Page 44 of Love Letters from a Libra
I shook hands with each woman, meeting their gaze, and directly offering a smile that charmed clients and disarmed skeptical security teams. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you all. Zanaa speaks of you constantly.”
“Hmm, that tie is designer. You have expensive taste,” Aunt Camille noted, neither approving nor disapproving.
“A gift from a client after I kept their financial data from ending up on the dark web,” I answered honestly.
Zanaa jumped in. “He’s being modest. His company basically saved a black-owned financial tech start-up from complete destruction. It made the newspaper.”
“We read it. Impressive work,” Toni complimented.
“Thank you,” I replied, simply refusing to either preen or diminish the compliment or the accomplishment.
Mama Tilda finally spoke, her voice rich with age and wisdom. “Come sit by me, young man. These women will talk your ear off in the hallway, and my cobbler is getting cold.”
That broke the tension, sending everyone toward the dining room where the table was set with what appeared to be the family’s best china. Zanaa took my hand, guiding me to the restroom so we could wash our hands.
Back in the dining room, I was guided to sit beside Mama Tilda with Aunt Camille and Toni directly across from me, the hot seat unmistakably.
The food arrived in waves, including crispy fried chicken, collard greens fragrant with smoked turkey, cornbread, mac and cheese with a perfectly browned crust, and sweet tea in crystal glasses. It was a feast designed to impress, comfort, and maybe intimidate all at once.
Small talk lasted through the first helping—questions about my company, compliments on the food, and nice stories about Zanaa’s latest workshop. Still, as the plates were cleared for seconds, Aunt Camille set down her fork, the gentle click somehow sounding like a judge’s gavel.
“Jules, tell us about your intentions with our Zanaa,” she asked, folding her hands beneath her chin.
Toni leaned forward while Zanaa’s mother paused in serving more mac and cheese, all attention now focused on me. Only Mama Tilda seemed unperturbed, continuing to enjoy her sweet tea with a slight smile planted at the corners of her mouth.
“Aunt Camille,” Zanaa protested, but I touched her arm gently.
“It’s a fair question. I respect that you want to protect her.” I met the older woman’s gaze directly.
“Then answer it,” Toni challenged, her protective energy palpable across the table.
I sipped the sweet tea, gathering my thoughts. This wasn’t the time for practiced charm or strategic vagueness. These women had likely seen every variety of a smooth-talking man come through that door.
“My intentions are to continue showing up, to keep choosing Zanaa every day, not because the stars say we’re compatible or because it is convenient, but because what we’re building feels worth the work. I’m not in a rush, but I know when something feels worth showing up for,” I answered.
The silence that followed felt weighted with evaluation. Zanaa’s hand found mine under the table in silent support.
“What about marriage and children? Zanaa isn’t getting any younger,” Aunt Camille questioned.
“Aunt Camille!” Zanaa’s protest was louder this time, her cheeks flushing.
“We’re still getting to know each other, but I don’t enter relationships lightly. When and if we decide those steps make sense for us, it won’t be because of external timelines or pressure,” I answered honestly.
“Smart answer,” Toni murmured, the first crack in her armor showing.
“Too smart,” her mother countered, but her eyes softened slightly.
Mama Tilda rejoined the conversation, her voice like a warm knife cutting through the tension like butter. “The cobbler is getting cold, and y’all are interrogating this poor man like he’s on trial. You seem solid, young man. Time will tell if you are as good as your word.” Mama Tilda patted my hand with fingers that had likely prepared thousands of meals and stroked countless tears away.
“Yes, ma’am,” I responded with genuine respect.
“Now, who’s ready for dessert? Zanaa, quit clutching that boy’s hand like he’s about to bolt. If your grip hasn’t scared him off yet, my cobbler certainly won’t,” Mama Tilda continued.
The laughter that followed broke the remaining tension, and as Zanaa released my hand with a sheepish smile, I felt something shift in the room. Not exactly acceptance, but the possibility of it. The opening of a door I was determined to walk through, one Sunday brunch at a time.
After dinner, the backyard offered a welcome reprieve from the intensity of brunch while Zanaa helped clear plates inside. I found myself on dog duty, a golden retriever named Huckleberry, who apparently belonged to Toni but lived with her mother, because her apartment building didn’t allow pets.
He was a friendly and dignified old soul in a furry body who seemed to understand that I needed air. I scratched behind his ears, his tail, thumping steadily against the neatly trimmed grass. “At least you’re easy to impress,” I murmured as he responded by leaning his substantial weight against my legs.
