Page 24 of Between Passion and Revenge, Part One (The Griot Chronicles #1)

SHAE

I press my palms against the cool butcher block countertops my parents installed when I was in the fifth grade, hanging my head as I trace the whorls in the wood.

Storm already confirmed he’s coming to dinner.

Despite trying to give him an out, he didn’t take me up on it. Storm’s coming to dinner; at my parents’ house.

But after tonight, that’s it.

This has to be it.

His intensity is…it’s too much—way too much for me to handle while trying to stay focused on the goal. Which, if being drugged and almost attacked has shown me anything, it’s that there’s no space for me to fuck around. I’ll never know when everything could implode.

Surrounded by Mama and Daddy, I reaffirm my mission: Harvard.

All my energy needs to go toward making sure my ass is in a seat in Cambridge once next fall comes around.

I grab two yellow onions and a pair of blue medical gloves from the box Mama keeps in the drawer. I start peeling the layers back, and Mama returns to the kitchen with Daddy’s empty plate in hand.

As usual, she made him a turkey sandwich with a side of chips and a Coke to tide him over until dinner in a few hours.

The sight of the lone piece of crust makes me smile for some reason. Life is simple with them, even if I’ve made things complicated lately.

That thought causes my grin to fade.

“Smart idea to wear gloves, Shae. You don’t want your fingernails smelling like onions.” Mama chuckles when she says this, so I give her a look.

When my sights land on her, I remember just how beautiful my mama is. Her skin is a smooth, rich brown that practically glistens as a sunbeam shoots through the kitchen from the small over-sink window.

“Everything will be ready for you in a minute, Mama,” I say.

I decided to stay with my parents for a few days, considering everything that’s happened since that night at Velour.

They let me sleep in today instead of requiring my attendance at church, but when they returned from worship around two p.m., I was already in the kitchen, washing dishes and scrubbing down all the surfaces.

Preparing for dinner. Sunday dinner. Sunday dinner that Storm Sandoval will attend.

There’s much to be done, but not so much that I can’t head toward the living room with Daddy. Except every time I’m around him, it’s an interrogation.

Shae, do you have a drinking problem?

Shae, you need to start going back to church regularly. Don’t you want to find a good Christian boy?

Shae, are you keeping your grades up? This feels so out of character for you.

And then there’s my favorite:

Shae, what’s going on with you and that rich boy?

So yes. I’m running away from more of my daddy’s questions—not because I fear his response to my answers, but more because I fear disappointing him.

I straighten my back and crack my neck by tilting my head from side to side before I resume chopping the white onions into a fine dice.

“Nobody wants onion nails,” I say, throwing the words over my shoulder.

She hums, and the sound shoots foreboding down my spine. “Especially if those hands might be entangled with a certain someone’s a little later.” She’s really enjoying this.

Mama’s planned an elaborate spread—more elaborate than usual. But that’s her ministry. She’s from New Orleans originally, and cooking for her family lights up her soul.

I shift from foot to foot, trying to alleviate the pressure on my back. I’ve prepared the mise en place—the bell peppers and celery are chopped, and I’ll place the onion in another bowl once I’m finished.

I made the two sweet potato pies Mama said were going to one of the ladies on the sick and shut-in list.

There are three hours until Storm will be here.

Mama drops butter in her Magnalite Dutch oven—a pot that’s older than I am. Moving the pat around with her wooden spoon, she tilts toward me.

“Have you heard from any of the grad schools?”

I pause with my knife flush to the cutting board.

My applications are in, but my GMAT scores are the elephant in the room.

A distant part of my brain reminds me that my scores are perfectly respectable. Average. Not actually low at all.

Twice as hard. Half as far.

I resume chopping the last of the onion. Average may be acceptable, but it’s not good enough.

Not for me.

Not for this society.

Not for Daddy.

“Everything is going great. Classes are fine. Midterms are coming up soon, but I’m not worried about them.” I turn my head to give her a small, hopefully convincing, smile.

“That’s great, baby girl. But you know I never worry about you doing well. I just worry about you overworking yourself,” she says. She pulls her spices from the cabinet, moving some canisters around until she finds the big container of Tony Chachere’s.

“Have you decided when your last day will be at mPOWER?”

Mama asks this while giving her full attention to the stove, sprinkling in fragrant dry seasonings. I’m grateful, because the distraction causes her to miss it when I jump.

My last day at mPOWER…I really don’t want to think about that.

“I haven’t decided,” I reply. “There’s really no rush. I’ll be here at least until next June or July.”

“Uh-huh,” Mama says, drawing out the word. “Well, make sure you don’t over-commit, Shae. You’re in the fourth quarter of this college game. You’ve done everything you can to make yourself a compelling candidate, but this is out of your hands now. You need to rest more.”

My eyes start to burn, and I’m not sure it’s from the onions.

“I’m pacing myself, Mama,” I say, setting my knife down and grabbing the bunch of green onions. I run them under cool water at the sink.

“Yes, but are you having fun?” she asks, her voice pointed. “What happened Thursday night wasn’t your fault. You’re an adult. You can handle a few drinks. Hell, when I was in school, I was wild. ”

I cut the faucet and give her a look.

“I don’t usually drink, Mama,” I say. The feeling I should prove my innocence—both in virtue and in action—weighs heavily on me.

“That’s the thing, Shae,” she says, lifting the lid on the pot of white rice to check the doneness. “You should be drinking. Not to excess, but you should be partying. You should be having fun. Meeting boys. Actually acting like you’re twenty-two, rather than forty-two.”

“Hey!” I say, my tone broken by laughter.

“I just want you to live life, baby,” she says, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’ve only got one, and you don’t want to look back and have regrets that you spent your youth existing and not living .”

Her mouth twists, and her words make my nose burn and my eyes tingle.

The moment breaks when my phone vibrates on the counter next to me. I’ve been hyper aware of its presence for the last few hours—not that I’ve been waiting around for it to buzz with word from Storm.

Nope. Not at all.

Mama swipes my phone from the counter, and I panic when she tries to unlock the screen. The knife slips a bit, cutting a hole in my glove, but somehow miraculously avoiding actually slicing my flesh.

I suck in a breath anyway, dropping the knife on top of the wooden cutting board, where it lands with a clack.

“Ooh, if it isn’t Mr.Storm Sandoval himself,” she says, reading the lock screen.

“Mama!” I shout, and she looks up at me with wide-eyed innocence. I peel the gloves off, dropping them next to the cutting board.

“Don’t use that tone with me, Shae Olivya Rivers,” she chides, and I bite my lip, clasping my hands in front of me so I don’t jump on my mother to steal my phone back.

Taking a deep breath, I patiently say, “Ma, may I have my phone back?” I pause, and she taps her cheek with the side of my cell.

“Hmm,” she says. She’s really, really enjoying my misery. Maybe this is payback for all the years I haven’t brought anyone around.

“Mama, please,” I beg. She smiles and hands the phone back to me. I clutch it to my chest, not daring to read the notification yet. My heart beats against my ribcage as if I’ve just sprinted down the road.

She takes a big step forward and places her cool, damp hands on my cheeks.

“Don’t be nervous, baby girl,” she says, keeping her voice low. She smooths my eyebrows with her thumbs. “He’s the one on trial here, not you. You, my dear, are the prize.”

I smile, and she brings me closer to kiss my cheek. I inhale her familiar scent.

Pulling back, she puts her hands on her hips. “Now, go get all dolled up. I’ve got it from here.”

I nod, but I don’t move quickly enough because she swats me on my butt with a kitchen towel.

“Go on, git!” she chirps, laughing. The sound loosens a knot of anxiety in my chest.

Blowing out a breath, I say, “Thank you, Mama.”

She picks up the bowls with the bell peppers and onions and strides to the stove to drop them in the melting butter.

“I’m just glad you’re here and you’re safe,” she replies with her back to me. Her shoulders rise and her head dips. Taking another moment, I walk up to her and hug her from behind.

“I’ve always been lucky, Mama,” I say, squeezing around her waist. “But the luckiest thing of all is I have you and Daddy.” She pats my hand where it rests on her stomach.

“I love you, baby girl,” she whispers. After giving Mama a quick kiss on her shoulder, I sprint out of the kitchen and grimace at the sound my worn house shoes make as they slap on the parquet floors in my rush upstairs.

I close the bedroom door with a gentle snick and hold the phone out as if it might become sentient and start singing Luther Vandross songs.

It’s just a message.

Except it isn’t. It’s a tiny grenade that could blow up any fantasy I’ve started to let myself believe. Because if he’s texting to cancel, that’s not disappointment. That’s humiliation with a capital H .

“If you don’t pull yourself together…” I stare at my reflection in the dresser mirror.

Yes. For real.

Taking a deep breath, I press the side button to illuminate the screen, and sure enough, it’s a message from Storm.

Madame Lyle would have my head if I were to show up empty-handed. What should I bring for your parents?

I re-read the message several times, trying to decipher the different parts of the text. I reply with the first question spinning in my brain.

Madame Lyle?

His reply is nearly immediate.

My governess as a kid and the arbiter of all things etiquette.

My brows draw down. He had a governess? I look around my small room—the worn white dresser I’ve had since childhood and my twin bed with a hand-sewn comforter certainly don’t scream “I’m so rich I went to finishing school.”

My phone vibrates again.

Wow, that sounded like a lot. But seriously. What should I bring? I currently have six wine bottles in front of me and no clue which to choose.

I grimace.

My parents are COGIC, so for sure no alcohol. They never drink.

Okay, so thanks for keeping me from taking that L. Flowers? Chocolates? Jewelry?

You could save me here, Shae. What’s something simple but still says, “I’m not a total idiot” to your parents?

I giggle at his rapid-fire texting, but his next one sobers me quickly.

It’s important your family likes you with me.

I chew on my bottom lip for a moment, processing that.

“You with me,” I repeat to my stuffed animals. I’m not a dumb person, and Storm’s statement just now is pretty clear. He wants an “us.”

And…I’m fairly certain I want an “us,” too. The only problem is: What I want contradicts what I need.

I need to simplify my life, not complicate it.

Flowers. My mama loves flowers. If you were to bring yellow roses, she’d be over the moon.

Yellow roses. Got it.

I sit back on my bed, staring at the last message. My lips tug upward despite myself. It’s just flowers. Just dinner. Just a boy.

But my heart does a funny jump in my chest at the thought. Because he’s not just anything, is he?

Storm Sandoval saved my life.

I may not remember all the details about the almost-attack, but I do know one thing for sure: Danger surrounds Storm, but with him, I feel safe.

Now, to not be proven foolish.

Pushing up from the bed, I move to my closet and dig through my limited selection of “grown-up” outfits. The ones Mama insists I keep for important moments—job interviews, church services, and apparently now, Sunday dinner with the boy.

I choose a simple long-sleeved yellow floral dress. Not flashy, but still enough to say, I’m trying, but not too hard.

I shake my head and glance at the time. There’s over half an hour until he’s supposed to arrive, and something tells me Storm Sandoval will be punctual, despite our first meeting suggesting otherwise.

I rush through my shower but still carefully wrap my hair and secure it beneath two caps. I keep my head tilted away from the spray to save my previously straightened locks.

The thing that takes the longest is shaving every part of my body.

He’s coming to your parents’ house. What are you really gonna do with him at your parents’ house?

I turn the water to cold when a flash of heat shoots to my cooch, and a vision of Storm ravishing me against a wall pops into my brain.

Stop it, Shae. That’s never going to happen. It can’t.

I rush through the rest of my grooming and head back to my room, limiting my skincare to moisturizer, mascara, and a quick swipe of eyebrow tint.

After brushing my hair and smoothing on a swipe of lip gloss, I tilt my head, studying the girl staring back at me.

I look put together. Calm and serene.

Breathe in. Breathe out. This is fine, right?

The doorbell shatters my meditation, and it’s not a minute later before Mama’s voice floats up the stairs from the kitchen.

“Shae, your gentleman is here! Go get the door!”

Breathe in. Breathe out. This is fine. This is….

I can have tonight.

I’ll pretend Storm and I make sense, even though there’s no evidence to support that.

I’ll imagine the things that separate us don’t matter.

But in the morning, I’ll re-enter the real world—the reality that requires me to stay in my lane and Storm to stay in his.

But just for tonight, I’ll let myself believe I can have everything I want.