Page 161 of Can't Get Enough

“I believe you. I believeinyou.”

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. Ileave 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.

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