Page 30 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

Because I think, and I hate to admit this, but I think the loneliness never really left me, even after all this time. It seeped into my bones, into the spaces between my ribs, settling into all the cracks where love was supposed to go. I carry it with me like a bruise, pressing on it sometimes just to see if it still hurts.

And it always does.

My smile fades.

I consider hopping on live when my phone chimes.

It’s him!

Hubby

Hey, R. My family’s having a cookout for labor day. Nothing major, just a bunch of friends and whatnot. Lemme know if you wanna pull up.

I sit up, my heart pounding in my throat.

It’s not the most elegant invitation, and he made absolutely sure I understand it’s not a marriage proposal, but that’s okay. I’ll mortar and pestle that fuckboy dialect out of him soon enough.

I wait thirty minutes or so, then I respond.

I think I can make it. Let me know where

Yasss, bitch. I’m halfway to the ring.

11

Ace

I tried and failed at leaving work shit at work. I’m in the driveway at my parents’ house sending emails and looking over plans and shit, making sure there won’t been any more fuckups. It’s a national holiday. I’m supposed to be “relaxing.” But truth be told, I didn’t need a day off. I love being productive. I can’t stand when my hands are idle. It’s just my nature.

Once that’s done, I head on in to speak to the folks who birthed me.

Jackson and Angela Taylor live in Johns Creek, which is basically what Buckhead thought it was before niggas moved in and started partying.

Cars line the long driveway, most of them foreign and expensive. I park and head up the walkway toward the big, beautiful red brick colonial my parents bought once the nest was good and empty.

It’s the kind of sprawling, perfectly symmetrical house that belongs in a magazine spread. Beautifully edged lawn, manicured hydrangeas, and double glass front doors polished so clean you can see your reflection in them.

I step through those doors, greeted by cool air and silence, passing through the foyer with its high ceilings and spiral staircase. My mother’s bougie touch is everywhere—neutral colors, art, vases and sculptures placed just-so. This is the kind of house you admire, not live in. God help the first grandkid who tries to run through this place with juice and fruit snacks.

I hear sounds of life coming from the back deck. The smell of charcoal wafts inside, mingling with the notes of the vanilla candles my mama's burning. Smells like home, not that I ever enjoy myself over here.

My pops is in the pantry, almost certainly checking something off the never-ending honey-do list.

“What’s up, old man?”

He turns to me and grins. “Baby boy.”

We embrace, but it’s brief and not especially warm. That’s not really my family’s way. We’re happy to see each other, though, and that’s what matters.

After a few back pats, we separate and I ask, “What’s Mama got you doing?”

He laughs. “Moving the water and the soda to the deck.”

“Aight, I’ll help you.”

“And then moving the deck chairs to the other side of the yard. And the table.”

I blow out a breath and hoist two packs of water into my arms. “I shoulda been on CP time.”

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