Chapter 39
Theo O'Keefe
Jamal’s hand remains on my back, grounding me to him and offering support. I’ve never been to a family Thanksgiving with so many people. Most of our Thanksgivings were spent in formal dining rooms with strangers, and I was told repeatedly not to embarrass the King family.
Old Theo went along with the protocol because it was easier than the alternative. New Theo intends to make a good impression on Jamal’s family.
The side-eye I’m receiving is a reminder that, although I’m a famous, rich athlete, that means nothing if they don’t like me.
“Wait, tell me again how Mary is related,” I say under my breath.
“She’s not a blood relation. She’s my auntie by choice,” he clarifies. Then adds, “You met her in my old apartment.”
“Got it,” I lie. I was raised as an outsider because I wasn’t a blood relation. This is so much better. He said if they give me a nickname, no matter how ridiculous, it means they like me.
There’s no way I’ll be able to eat with all this pressure.
“J, I’m going to steal Theo for a minute to help me.” Kenya links her arm with mine.
“I’ll help too,” Jamal says, but a look from his mom stops him.
Kenya sits me at the filled kitchen table. There’s cornbread dressing, mac and cheese, and lots of pies.
“What will settle your nerves—water, whiskey, or tea?” She runs her gaze over me in assessment.
“Is it that obvious?” I wince.
“You’re laughing really loud at DeAndre’s obnoxious jokes. This family knows he’s not funny.” She pats my shoulder and moves to the cabinet for a glass tumbler and a sixteen-ounce water cup. She rattles them in my direction and points to the cups, asking me to choose.
“Water,” I croak. No telling what my mouth will say if I drink whiskey. And tea isn’t my thing.
She fills it, and I guzzle it down. “Now, make yourself useful and stir the gravy.” Kenya points to the stove. “Don’t let it get lumpy.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I must stir too forcefully because she snorts a laugh.
“First, don’t call me ma’am, and slow down, or you’ll create a funnel that spills over the sides.”
Taking a deep breath, I stir while she checks the temperature of the turkey. There’s a pot of greens with ham hocks on the back burner and a skillet of candied yams next to the gravy.
“Have you talked to your mom?” she asks softly.
“She texted me. I really appreciate your offer to host her. She was vague about her plans. I’m not sure if she’s on vacation, searching for her next husband, or spending as much money as she can before it’s gone.
” My slim hope that she would turn to me during the King family crisis hasn’t panned out.
After I hired a lawyer and an accountant, John was investigated and arrested for embezzlement and financial fraud. He spent too much money and lost millions in poor investments. He used my money to keep the family solvent.
“What does your lawyer say?” Kenya prods.
Anyone else and I’d accuse them of judging me or trying to assess my financial viability, but she only wants what’s best for me. “If I recoup any money, it’ll be after bankruptcy, and it’s doubtful I’ll ever see it.” I shrug.
“That’s horseshit.” She folds me in her arms, and I soak in her comforting floral scent.
“I don’t care about the money. I’m happy to be free from John and his father. That sounds privileged, doesn’t it?” I lean back to read her expression. Only someone who doesn’t have to worry about money would say they don’t care about it. Stupid comment.
She hugs my middle and lets me go. “Yes, but you were raised with old Boston money. It’s hardly your fault.”
“I don’t want to seem too…” I trail off and tilt my head toward the kitchen door to listen to their family chatter and talking over each other.
It’s shameful to admit I used to look down on them.
But they would never steal from or abandon each other.
John Sr. cut all ties with his son, calling him a failure and an embarrassment. “I hope they like me.”
“Boy, they are going to give you so much shit. They will make it their mission to cut you down to see how you handle it. But at the end of the day, they want Jamal to be happy. They’ve never seen him smile so much.
” Her voice drops. “But as much as we try, we can’t replace your family.
I have firsthand experience with that, so I understand, sweetie. ”
I blush at the nickname. “Any luck reconnecting with your family?”
“A few texts here and there, but my family had trauma before my sister died. If she had lived, they would’ve disowned her for what she did to my baby.” We both shudder thinking of Jamal’s burn marks.
“So barbaric.” My stirring is finally congealing the gravy.
“With time, I’ve forgiven her. She had her demons and truly believed she was helping Jamal become a man.” She wipes the corners of her eyes.
“You’re a better person than me,” I grumble, because if I met his auntie, violence would be my first instinct.
“They’re family.” Kenya shrugs. “Like your mom.”
That is a different perspective. “Did you ever regret it? Taking Jamal?”
“No.” She bastes the turkey. “Don’t get me wrong, we had hard times and money issues, but we always had love. And that kept me going.”
“Thanks.” My voice cracks.
“For what?” She wipes her hands on a dishtowel and comes to my side.
“For not hating me for how I treated Jamal. For giving me a chance. For inviting me to a family dinner. And—”
“Sweetie, if Jamal loves you, we love you. You don’t need to thank us.
” She gives me another mom hug. “Things are almost ready. I found a recipe for butternut squash.” She shoos me as if that isn’t the most thoughtful thing she could ever do.
“Go on back to your man and send the aunties in. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re eavesdropping,” she says, raising her voice.
“You rang?” DeAndre’s oldest sister enters the kitchen, followed by a few more aunties.
Kenya shoots me an “I told you so” look and turns into a drill sergeant barking orders. I back out of the kitchen quietly.
Jamal threads our fingers together when I stand next to him. It’s a strange thing to find this level of acceptance. Not only am I the only white dude here, I’m with a guy. John would vet anyone I wanted to bring to dinner and would never have allowed me to date a man.
I join the football discussion of who will win the AFC this year. “Patriots,” I say unapologetically and get glares. “You can take the man out of Boston, but you can’t take—”
“If you want to make it out of this room alive, you will not finish that sentence,” Jamal whisper-yells.
The conversation turns to hockey, and that’s safe ground. No one roots against our team.
DeAndre announces dinner, and we gather around the table.
His cousin comes from the kitchen, and her eyes sweep the room while she says, “Where does the white boy food go?”
Jamal bangs his fist on the table, startling me. “We don’t talk that way in this house. His name is Theo, and he’s eating what we eat.”
I understand that she’s holding the special dish Kenya made for me, but Jamal’s anger on my behalf is addicting.
Pulling him into his seat, I whisper, “She only meant—”
“I don’t care what she meant. She needs to apologize.” He glares at her.
“Your mom said… It’s for… Special.” She can’t form a complete sentence.
I stand and round the table to take the dish from her. “It’s a recipe Kenya made for me. Hardly any flavoring for this white boy. But don’t worry, Jamal is introducing spice into my life.” I wink at him and love his flush.
“Alrighty, Keefer, we see you.” DeAndre’s brother points a roll at me.
I can’t hide my smile, and my stomach jumps for joy as I sit down next to Jamal.
They gave me a nickname. I wonder if he knows it’s what the hockey teams calls me or if it’s a coincidence.
“Sorry,” his cousin says sheepishly.
“No worries.” Nothing could ruin this day for me.
All the dishes are brought in and passed around. I fill my plate with a little of everything.
“Tyrone and Jada’s family are coming for dessert,” Jamal’s mom says.
Jamal shakes his head. “I’m going to Q Solutions before that.”
“Are you leaving us alone with the boyfriend?” Nevaeh cackles.
“I’m tutoring one of the kids to get his GED while Jamal serves dinner.” All eyes turn to me. “It’s a good thing there are answer keys. I got a college degree, but some of the questions are hard.”
“Don’t downplay it. If it weren’t for you, Juan David would probably be in jail.” Jamal nips my shoulder, and I don’t argue.
“I hear you’re moving,” Nevaeh says, after everyone starts eating.
Jamal has taken a huge bite, so I answer. “In a week and a half.”
“Deserting your friends already?” She raises an eyebrow.
“If you saw this place and the deal we’re getting, you’d ditch this entire family,” Jamal fires back after swallowing.
“Can’t be that good?” she huffs, stabbing her turkey with a fork.
“When you come visit, you can decide,” I offer.
“If it’s that great, maybe I’ll crash with you,” Nevaeh taunts.
“Sure. Only catch is you’ll have to fight Sarah for the spare room or sleep on the couch.” Jamal cuts her a sly look.
We offered Sarah a room, but she’s not ready to leave Boston.
“You sure you don’t need help moving?” DeAndre’s brother asks.
“These boys are pro athletes. They don’t need your janky pickup truck.” DeAndre slaps the table. “They be rentin’ fancy gold trucks.”
“Nah, Jamal’s sperm donor stole my money, so we had to go for silver.” The silence at the table makes my ears ring. “Sorry, I—”
“Don’t you dare apologize,” Jamal growls. “It’s the damn truth. And it was funny.”
There’s collective relief and a few giggles.
“Jamal, you better not fuck this up.” Nevaeh waves her fork at us.
It’s the highest compliment I could receive.