Page 38 of Crash: Love in Scrubs
We didn’t have much growing up, but we had enough, and most importantly we had each other. The hand-me-down furniture, a refrigerator that hummed that I eventually got used to, carpet worn thin in the high-traffic areas gave my life character. My mama made sure our house felt like a home. Fresh flowers in mason jars on the kitchen table. The smell of Pine-Sol and apple cinnamon candles. Pictures of me in football gear covering every available surface, even when we could barely afford the equipment. My mom now had land, a beautiful five-bedroom home that I had built from the ground up. Now she didn’t have to live like that. I was proud to say that I had something to do with it.
Those were the private conversations I was having with Samaj. I respected him wanting to be his own man, but if that meant not taking care of his mother, we were gonna have problems. My mother was my rock, and she made meresponsible. She helped shape me into a man without ever making me act as her man, she never needed that. She knew how to get it out the mud on her own and never put me in inappropriate positions or made our relationship weird. I could tell Sametra was raising Samaj the same way, with that perfect balance of love and boundaries.
LT: Doors open. I’m on the back patio.
I grabbed the bag from my passenger seat and headed to the front door. True to her word, it was unlocked. As I stepped inside, I could see what I’d only glimpsed from the driveway, love made visible in the details. Family photos covering the mantle, throw pillows arranged on a sectional couch. The house was quiet, and I could hear soft music coming from the back, along with the gentle sound of water, maybe a fountain or something.
This was what I’d been missing in my pristine house with its picture-perfect rooms and not a damn thing out of place. This was home. Real home. The kind you built with someone, not bought with a paycheck.
“You back there, beautiful?” I called out, making my way through the living room.
“Come on back,” her voice floated through the sliding door.
I stepped onto the patio and had to pause for a second. She was curled up on the sectional patio set, legs tucked under her, wearing a simple dress that made her look soft and relaxed in a way I’d like to see every day. Her hair was down, curls catching the string lights they had wrapped around the patio posts. A glass of wine sat on the small table next to her, and she looked up at me with that smile that had been messing with my head all week.
This was her. This was how she looked when she let her guard down. Comfortable, beautiful, at peace.
“Where’s Samaj?” I asked, settling into the chair next to her.
“Knocked out. He went to bed early.” She gestured to the bag in my hands. “What’d you bring me?”
“Dessert,” I said, holding up the container. “I didn’t want to come empty-handed.”
“My country boy,” she grinned, making me do the same. “Your mama made it?” Her face lit up, and something in my chest did a little flip at that expression.
“Nah, I made it. But it's her recipe, so technically it’s still hers.” I smiled, thinking about the countless times Mama had walked me through this same recipe over FaceTime. “My mama is still back in Alabama. She likes it there, says Colorado’s too far from her church, bingo friends, and her garden.”
“I bet she’s sweet. I’d love to meet her one day.”
The casual way she said it, like meeting my mama was a given and not a maybe, made something settle in my chest.
“It sounds like you’ve accepted that you stuck with me.” She giggled and leaned back as I continued, “She’d love you. Probably try to feed you until you can’t move and get weird about giving her grandbabies.”
Sametra laughed, that sound I was already addicted to. “Well, tell her I can hold my own in the kitchen, so we’d get along just fine. And if it’s not babies its marriage with these parents. I get it.”
I set the container on the little table between our chairs, my eyes on her. She was so beautiful, it took my breath away.
“You cook?” She looked impressed, uncurling from her chair to lean closer. I removed the container from the bag and popped the top.
“Spoons are in the second drawer. You gotta wiggle the drawer a little though.”
I stepped into her spot, taking my time to really see her space. The kitchen was tight, but everything had its place, with little details that were pure Sametra: a coffee mug that said “World’s Okayest Mom,” a grocery list stuck up with a fire truck magnet, Samaj's baseball schedule, and pictures of him and her at different ages covered the fridge.
I tried the drawer and felt it catch halfway. “This track is just loose,” I said, pulling it out completely to check the slides. “You got a screwdriver?”
“You don't have to do th…” She tried to say before I gave her a look that said to let me do this.
“Fine.”
“Second drawer down?” I was already checking, finding a small Phillips head. It took maybe thirty seconds to tighten the screws on the drawer slides. I slid it back in and tested it—smooth as butter now.
“There. No more wiggling required.”
She stood there watching me, “Thank you. It's been doing that for months.”
Being here felt like we’d just taken another step into trusting each other. She didn’t let just anybody into her world like this, and I wasn't taking that lightly. I knew it probably took something for her to open up to me, but I was trying to make it worth it.
I came back with two spoons. We sat down together this time, so close our knees touched.
