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No one is listening to me.
I huff out a breath.
Dad walks up and signs, “I’ll let you ladies work this out.” He squeezes my shoulder and leans over to kiss my forehead. “If you’re really interested in that man, bring him over for dinner and let us meet him.”
“Meet him or grill him?” I sign.
“A little of both.” He makes a so-so gesture. “But if Deej is right and he’s threatening you…” my father pauses and a dark expression that we rarely ever see, crosses his jovial face, “I’ll deal with him.”
I know he will.
Dad goes around kissing Dejonae’s head and then giving mom a kiss on the lips.
When we’re alone, mom signs, “Let’s talk in the kitchen. Yaya, you’re on vegetable duty. Dejonae, you’re assembling.”
“I’m not hungry,” I sign.
Mom gives me a sharp look and I immediately get in line behind my sister.
In the kitchen, mom shoves a package of lettuce in my hands. Dejonae gets the bread from the cupboard.
Mom fires up the stove and, soon, the smell of frying meat fills the air.
I crack the lettuce, my back turned to both of them. The repetitive motion of tearing and washing calms me.
When I’m done, mom takes the bowl and sets it in front of Dejonae who already has the bread loaves slathered in condiments.
Mom’s beautiful face is calm, not a hint of her true thoughts shining through. I watch her, sensing she’s about to say something.
Finally, she does.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” she signs.
“I wanted to solve it myself.” My heart is beating fast. Now that the adrenaline spike is gone, all that’s left is this awful, sludgy feeling. Like the mud left after a hurricane.
“So it was pride?”
“Protection.” I choose my words carefully. “I didn’t think stepping aside would turn out well for Henry. He doesn’t have a family that would die for him.” My eyes meet Dejonae’s and soften. “Not the way I do.”
My sister’s lips twitch in a small, reluctant smile.
“So you solved the problem with your wits and kept Henry safe. Why didn’t you come to us after the threat had passed?”
I blink rapidly. “The thought didn’t cross my mind.”
Dejonae’s smile flattens.
“What kind of,” mom hesitates, looking for the right term, “work did you do for Mr. Sullivan?”
“I met his family,” I sign. “And then the interview this morning.”
“Where you kissed him,” Dejonae points out.
I massage my throat to avoid signing a response.
“So,” mom looks thoughtful, “this isn’t fully about Henry. If you thought that man was a danger, a threat to you, you wouldn’t have kissed him. You wouldn’t have continued to work for him. You would have come to us.”
I blink rapidly and nod.