CHAPTER 8
By the time Nathanael made it to the front door of his mother-in-law’s place, she was already there, waiting for him, with the broadest, warmest smile, her arms open wide. He allowed Irene to hug him, genuinely pleased to see her.
“Entrez, mon fille,”Irene said, in an awful attempt at a French accent, which reminded him of Pepe Le Pew.
He hugged her again, laughing.“Mon fils,”he corrected. “Cause I’m a man, okay?”
She waved it away. “Well, at least I’m trying.” She eyed a large box he was holding under his arm. “I hope that’s for me!”
He held it out. “Of course it is. I’d never come visit a beautiful lady such as yourself empty-handed.”
She accepted the parcel excitedly, squealing when she realized that it was a frozen selection of top cuts of Wagyu beef. “Barbecue this weekend!”
“I don’t know what you put in your sauces, but you grill better than half the chefs in Aix.” As he entered, he looked hurriedly around for signs of Shaundra. She’d told him she was off to visit her mom, but he hadn’t given her any warning that he was back in the country. He wasn’t sure how she’d react, given how she felt about his recent excuses as to why he was out of the country.
Irene saw his glance, and Nathanael could have sworn she flushed. But before he could ask about his wife’s whereabouts, he was assaulted by twin shrieks and his teenage brother- and sister-in-law descended on him. Latrell pressed a kiss on his cheek, and Cedric gave him a fist-bump. “What’s your mother feeding you?” he demanded. Even at this age, the kid was almost as tall as Nathanael was, and had another eight years of growing left.
Cedric just laughed, that scratchy adolescent in-between rasp of a boy growing into a man.
Quickly, Nathanael reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew two small, identical boxes. “Here you go, guys.”
They snatched them up with none of the adult pretense of opening packages nicely, instead tearing the wrapping to shreds. Then the screaming began. “You got us new iPhones! Ohmigod!” Cedric’s hazel eyes—a visible reminder of his White father—bugged in his head.
Latrell, who was darker, petite, and had been growing dreads since she was thirteen, turned her shiny new phone over and over in wonder. “I don’t recognize the series.”
He couldn’t keep the smugness out of his voice. “That’s because they haven’t been released yet.”
“You got us the next gen iPhones? Before the public has even seen them? How did you—?”
“Someone owed me a favor.” He tried to act casual, but the whoops of mad delight and mutual sibling-hugging that ensued made him smile internally. Irene’s home might be humble, and the endless challenges she faced with her brood difficult, but whenever he visited, he became aware of the aching, gaping hole that existed deep in his chest, a space created by his own childhood, where so much had been stolen.
He shook it off, banished the thought, and slipped past the jubilant duo. He was here for his wife. He spotted her purse on the table, along with a baby bag, and deduced that Shaundra would be out in the back yard. She rarely ever went upstairs to the bedrooms.
As he strode towards the back door, Irene exited the kitchen, having put away her treasure trove of meat. The woman’s eyes darted to the door, and then to Nathanael, just before his hand closed on the doorknob.
“I can get her for you—” Irene began.
But Nathanael was already outside, standing in the doorway, his eyes unerringly finding the lone concrete park bench that overlooked the scraggly, overgrown flower beds.
And there she was, his wife, sitting side by side with a man he recognized at once, albeit only from old photos and Shaundra’s senior yearbook. A thin, pale, freckled man with shoulders that were prematurely beginning to stoop, even though he and Shaundra were still the same age. That was what living your life cooped up in a government office did to you, he thought.
Nathanael searched his brain for the guy’s name. Harrington something. Stewart. But was it Harrington Stewart, or Stewart Harrington?
He didn’t give a crap. What he did care about was the fact that this dickhead had been Shaundra’s boyfriend since junior year. They’d gone to prom together, gone off to college together, and had been each other’s first lovers.
And now, here he was, with one hand on his wife’s shoulder.
They were both laughing—or had been until he showed up. Now, both faces were turned in his direction, the picture of surprise. He was aware of Irene’s hovering presence behind him, aware of Shaundra rising, as the scrawny dickwad’s hand slipped away, falling limply to the concrete seat under them.
“Hello, wife,” he said shortly, not even bothering to greet the guy. Because that greeting would have taken the form of a punch to the jaw.
And we didn’t want that.
The tilt of Shaundra’s chin was defiant. “Nathanael, you remember Harrington?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Oh, but we’ve met,” said the guy, who obviously lacked the good sense to know that the only thing between him and an ass-kicking was Nathanael’s mastery of Zen concepts. The guy held out his hand. “I met you right here a couple of years ago, at Irene’s birthday—”