Page 161 of IRL: In Real Life
For one second, my mother just stood there.
Then her face changed.
“My baby,” she said.
Nicole smiled, but her eyes shone before she even reached her. “Hey, Mama.”
My mother pulled her into both arms right there in the middle of the kitchen, spoon still in one hand, apron covered in holiday, her eyes closed like she had been trying not to hope too hard. Nicole held on just as tight.
I looked away for a second because sometimes happiness in your family could hit you in places you had not prepared.
Jalen gave me a small smile over their shoulders. “Happy Labor Day.”
“Happy Labor Day,” I said, then looked at the pan in his hand. “Please tell me that’s not potato salad from your side.”
He laughed. “It is not. I value my life.”
That got my mother laughing through whatever had been sitting in her throat, and just like that, the house seemed to make room for all of them.
Later, while Mama was fussing over the kids and Jalen had disappeared outside to greet my father, Nicole caught me near the hallway.
“You okay?” I asked her.
She looked toward the kitchen where Mama was pretending not to keep glancing at her. “Yeah.” Then she smiled a little. “Me and Jalen talked.”
“About the holidays?”
“Mmhmmmmn.” She folded her arms, softer than usual. “I told him I knew we had to balance things out. His family. My family. The kids. All of it. But I also told him I missed being here. I missed Mama’s house on holidays. I missed Daddy arguing over the grill. I missed Aunt Denise acting like she personally invented seasoning.” Her mouth trembled into a laugh. “I didn’t realize how much it had been bothering me until I said it out loud.”
My heart softened. “What did he say?”
“Girl, he kissed me and told me never to keep my worries away from him.” Her eyes shifted toward the yard, where Jalenhad already been pulled into somebody’s conversation. “So we’re here.”
I smiled.
“Also,” she added, dropping her voice, “I think he didn’t want to wear another family T-shirt.”
That took me out.
Nicole laughed too, quick and quiet, then squeezed my hand before Mama called for somebody to come taste the pasta like she hadn’t made it the same way for thirty years.
After that, the holiday found its rhythm with Micah fast. He carried things without waiting to be asked twice, laughed with my cousins, stood near the grill with my father long enough to be useful without acting like he knew more than the man holding the tongs, and told my aunt Denise, with a straight face, that yes, he had absolutely come prepared to defend his macaroni if necessary.
That got him adopted almost immediately.
I watched him from the kitchen doorway once while he stood outside with my father, one hand in his pocket, the other wrapped around a bottle of Coors, head bent like whatever my father was saying actually mattered. He kept finding me too, through the yard, across the kitchen, with those little looks that told me he always knew where I was even when half my family stood between us.
At one point, he came in behind me while I was refilling the sweet tea and put one warm hand low at my back as he passed. Nothing loud. Still enough to make my whole body notice.
My mother saw it, of course she did.
When he moved on, she looked at me over the rim of a serving spoon and smiled in a way that made me feel briefly seventeen and fully exposed.
“Don’t start,” I said quietly.
“I didn’t say a word.”
“Your face did.”
