Chapter Thirty
Josiah
How was school?” I ask Kassim as we pull out of Harrington’s parking lot.
“Good.” He turns around to pet Otis, who lounges in the back seat, before pulling out his phone. I know he’s going straight forRoblox.
“Hey. Talk to me for a minute before you get lost in that game.”
He lays the phone in his lap. “Yes, sir.”
“How’s class been? You’re not getting bored?”
“Ms. Halstead has been giving me some extra stuff to do. Like, different from the rest of the class.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
Damn. I sound like a therapist. Dr. Musa would be pleased to know he’s rubbing off on me.
Kassim shrugs. “It’s okay. Some of the kids tease me, like I think I’m so smart.”
“Youareso smart.”
“I don’t want to rub it in, though.”
“Good. Don’t be that guy. You’re not better than anyone else. Ms. Halstead just recognizes you need more of a challenge than the classwork was offering. She sees your potential and wants to make sure we’re doing all we can to fulfill it.”
“Yeah. Jamal says it’s kinda cool that I do stuff nobody else can do yet, and that I might get to skip a grade, as long as we can still hang out and playMaddenand stuff.”
“Great,” I say, recognizing the significance of the Jamal seal of approval. “Well, let’s get that bush cut down so you can get home and do your homework.”
I reach across and tug the textured ’fro he’s growing.
“And decorate the tree!” Kassim answers with a wide smile.
There’s a small pinch in my chest. We used to make a big deal of choosing the tree together. Usually the Saturday after Thanksgiving, and then we’d head someplace like the Laughing Latte on the Square for hot chocolate with marshmallows. Things have been so fractured the last few years, and it’s one of the traditions we let slip through the cracks.
“You guys got the tree already?” I ask.
“Yeah, Mr. Lancaster brought it over.”
This poor steering wheel. I’m practically choking it when Kassim mentions that man’s name.
“Mark Lancaster?” I ask casually.
“Yeah, Mom’s new boyfriend.”
Boyfriend?
The hell he is. She wasn’t thinking about her boyfriend when I fucked hertwice.
The thought rears up before I can whip it back. She made it seem like there was nothing serious between them. Are they more committed than she let on?
My imagination floods with visions of the blond politician leaving our bedroom wearing nothing but pajama bottoms, strolling down the stairs and making himself a cup of coffee in my kitchen with my kids after a night fucking my wife.
She’s not yours.
For one night she was. I haven’t talked to anyone the way we did in Charlotte since Byrd and Henry passed away. Or ever. Maybe therapy made it easier to talk about my shit when before it felt so damn hard. Holding Yasmen like that, being inside of her again, her heart pounding when she was pressed into me, breathing in the scent of vanilla and her unique essence. She was soft, her curves fitting like she was made for me. And me alone. We’ve both stuck to our bargain. It’s like that night never happened. If anything, things are better between us since we cleared the air.