of Mama’s favorites.

“Of course.” I shift to settle more comfortably against the cushions. “What about it?”

“You ever really read it?”

I glance from her to the wall, allowing my eyes to skim the familiar stanzas. “Sure. I mean, not in a long time, but I know it. The person says they see two sets of footprints, but at the lowest times of their life, it’s just one set.”

“Right, and they ask God why He left when things were hardest.”

“Yeah, I know it almost by heart,” I say wryly.

“I read it now and think about it differently.” She swallows and fiddles with one of her Velcro rollers. “When I look at those disappearing footsteps now, I see us.”

“Us?” My brows pinch into a frown. “You and me?”

“I’m the one vanishing, Hen.” She breathes out shakily. “I’m scared of the day when my body is still here, but I’m gone for good. I mean in my mind, gone for good.”

“You are here.” I cup her jaw, urging her to look at me. “You’re here with me, Mama, and I’m gonna take care of you. You hear me?”

Silence greets my question, but after a few seconds, she nods, a single tear streaking down her cheek. I swipe it away with my thumb and pull her close.

“I’m not going anywhere, Mama. When those footsteps disappear, that’s me carrying you. I will never leave you alone or in the dark by yourself. Okay?”

She offers a shaky smile and leans into my arm, her head dropping to my shoulder. I force myself not to move, but sorrow and determination and gratitude and resentment and a thousand disparate emotions war inside me. While I choke back my own tears, Mama slides down until her head rests in my lap.

“John,” she whispers in a troubled sleep, a few of the rollers in her hair dislodging when she turns her head fitfully. “He home yet? I told him not to… didn’t need that ice cream.”

It’s astounding how obstinately her mind clings to certain things and lets the rest float away. I squeeze my eyes shut, but silent, hot tears scorch my face. That damn ice cream. That night is suffused with could’ve been s and never should’ve s, the hours that her mind circles over and over again searching for a different outcome. One where the love of her life is here. That night is a door that stays cracked open; one that deprived her of one last kiss. Of a final farewell. And in the fog of her memories, that door remains ajar.

He’d know. Daddy would know how to carry Mama in the lowest times when the footprints disappear. I silently promise him and myself that I’ll do my best.

With the remote, I turn off the television and lie back, my mind and heart much wearier than my body despite the lateness of the hour. Between my fingers I rub the silk-pressed curls that have slipped free of Mama’s Velcro rollers. I hold myself still while her breathing evens out. The frown pinching her brows smooths and I hope that sleep resets her mind and she can wake in the morning firmly planted in the day we are living.

My heart squeezes around the reality of my father really being gone. Of the people I’ve loved and lost. I don’t blame Mama for slipping away sometimes, her mind taking refuge where it finds it. If I could escape to a place where they were still alive, I would. Sometimes I want to say Take me with you to this place where you can still hug Daddy, still sing hymns with Grammy, and freeze-frame the best times of our lives. I can’t do that, but I can be a harbor when she comes back to this dimming present. I allow myself one last tear because it’s not actually Maverick who is teaching me how it feels to miss someone before they’re gone.

It’s Mama.