Epilogue #2
Mrs. Jones had also spent most of the morning keeping an eye on me. Water appeared in my hand before I asked for it. She had found me a chair twice, asked what I ate for breakfast, then frowned when my answer apparently failed inspection.
The first time, I blamed Dre for telling her I had been tired lately.
By the third bottle of water, I was starting to wonder.
Camille passed through with Malcolm beside her carrying two plates, one for her and one he clearly had no intention of letting her balance herself.
She rolled her eyes when he handed it over, but she leaned into his side while she did it, looking loved on and irritated about being caught enjoying it.
My parents arrived with Jabari not long after.
He clapped Dre on the shoulder. “You still treating my sister right?”
“Every day.”
Jabari nodded once. “Aight then.”
“That’s it?” Dre asked.
“That’s all I needed to hear.”
Mama rolled her eyes. “Boy, stop acting like you’re her father.”
“Somebody got to ask.”
Mama hugged me next, held me out at arm’s length, and looked at my face a little too long.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“You are looking at me.”
“I have eyes.”
Before I could respond, she took the bottle of water from my hand, checked how much I had drunk, and handed it back.
I stared at her. “What is happening?”
“Drink your water.”
Mrs. Jones made the mistake of looking over at exactly the wrong moment. Mama’s eyes met hers. Something passed between them.
Oh, hell no.
“Why are y’all looking at each other like that?”
“Like what?” Mama asked.
“Like you know something.”
Her mouth twitched. “I don’t know anything.”
“Mama.”
She adjusted the collar of my coat like I was twelve. “I did dream about fish last week, though.”
My whole body went still.
Mrs. Jones pressed her lips together.
“Mama.”
“What?” Her face was innocence itself. “I didn’t say who was pregnant.”
“Oh my God.”
“See? Now you’re jumping to conclusions.”
“I am jumping to conclusions?”
Behind me, Dre made a sound suspiciously close to a laugh.
I turned on him. “Don’t.”
He lifted both hands. “I ain’t say shit.”
Of course he hadn’t. He was enjoying this entirely too much.
My mother kissed Dre’s cheek, and my father shook his hand, holding on a second longer than usual.
“Proud of you, son,” Daddy said.
Dre’s throat moved. “Thank you.”
I watched them, my heart full, and without thinking, my hand drifted near my belly.
I lowered it almost immediately.
Too late.
My mama’s eyes dropped to my hand. So did Mama Jones.
Both looked smug and vindicated, as if they’d been discussing the baby before I could confirm there was one.
Daddy noticed Mama noticing and suddenly developed an intense interest in the field. Mr. Jones did approximately the same thing two seconds later.
Oh, so the fathers had been briefed too.
Nobody said a word.
Somehow, that made it funnier.
And sweeter.
Dre’s hand found my lower back. His eyes touched mine, soft, private, knowing.
Just before kickoff, somebody from athletics came to pull Dre down toward the field. He kissed my temple and went, stopping twice before he reached the rail because people kept grabbing him. I watched until he turned like he felt me looking.
He found me in the stands immediately.
Two fingers touched his mouth before he sent the kiss toward my section.
My throat tightened before I could laugh. He had done that after touchdowns when we were twenty-one. Nine years later, with his ring on my hand and his child filling my belly, he still knew exactly where to find me.
The AWU Kings won the Homecoming game by ten, and the stadium lost its mind.
Royal Sound filled the air. Students rushed toward the lower railings.
Alumni stood and hugged people they had not spoken to since undergrad.
Dre pulled me close when the crowd shifted, his hand at my lower back, body angled around mine with the kind of care he gave without making it a whole production.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine.”
“You been saying that all day.”
“Because you keep asking.”
“I’m going to keep asking.”
“I know.”
His eyes dropped briefly to my stomach.
My heart stumbled.
Then his gaze returned to mine. “You hungry?”
I laughed. “That was not smooth.”
“It was practical.”
“It was obvious.”
“I’m a concerned husband.”
“You are a hovering father in preseason form.”
His smile hit me low and warm. “I like the sound of that.”
My eyes burned fast enough to irritate me.
“Dre.”
He dipped his head and kissed my forehead. “Aight. No crying at the concession stand.”
“I am not crying.”
“You are approaching.”
“I’m emotional because the band is loud.”
“Sure.”
I pinched his side.
He laughed and kept me tucked against him.
Later, after the official photos, after too many people congratulated us on marriage like we had wed that morning instead of six months ago, after Saint Aurelia’s alumni showcase sold three custom consults before dessert and Nia texted that The Nocturne’s private holiday list was already over capacity, Dre and I slipped away from the main crowd.
Campus had settled into evening.
The lamps came on along the walkways, warm against the brick buildings and old trees. Music still carried from the yard, but softer now. We walked without rushing, his hand around mine, until the noise thinned behind us.
I knew where we were going before he said it.