Page 20 of Love Letters from a Libra (BLP Signs of Love #13)
Notes App – You feel like a milestone I hadn’t planned for. I’m good with that.
I adjusted my tie for the third time, looking at myself in the mirror.
There was a slight tension I couldn’t smooth away, no matter how perfectly the Windsor knot set against my collar.
Three months of dating Zanaa, and somehow, meeting her family felt more consequential than any six-figure security contract I’d ever signed.
I picked up my phone to shoot a quick text.
Me:
Yo, wish me luck. I get to meet the fam today.
Carlos:
You got this. Stay strong.
I tucked my phone into my pocket. My hands betrayed me with a slight dampness as I adjusted my cuffs. This wasn’t about network vulnerabilities or data encryption. It was about convincing generations of Scales’ women that I was worthy of the one who was currently pacing in my bedroom.
“You look fine. More than fine, like you’re about to negotiate a merger, not eat Mama Tilda’s famous peach cobbler,” Zanaa remarked and glanced in my direction.
I turned from the mirror, taking in the sight of her. Even anxious, she was stunning, her curves wrapped in a floral dress that somehow managed to look both proper for Sunday brunch and completely distracting.
Her hair was arranged in an elaborate twist adorned with small golden clips. But it was her hands that gave away her nervousness. Her fingers constantly adjusted the moonstone ring she never took off, twisting it around and around like prayer beads.
“Your hands say otherwise. Should I be worried? Are they going to subject me to some kind of cosmic compatibility test? Do I need to bring wine or a birth chart?” I asked, crossing the room.
The joke landed exactly as intended. Her tension broke with laughter that lit up her entire face. “All you need to bring are your manners and maybe a bulletproof vest. Toni has questions.” She laughed.
“Is that your cousin or your aunt?” I asked, though I’d been briefed extensively on the Scales family hierarchy in preparation for today.
“My cousin’s protective instinct is only matched by my aunt’s interrogation skills. They’re basically the same person separated by twenty years and slightly different tastes in men.” Zanaa slipped her phone into her purse.
“I can handle it. I’ve sat through eight-hour depositions and congressional hearings on data privacy,” I assured her, though my tie suddenly felt too tight.
“This will be worse but also better because there will be peach cobbler at the end,” she warned, smiling.
The drive to her family home took us through neighborhoods in various stages of transformation, and gentrified blocks gave way to the streets that still held their original character.
Zanaa pointed out landmarks from her childhood as we drove, like the corner store where she bought penny candy, the stoop where she had her first kiss, and the church where her grandmother still sang in the choir every Sunday.
I absorbed those details, adding them to my mental map of who she was. For all our intimacy over the past months, there were still territories we were beginning to explore. This was one of them, the foundations that shaped her before I knew her, the people who knew her first and the best.
“They are going to love you eventually. Just be yourself.” She pointed, directing me to park in front of a well-maintained home with window boxes full of purple and yellow pansies.
“As opposed to the evil twin I sometimes send on dates?” I raised an eyebrow. Zanaa’s hand found my cheek, her palm warm against my skin.
“The one who sometimes disappears when things get real. Leave him at home today,” she joked.
The directness of her statement caught me off guard, but I nodded, covering her hand with mine. “He’s retired permanently.”
Her smile told me she believed me, or at least she chose to. Either way, it felt like a victory.
We entered the house, where some form of baking must’ve been happening because it smelled delicious.
The decor spoke of old-school, black Southern sensibilities.
Family photos in frames lined the walls, crochet doilies protected the polished wood surfaces, and gospel music played softly from somewhere deeper in the house.
The air smelled of cinnamon and butter, reminding my stomach immediately that I’d skipped breakfast due to nerves.
“There she is! And this must be the famous Jules?” A woman’s voice rang out, and suddenly, Zanaa was enveloped in an embrace by someone who could only be her mother. She had the same eyes and the same curve of the jaw, though her hair was cropped short and streaked with elegant silver.
Before I could respond, we were surrounded.
A tall, elegant woman who must be Aunt Camille circled me like a benevolent hawk.
Her assessing gaze took in everything from my hair to my shoes.
A younger woman, Toni, I assumed, hung back, arms crossed, her expression somewhere between curious and skeptical, and an elderly woman with the most beautiful silver locs I’d ever seen sat in a plush armchair, watching the proceedings with eyes of wisdom and a knowing smile.
“Jules, this is my mother, Patricia, my cousin Toni, my aunt Camille, and my grandmother, Mama Tilda.”
I shook hands with each woman, meeting their gaze, and directly offering a smile that charmed clients and disarmed skeptical security teams. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you all. Zanaa speaks of you constantly.”
“Hmm, that tie is designer. You have expensive taste,” Aunt Camille noted, neither approving nor disapproving.
“A gift from a client after I kept their financial data from ending up on the dark web,” I answered honestly.
Zanaa jumped in. “He’s being modest. His company basically saved a black-owned financial tech start-up from complete destruction. It made the newspaper.”
“We read it. Impressive work,” Toni complimented.
“Thank you,” I replied, simply refusing to either preen or diminish the compliment or the accomplishment.
Mama Tilda finally spoke, her voice rich with age and wisdom. “Come sit by me, young man. These women will talk your ear off in the hallway, and my cobbler is getting cold.”
That broke the tension, sending everyone toward the dining room where the table was set with what appeared to be the family’s best china. Zanaa took my hand, guiding me to the restroom so we could wash our hands.
Back in the dining room, I was guided to sit beside Mama Tilda with Aunt Camille and Toni directly across from me, the hot seat unmistakably.
The food arrived in waves, including crispy fried chicken, collard greens fragrant with smoked turkey, cornbread, mac and cheese with a perfectly browned crust, and sweet tea in crystal glasses. It was a feast designed to impress, comfort, and maybe intimidate all at once.
Small talk lasted through the first helping—questions about my company, compliments on the food, and nice stories about Zanaa’s latest workshop. Still, as the plates were cleared for seconds, Aunt Camille set down her fork, the gentle click somehow sounding like a judge’s gavel.
“Jules, tell us about your intentions with our Zanaa,” she asked, folding her hands beneath her chin.
Toni leaned forward while Zanaa’s mother paused in serving more mac and cheese, all attention now focused on me. Only Mama Tilda seemed unperturbed, continuing to enjoy her sweet tea with a slight smile planted at the corners of her mouth.
“Aunt Camille,” Zanaa protested, but I touched her arm gently.
“It’s a fair question. I respect that you want to protect her.” I met the older woman’s gaze directly.
“Then answer it,” Toni challenged, her protective energy palpable across the table.
I sipped the sweet tea, gathering my thoughts. This wasn’t the time for practiced charm or strategic vagueness. These women had likely seen every variety of a smooth-talking man come through that door.
“My intentions are to continue showing up, to keep choosing Zanaa every day, not because the stars say we’re compatible or because it is convenient, but because what we’re building feels worth the work. I’m not in a rush, but I know when something feels worth showing up for,” I answered.
The silence that followed felt weighted with evaluation. Zanaa’s hand found mine under the table in silent support.
“What about marriage and children? Zanaa isn’t getting any younger,” Aunt Camille questioned.
“Aunt Camille!” Zanaa’s protest was louder this time, her cheeks flushing.
“We’re still getting to know each other, but I don’t enter relationships lightly. When and if we decide those steps make sense for us, it won’t be because of external timelines or pressure,” I answered honestly.
“Smart answer,” Toni murmured, the first crack in her armor showing.
“Too smart,” her mother countered, but her eyes softened slightly.
Mama Tilda rejoined the conversation, her voice like a warm knife cutting through the tension like butter.
“The cobbler is getting cold, and y’all are interrogating this poor man like he’s on trial.
You seem solid, young man. Time will tell if you are as good as your word.
” Mama Tilda patted my hand with fingers that had likely prepared thousands of meals and stroked countless tears away.
“Yes, ma’am,” I responded with genuine respect.
“Now, who’s ready for dessert? Zanaa, quit clutching that boy’s hand like he’s about to bolt. If your grip hasn’t scared him off yet, my cobbler certainly won’t,” Mama Tilda continued.
The laughter that followed broke the remaining tension, and as Zanaa released my hand with a sheepish smile, I felt something shift in the room. Not exactly acceptance, but the possibility of it. The opening of a door I was determined to walk through, one Sunday brunch at a time.