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I stop short of saying he has so much to live for. That’s a bridge we’ll have to cross when he finally gets sober.

If he ever gets sober.

If his liver and his pancreas don’t give out first.

“I’m well knowing you’re well.” He continues, pausing at the door to adjust his posture. His proud posture, ingrained from childhood.

We don’t have much left to make us proud.

“I’m making shrimp and grits tonight. It’s your favorite.”

“Don’t wake me if I’m sleeping.”

He leaves me alone, and I slowly make my way down the stairs to the large kitchen. I take the bag of shrimp I picked up on the way home out of the refrigerator and start the water to boil for the grits.

A canister of the dry hominy sits behind the coffee maker. I only remember a few recipes from when my mom was still alive. She taught me to make grits the old-fashioned way, boiling them on the stove top. Any good southerner knows how to do that, and anyone who lives along the coast knows how to boil shrimp.

I take out a package of corn, sausage, and different colored bell peppers. While I slice them, I put the streaming music on a Motown mix. Gray got me interested in artists like Sam Cooke, Marvin Gaye, and Al Green. He would hum the words in my ear when we slow-danced. The memory makes my skin hum.

Once the peppers are chopped and the water is boiling, I close my eyes and remember him singing “Mercy, Mercy Me” in my ear as he held my body close to his. I can’t stop what I do next. It’s an addiction I’ll never get over.

Me: I’m making shrimp n grits tonight.

My chest is tight as I stir the pot waiting, wondering if he’ll even respond. The grits are thickening, and I slide them to the low heat when my phone buzzes on the counter. My heart jumps, and I pick it up.

Gray: It’s your signature dish.

Me: The only thing I know how to make.

Gray: Your pancakes are good.

Me: Sam Cooke is on Spotify.

Gray: My favorite kind of night.

My heart is beating so fast, the blood races in my veins. He’s like a drug.

Me: You wear glasses now?

Gray: Just for reading. Concussion weakened my eyes.

That makes me frown.

Me: I didn’t know you had a concussion.

Gray: I hit my head in the blast. It left me pretty messed up for weeks.

My chest hurts thinking of him alone after the accident, injured and so far away from home.

Me: Are you better now?

Gray: Somewhat. Not as many bad days.

Not as many… I remember what he said about being changed.

Me: Is this why you stayed away?

Gray: Partly. I needed to heal.