Popcorn & The Pope
Chapter forty-two
Eslin
Growing up the way I did—bounced from one house to another, suitcase never fully unpacked—Thanksgiving was never more than a date on the calendar.
Another day to get through. Another reminder that family dinners and warm traditions belonged to other people, not me.
Plus, I knew enough about America to understand that pilgrims and Indians weren’t clinking glasses in a cheerful union that day.
It wasn’t some storybook holiday to celebrate—it was blood and survival dressed up with turkey and pie.
So, I never saw the point in pretending.
No handmade traditions. No “what are you thankful for” circles around the table.
Thanksgiving, for me, was just another Thursday.
That is, until I met Maxine Palmer—hopeless romantic and holiday enthusiast. Max is the kind of woman who has a Pinterest board for every season.
Since the day we became friends in college, Max has refused to let me sit out a single holiday.
Halloween? She shoved me into a Cleopatra costume and dragged me to three different frat houses.
Juneteenth? She insisted sparklers were “non-negotiable.” And one Christmas, when I moved into my very first apartment, Max flew to New York, took me to a tree lot to pick out the cheapest, cutest pine she could find, and helped me decorate my very first tree.
For the first time in my life, someone gave me traditions. She gave me belonging. I hadn’t felt like I had a family until Max came barreling into my world, planting herself firmly in my heart, and making me her sister in everything but blood.
So while I’m genuinely excited about the Thanksgiving gala Tatum has planned for the team, her over-the-top soirées regarded as nothing but legendary, I’m mostly counting down the days until I get to wrap my arms around Max again when she comes for Thanksgiving.
And this time, she’s bringing her new man, Eli.
I can’t wait to meet him. I’ve never met a Black lumberjack.
It’s Friday night and I’m just about to start the marathon of taking down my braids so I can wash and prep for the stylist Marlow’s bringing in for the gala tomorrow when my phone rings.
Coach Jones.
I roll my eyes at the name on the screen even though he’s done nothing wrong. “Hey, Coach!” I answer brightly, tucking my phone between my ear and shoulder while I pop a fresh bowl of popcorn, grab a bottle of wine, and cue up Scandal from season one. Again.
Olivia Pope is my emotional support bitch.
“I wish you would call me Darren,” he says, his tone half a whine, half a chuckle. “No woman I have ever dated has called me Coach the way you do.”
Dated.
The word makes me shiver, and not in a good way. I still haven’t told Coach Jones—Darren—that this isn’t going anywhere. That this little situationship expired long before it began. He never stood a chance.
I don’t like stringing men along, but every time I think about breaking it off, I freeze. It’s easier to delay because there are moments when I think I really could be into him. But those moments never last.
“So, what have you got going on tonight?” he asks, his South African accent rolling out warm and bubbly.
I perk up, but not at him—at the thought of my actual plans. “Just taking down my hair, washing it, watching old episodes of Scandal.” It doesn’t escape me that I sound more excited about Shonda Rhimes reruns than about this man on the other end of the line.
He laughs. “Ah, the old ritual of Black women taking their hair down. You want some company? I can help—I’ve done it plenty of times for my mom and sisters.”
My heart stops. Company? In my apartment? With my hair half out and looking like a baby porcupine? Oh, no.
“That’s sweet,” I start carefully, trying to find the polite exit ramp, “but I prefer to take my hair down by myself. I’m paranoid about someone cutting too high on the braid and snipping my hair.”
“I get it,” he says quickly, no offense taken.
“Will I see you tomorrow at the gala?”
I told him I’d be too busy working the room with Tatum to bring a plus one, and he bought it. A small part of me doesn’t want Grant to see me with him and I hate how guilty it makes me feel—Darren’s nice. Like… too nice.
“Yeah, I’ll be there. That’s why I’m taking my hair down. Marlow’s got a stylist coming to get us all glammed up.”
“Nice!” he says, cheerful as ever. “Well, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to say hello. And, hey, save a dance for me tomorrow, will you?”
I know…I’m the villain in this man’s story.
“Thanks, Coach…Darren. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I hang up, stare at the phone for a long beat, and sigh. Time to end this before he wastes his tenderness on a woman whose heart is already tangled up in someone else.
Just as the microwave goes off, signaling that my popcorn is ready, all the power in my apartment goes out.
It’s pitch black. My heart lurches, a hot rush of panic flooding my chest. I fumble for my phone, swiping up the flashlight. The beam is small, weak, but it’s enough to cut through the darkness.
I sweep it around the apartment, looking for…
something. A fuse box? A switch? Do apartments like this even have one?
I don’t know. I’ve lived here a while and never bothered to find out.
I call Marlow, hoping she might know, but it goes straight to voicemail.
She’s probably at Declan’s, tangled up in tattoos and trouble.
The beam of my flashlight shakes as I make my way to the door. I pull it open, glance down the hall. Every single light is on. The hum of electricity is steady. So it’s just me. Just my apartment.
Perfect.
I don’t want to do it. I shouldn’t do it. But I do it anyway. My thumb hovers over his name for less than a second before I press call.
He answers on the first ring. “Is everything ok?” His voice is rough, alert, and that makes me believe he’d come running no matter the reason.
Relief softens me. “Yes. No. My lights are out in my apartment. Can you come over to help me find the fuse box before I call an electrician?”
“Be right there.”
The line clicks dead, and my pulse jumps.
A few minutes later, there’s a knock at my door. And that’s when I realize I’ve already started taking out my braids. Which means my hair is half-done, sticking out in uneven tufts, looking like a damn brillo pad. Grant Mills is about to see me at my most… unvarnished. With a damn nappy head.
But when I open the door, he doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t mention my hair. Just strides in with a flashlight like he owns the place, heads straight for the closet in my bedroom, flips a couple of switches and—voila. The lights blaze back on.
“Oh my goodness, you are a life saver!” I exhale, clutching my chest. “I thought I was going to have to take my hair down in the dark!”
His brow furrows. “Take your hair down? Like… your braids out?”
I giggle, suddenly shy. “Yes.”
His gaze lingers, curious. “I’ve always wondered how you got those in. And how you take them out.”
That’s when he notices. The popcorn on the counter. The wine bottle, already open. His eyes flick back to me. Tentative. Almost shy.
“Are you preparing for a night of Scandal reruns?”
I blink. “How did you guess?”
“The wine and popcorn gave it away. I may have watched an episode here and there,” he confesses.
I grin. “Here and there, huh?”
He shrugs. Then he hesitates, his mouth tips like he’s asking something bigger than the words suggest. “You, maybe, want some company?”
“Yes.” My answer falls out so fast it startles me. But the truth is, while I didn’t want Darren Jones to see me all nappy-headed and vulnerable, I don’t mind if it’s Grant. I don’t mind him seeing me.
Why do I keep putting myself in danger like this?
Why do I lose all sense the second his shadow crosses my line of sight?
Every time he’s near, it’s like my body is wired to move toward him, no matter how much my mind screams to turn away.
Why can’t I stop? Why can’t I stop chasing the fire I know will burn me alive?
Why can’t I stop running straight into him—like he’s not the very thing I should be running from?
I’ve always read about the fuck it moments in romance novels—the precise second when someone decides to throw reason out the window, silence every voice of logic, and step into the thing they know they shouldn’t want but can’t stop craving.
The point of no return. And standing here, with him so close I can feel the air shift around us, his presence pressing in on every nerve, I know I’m teetering on that edge.
One breath away. One heartbeat away. Almost there. Almost more than halfway to fuck it.
We settle onto the couch, popcorn bowl between us, scissors, plastic bag, and rat-tail comb laid out like tools for a quiet ritual. I cue up Scandal, and soon Olivia Pope’s white coats and reckless entanglements fill the room.
Somewhere between seasons one and two, I hand Grant a braid and show him how to work it loose.
His big hands fumble at first, too cautious, tugging like I’m made of glass.
I laugh, guiding his fingers until he finds a rhythm.
Slowly, we fall into sync—him unweaving, me dropping braids into the bag at my feet, the simple intimacy of it weaving something else entirely between us.
Hours pass like minutes. We’ve burned through nearly two seasons, our commentary sharp and ridiculous—laughing at Fitz, rolling our eyes at Cyrus, agreeing that nobody but Kerry Washington could ever be Olivia Pope.
By the time we reach season two, episode nineteen, it’s late.
Huck is muttering “752” over and over on the screen, my scalp is tender from hours of unwinding, and Grant is concentrating harder than I’ve ever seen him.
Tongue caught between his teeth. Brows furrowed like this is brain surgery and not just hair.
And then it happens.
Snip.
The sound slices through the room.
I freeze. Slowly, I turn, suspicion already crawling up my spine. “What was that?”
Grant flinches like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “What was what?” he says too fast.
My eyes narrow. “Grant.”
He tucks his hand behind his back, still holding something, still gripping the scissors. “Nothing. Totally fine. Everything’s… intact.”
“Grant.” My voice sharpens.
He gives me a sheepish grin, then—God help me—tries to blow the severed braid behind the couch cushion like it’s incriminating evidence.
I catch a glimpse of the braid and notice the length. It’s too long.
My jaw drops. “Did you just—?”
But it’s too late. The answer to my unfinished question hangs in the air, undeniable. A thick braid in his guilty hand. Way too much hair clinging to it.
“Oh my God.” Panic floods me, my hand flying to the back of my head. “What did you do?!”
His face crumples. “Okay, okay—I might have… clipped a little too close. But you moved!”
“I did not move!” I groan, clutching the missing piece of me like it’s a body at a wake. “You cut my actual hair, Grant! Not the braid—the hair!”
He stammers, horrified. “Shit. Shit. Es, I’m sorry. I was—I got distracted by Huck, and the whole 752 thing, and—”
“You think?!” I collapse against the couch, eyes squeezing shut. “What the hell is my stylist going to do with this?!”
Onscreen, Huck whispers “752” again, rocking back and forth in place.
I throw my arm over my face, start rocking back and forth myself and mutter, “Yeah, Huck. Same!”
Grant’s voice is careful, almost tiptoeing. “So… I feel like maybe I should go and let you deal with this.”
I pin him with a glare sharp enough to kill a lesser man. “Give me my scissors, hand me my wine glass, and get out.”
His brows lift. “I just said I’d leave—”
“Don’t correct me in my own damn house!” My voice cracks with embarrassment. “I know what I said!”
For half a second, his mouth twitches—like he’s fighting a laugh—but I’m too wound up to care.
“Eslin, I’m really sorry,” he rushes. “If there’s anything I can do—find you a different stylist, buy you the fanciest wig, whatever you need—just—”
“Get. Out!” I snap, each word its own bullet.
He raises both hands in surrender and backs toward the door. “Okay, okay—I’m going.”
The moment it shuts behind him, the fight drains out of me. My chest caves. Tears spill.
Not because of the hair—though the hair is a real problem.
No, I cry because tonight I caught a glimpse of what it could be like to just…
relax. To let myself be. To be seen in all my unguarded ridiculousness—my head half-undone, braids in a bag at my feet, my hair sticking in every possible direction—and not be met with disgust.
Grant saw all of that.
He saw me.
And the ache in my chest—I can’t decide if it’s humiliation… or relief.
Relief that someone saw me stripped of polish and pretense—messy, awkward, undone—and didn’t flinch.
Didn’t mock. Didn’t bolt for the door until I made him leave.
Relief that for once, I didn’t have to hide the parts of myself I usually keep locked away.
He saw every imperfect strand, every sharp edge, every uncurated piece—and he stayed.
He didn’t send me back.
Didn’t make me feel like too much.
If anything, the only one who couldn’t bear the sight of me in this moment…was me.