Page 79 of Before I Let Go

I eat a stalling scoop of mashed potatoes, taking my time chewing and answering. “Harvey has family in Charlotte, so he’s already there for Thanksgiving and we’ll meet him.”

Vashti puts her fork down and angles a narrowed look my way. “So it’s just you and Yasmen traveling?”

“Yeah,” Deja pipes in from beside Vashti, her mouth full of something. “Grandma’s staying with us. She’ll make us clean everything. I hope she doesn’t cook chitterlings again. Have you ever had them, V?”

Vashti tears her eyes away from mine to answer Deja. “What? I’m sorry. Have I ever had what?”

“Chitterlings.” Deja covers her mouth, eyes twinkling. “They stink so bad.”

“I wash ’em in Clorox,” Carole interjects, laughing at both Deja’s and Vashti’s horrified expressions. “All the poison boils right off. Ain’t nobody ever died eating my chitlings. Y’all don’t know what’s good. I’ll save you some, Vashti.”

“Um, that’s okay. No, thank you.” Vashti manages a small laugh, but her sober eyes return to me and I know she’s still thinking of the implications of Yasmen and me traveling together. There shouldn’t be implications. We’re two adults who are no longer married and have moved on, even dating other people.

And yet…I hadn’t mentioned it to Vashti because I feel some type of way about it myself. It waffles between dread and anticipation. I squash it because it’s irrational and dangerous and useless.

“It’s such a quick trip,” I remind her, squeezing her hand again.

“I know. I just wish you had told me.” She jerks her hand away, ostensibly to take another sip of her tea, but I can’t help but feel it’s a gesture of censure.

“I would have if it was important,” I say, loudly enough for only her to hear. “But it’s not. It’s just business.”

The look she levels on me holds irony and a tiny chip of concern. “Okay, Josiah. If you say so.”

She goes back to eating and chatting with Deja beside her. I hazard a glance to the other end of the table, where Yasmen is chatting with Bayli, one of our best hostesses, head thrown back, the long expanse of her throat working with one of those laughs of hers that fills the room and makes you want in on the joke. The tacky, brightly colored turkey earrings swing when she leans forward to grab her glass of water. Her dark eyes are lit with amusement, cheeks lifted in a smile that makes her look happy. Happier than I’ve seen her in a long time. Actually, that’s not right. She’s been looking happy for months now, and the realization is a tiny pin pricking my chest.

She’s back.

The woman I married, who ran the world around her without breaking a sweat, took care of our kids, of herself, of everyone—she’s back.

The woman I loved is back. Therapy, medicine, time. The hell if I know everything it took to bring her back to us, as beautiful and bright and confident as ever, but it’s happened.

Vashti tugs my sleeve, and I glance over, forcing my mouth to match her smile. Her tranquil expression tells me she’s dismissed her concerns about Yasmen and me traveling alone. She believes it will be fine. She believes me.

I hope I deserve her trust.

“Are we gonna say what we’re thankful for?” Deja asks once there is more conversation happening than eating.

I glance at her, surprised, but pleased. She’s obviously going through some stuff, but at her core, she’s still that girl who loves being surrounded by her family and geeks out over holidays.

“That’s a great idea.” I smile at her and then at Kassim, whose face lights up at the suggestion.

“We always go around the table and say what we’re grateful for,” Deja tells everyone.

“Glad you remembered, Day,” Yasmen says, linking her hands under her chin. “You want to start?”

“Oh, sure,” Deja says. “I’m grateful for all my new followers. You can find me at Kurly Girly on the Gram and TikTok.”

Everyone laughs as expected, and Deja’s grin takes over her whole face.

Charmer.

We go around the table, each sharing what we’re grateful for. It’s good to hear from the Grits employees about things that are important to them, glimpses into their lives, especially Milk. He and I don’t talk much about Byrd, but if there’s anyone who misses her nearly as much as Yasmen and I do, it’s Milk. I’m not sure why I haven’t reached out to him more. Maybe on some level, he reminds me of what I’ve lost. Even the few therapy sessions I’ve had with Dr. Musa have helped me realize that when I’m hurt, I shut down and bury myself in work, which I knew. But I’m also realizing how much I isolate, lick my wounds alone. Maybe subconsciously, because I’ve lost so much, I’m afraid that someday Iwillbe alone.

If I were in front of Dr. Musa, I’d laugh with him about his psychobabble bullshit rubbing off on me.

“What I’m grateful for?” Yasmen tilts her head. “Wow. I’m not sure where to start. I’m gonna have to cheat and say more than one.”

She drops her eyes to the remnants of the meal on her plate, biting her lip and toying with her fork.

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