Page 19 of Best In Class
For someone who once swore he wanted out of the Steeles’ orbit, I’m still deeply tangled in it.
Mama lives here—on Luna’s estate, in the guest cottage Luna had built just for her. And I live in Lev’s pool house. I keep telling myself I’ll buy a place soon, but the truth is…I haven’t even looked.
Because what’s the point? A house is just walls and a roof. A home is something else entirely. And it only counts if Luna’s there with me.
We visit for a while.
Mama doesn’t say it, but she knows I’m waiting forher.
The door creaks open, and a familiar voice follows the scent of honeysuckle and rose drifting in from the porch.
“Sorry, I’m late, Miss Abigail! I had a meeting run over and?—”
Luna steps in and brightens the room.
Short, wind-tousled hair, jeans that fit like sin, and a sleeveless black top that shows off lean, strong arms. She looks like a woman who’s wrestled fate and won.
My heart, like the fool it is, flips.
She kisses Mama on the cheek and then her green eyes flick briefly to mine.
“He’s staying for dinner,” Mama announces. “And I’d appreciate it if you both kept a civil tongue.”
“Mama, you know me, I’m always civil.” I put on my best schoolboy expression with a little puppy dog sprinkled over.
Luna glares at me.
“Luna,” Mama warns.
“Yes, ma’am.” Luna sticks her tongue out at me from behind Mama’s back like she did when we were kids.
I chuckle.
“I saw that,” Mama admonishes.
“How could you?” Luna demands.
“I’m a mother. I have eyes in the back of my head.
Luna disappears for a quick shower and returns dressed in loose linen trousers and a matching shirt. Effortlessly chic, she could give any off-duty supermodel a run for her money. But it’s more than the clothes. It’s the way she carries herself—graceful, grounded, and quietly magnetic.
What’s that old Clapton song? Something in the way she moves…?
Yeah. That.
The three of us sit around the worn oak table in the kitchen—the same one that was in the Steele house, the one the three of us sat at when we were kids, where homework was done, cookies were iced, and secrets were spilled.
I’m glad that this table is now with Luna. It’s like she brought a piece of all of us, our childhoods, into her present.
For a while, the only sound is of forks clinking, plates filling, and soft music from Mama’s brand-new Bose speaker (which she’s very proud of) humming in the background.
Luna passes a bowl of okra stew and cornbread, which I take a third helping of. I’ve missed my Mama’s cooking.
“You’re both behaving yourself as you work on building that hospital?” Mama asks as she leans back in the chair.
“I am,” I say, amused. “She’s not.”
“Tattletale,” she retorts softly. But there’s no bite to it; just a hint of shared memory, of familiarity that feels good.
