“This vinaigrette,” Hendrix says and moans, rolling her eyes in bliss and wielding her fork for emphasis. “Omygah. Where’d you get this?”
“Oh, I made it.” Soledad shrugs, but a pleased smile lifts the corners of her mouth. “My own recipe.”
“Oooh, lemme taste.” I sit on the blanket by Hendrix and lean forward, mouth open like a little bird.
“Nawwwww, shugah.” Hendrix gives an emphatic shake of her head and nods toward the basket. “This is that ‘get your own.’ It’s too good to share.”
“I got you,” Soledad says, grinning and passing a plate to me laden with the vibrant salad and a hunk of quiche. “Great job again with this event, by the way.”
“Thanks.” I accept the proffered plate and go for the salad first. “Oh, Sol. This vinaigretteisfantastic. Everything you touch turns delicious. You really need to figure out how to export the Soledad experience.”
“I keep telling her I make stars for a living,” Hendrix says around a mouthful of food. “If she’d let me get ahold of her, we could brand the hell out of her whole life.”
Soledad passes a sandwich and a bottle of LaCroix to Inez. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“As a heart attack.” Hendrix taps her plate with her fork. “What do you think I’ve been saying for the last year? Girl, when you ready.”
Soledad’s gaze shifts to her three beautiful daughters, giggling, chatting, tossing down cards in a game of War. She sees them as her greatest privilege, raising them as what she was born to do.
“Maybe later,” Soledad finally replies, slicing into the quiche and passing a plate to Lupe. “I don’t want to lose focus at this stage. Inez is getting serious about ballet and just started middle school. We all know what a hellscape seventh grade is. Lottie is just really digging in with gymnastics, and we’re getting her a new trainer next month, someone who sent a few girls to the Olympics.”
“Not to be ambitious or anything,” Hendrix mumbles loudly enough for only me to hear. I suppress a chuckle and keep my stare trained on Soledad.
“And Lupe starts high school next year,” Soledad continues. “Between cheerleading and maybe even modeling, I just—”
“I have no desire to model, Mom,” Lupe interjects, lips shiny with Soledad’s magic vinaigrette.
“We’ll see.” Soledad leans forward to whisper to us, “You know I’ve never paid much attention to the other offers, but a scout from Wilhelmina reached out. Like, who walks away from Wilhelmina?”
“I do,” Lupe says over Soledad’s hushed comments. She leans forward, pulls the sheath of dark hair away from Soledad’s face and kisses her cheek, leaning her head on her mother’s shoulder.
And I get it. The harmony between these three daughters. The quiet confidence each of them wears so effortlessly. The easy, deep affection between Soledad and her girls, it doesn’t just happen. I don’t believe you only see this with women who stay home, but I understand Soledad’s intentions for her family, for her girls, and I respect it.
“Is Deja coming, Mrs. Wade?” Lupe asks.
“Yeah.” I swallow a bite of the quiche. “She and Kassim are coming with their father.”
“I’m sorry again about…” Lupe looks miserable. “My slipup. I would never want to get Deja in trouble.”
“It’s fine.” I wave a careless hand, like the incident didn’t spark a huge fight between Deja and me.
“And youshouldshare when one of your peers is doing something dangerous,” Soledad says, her delicate brows knit into a frown. “A friend’s safety is most important.”
“She skipped English,” Lupe says dryly. “You make it sound like she was smoking meth and dancing naked down the halls. Mom, you gotta stop watchingEuphoria.”
“But I love those crazy kids,” Soledad pouts, amusement glinting in her dark eyes. “Here come yours, Yas.”
I turn my head and grin at Kassim walking swiftly across the lawn toward us, Otis close on his heels. Deja follows at the pace ofDo I really have to be here, but even that doesn’t dim my spirits. It’s the last breath of summer. I’m back in the groove, working, mentally and emotionally stable, healthy in body and spirit, surrounded by friends. The best friends I’ve had maybe ever.
I bring a forkful of quiche to my mouth just as Josiah and Vashti come into sight, trailing behind Deja.
Hand. In. Fucking. Hand.
My Zen bubble pops.
I try to take mindful breaths like my therapist, Dr. Abrams, taught me. I reach for the 4-7-8 breathing from yoga class. None of it works. Each breath is chopped up in my lungs and stutters past my lips.
It’s been almost two years. You knew this would happen. He’d find someone else and you’d have to see them together. It shouldn’t bother you this much.