“Yeah, and the wrong one sometimes changes nothing.” I roll my eyes. “Thank God I finally found Dr. Abrams.”
Footsteps charging down the stairs cut the conversation off, and I’m kind of relieved. I don’t want to think about Josiah finally going to therapy, and how that could have impacted what happened with us, much less talk about it.
“Hey, Aunt Hen,” Deja says, her smile bright and open. “Thank you for taking me today.”
“It’s no problem.” Hendrix stands to dump the last of her coffee in the sink and rinses the mug.
“And you really think this place will have the hair I need?” Deja asks.
“I already called and confirmed they do,” Hendrix says, her smile only slightly smug.
“Eeeeep!” Deja’s hands fly in the air approximating a hallelujah. “I’ve been looking all over, and there’s this passion braids challenge I want to do next week, and I have to use this hair.”
“Well, I got you,” Hendrix says. “And there’s a place near the shop called Ruby’s. Best neck bones in the city.”
“Neck bones?” Deja’s skepticism is palpable.
“Wayminit.” Hendrix sets her fists on her hips. “You mean to tell me your parents own a soul food restaurant and you never had neck bones?”
“Not on our menu.” I laugh, grabbing my purse from the stool. “Byrd hated them, and Vashti doesn’t do them either.”
Hendrix links her arm through Deja’s. “Well, you gon’ learn today. We’ll have them for lunch if you want.”
“Okay!” Deja nods, her space buns bobbing on either side of her head.
“What time you want her back, Yas?” Hendrix asks.
Deja looks directly at me for the first time, her smile fading. I’m like the pin that pops every balloon for her.
“Um, whenever you guys are done,” I say, forcing a smile. “Thank you again for helping out.”
Hendrix glances between Deja and me, her smile dimming. “You my girl. You already know it’s no big.”
I walk out of the kitchen, giving Hen’s arm a quick squeeze, and head to the foyer, stopping at the base of the staircase.
“Kassim!” I shout up to the second floor. “We’re gonna be late. Come on.”
He appears at the top of the steps in his red-and-white soccer uniform with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder. I glance at his feet.
“Ankles ashy as a bag of flour.” I blow out a breath and tip my head toward the garage. “There’s lotion in the car.”
“Is Dad coming?” he asks, heading down the steps.
Josiah spent many afternoons and evenings in our backyard kicking the ball around with Kassim. Of course my son loves having me at the games, but it’s his father’s face and approval he seeks in the crowd every time he scores.
“Not today, but I promise I’ll get video for him, okay?”
“So he won’t be at therapy either, huh?” Kassim’s expression doesn’t change, but the flicker of unease in his eyes makes my heart clench.
“He has a convention he has to speak at today, son. I’m sorry. It was booked months ago, and he couldn’t get out. I’m sure he’ll call tonight to see how it went.”
“Okay,” he says, shifting the bag on his shoulder. “Do I have time to eat?”
“KIND bar and OJ on the kitchen counter. Grab ’em and go straight to the car. I have the team snacks. We can’t be late.”
His mouth drops open. “You’re the snack mom?”
“Yeah.” I grimace. “I forgot.”