Monique leaned forward and away from the comforting security of Maurice’s nearness.
Resting her elbows on the table, she said, “Well, since somebody is too cute to be sweating out her press-n-curl in the kitchen…”
The table broke out into knowing laughter, and her aunt sat and smiled, unaffected. “I am gifted in so many other ways, my favorite niece.”
“I’m your only niece.” Monique winked at her aunt and then turned to face Maurice. “I have a lot of our family’s recipes, so I make everything. I really love to bake, though.”
“It’s been a minute since I had that casserole, man. I’ma need you to hook me up.” Tommie’s whining was almost funny. “I’ll come get it.”
“You’ll come all the way to Chicago for some chicken, broccoli, and rice casserole? You sound crazy.” Monique’s words were pointed; she didn’t mean for them to be.
Tommie’s smile faltered, but he recovered in half a breath.
The glass carafe of sangria in front of her sweated, the fruit bobbing in the red wine like a lava lamp. Chicken. Frozen broccoli. Rice. Mushroom soup. A struggle meal that her kids would actually eat without complaint. To Tommie, it was some sort of novelty. Heat rose up her neck— so different from the sudden infernos of menopause, those came without warning. What rose in her now was anger.
That’s what made all the shit she had to shovel so damn exhausting. She could never tell who was truly there to help when so many acted like their attention was assistance. Monique stopped trying to learn the difference.
She’d stopped trying at a lot of things.
Maurice pressed his knee against hers on purpose this time, drawing her attention to him. He gave her a placating smile and mouthed,you okay?
The conversation continued around them without Monique’s input.
Lanie reclaimed the table. “Nah, I think he knows that he won’t get any home cooking at home, so he has to go to Chicago and get it to go.”
The sudden explosion of laughter startled Monique. She glanced at Maurice, who was still smiling. At her.
“You all can stop laughing at me. Like Mama Don, I know where my gifts are.” Lanie flicked her hair and lifted her chin.
Tommie wrapped his arm around her and kissed her temple. “I’m definitely not marrying you for your cooking.”
They were cute. Watching them nuzzle and coo at one another made Monique want to leave the table. Instead, she reached for the water glass in front of her and took a long pull to cool her rising discomfort.
I promised everybody back home that I’d try…
“You’re from Chicago?” Cassie asked.
Monique nodded. “Born and raised. West Side.”
Cassie smiled. “I teach at DuSable State. Been there about six years.”
She nodded again. “That’s dope.”
The other woman’s eager expression almost made Monique say more.
A waiter approached, handing her a menu. “Whenever you’re ready.” Soon everyone at the table roared with recommendations.
“We’ll talk later,” Cassie said over the din.
Monique gave her a noncommittal thumbs-up.
“Yo! Since Monie has decided tofinallygrace us with her presence”—Tommie was standing again at the head of the table—“we have a couple of options for the rest of the day,” he said, with a wide grin, his eyes fixed on Monique.
“See, you wanna talk shi”—her eyes darted between Maurice and her Auntie Deb, who raised a stern eyebrow—“I mean, stuff, Tommie.”
“Whatever.” He looked toward his mothers. “Somepeople want to go out to the shops and whatnot. Others wanna be lowkey and stay inside.” His gaze landed on every couple, as if asking what they wanted to do.
Mr. Turner chimed in. “This old man is tired from traveling, so I’m going to take a nap after this good food. We’ll see how we feel later.”