4. Landon #2
She looked over the top of hers. “You said you weren’t ordering for me.”
“I’m not. Informed counsel.”
“That sounds close.”
“Authority tells you what to do. Counsel gives you useful information and lets you make your own bad decision.”
“And humility?”
“Available upon request.”
Her laugh slipped out. “So if I order something else?”
“I mind my business and judge you privately.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“Integrity matters.”
She studied the menu for another few seconds. “I was already considering the snapper.”
I nodded. “Strong decision-making.”
“Don’t.”
“I ain’t say discernment.”
“You were thinking it.”
“Can’t police thought.”
The server came back, and Nolani ordered the snapper with garlic mashed potatoes and asparagus.
I chose the crab-stuffed redfish because if I ordered the same thing after all that talking, I’d never hear the end of it.
We added fried green tomatoes for the table, and Nolani asked for extra bread before the first basket arrived.
“You eat like this all the time?”
“No. Nana has spent twenty-four hours feeding me like I just came home from war.”
“Maybe you looked hungry.”
“I did not.”
“She knows you better than I do.”
“That’s not saying much. You’ve known me one tea stain.”
“One tea stain, one threatened gallon, and one missed opportunity. We developing history.”
Her smile appeared over the rim of her glass. “You really thought about not getting my number?”
“Yep.”
“More than once?”
“Yep.”
Her eyes stayed on me.
I let them.
I wasn’t embarrassed by the answer. I’d thought about her. No need to pretend otherwise because we’d only known each other a day.
“I liked talking to you,” I said. “Wanted to do it again. Seemed inefficient to leave that up to municipal geography.”
That got me another smile before she looked toward the water.
“Nana had a card game today. She put me out before I could help.”
“Smart woman.”
“She said I was hovering.”
“Were you?”
“I was making sure she had everything she needed.”
I took a sip of tea. “That wasn’t the question.”
Her fingers touched the pendant, but she didn’t clutch it.
Progress.
“I might’ve been doing a little too much.”
“That sound familiar.”
She looked at me. “To you?”
I laughed. “See, this that Self Ridge propaganda.”
“And Self Springs has what? Better branding?”
“Absolutely. Same confidence, superior presentation.”
“Oh, please.”
“Don’t hate because the regional data favors us.”
“What regional data?”
“Internal study.”
“Conducted by?”
“Self Springs.”
“Of course.”
“Peer review pending.”
She laughed again.
The fried green tomatoes arrived beneath a dusting of cornmeal and parmesan. Nolani took one bite, closed her eyes for a second, and reached for another before she’d completely finished the first.
“That good?”
“Don’t speak to me.”
I nodded. “Understood.” I respected her request for approximately seven seconds before the book beside her silverware gave me something else to ask about. “You get that from Franklin Books?”
“This morning.”
“I passed it yesterday. Didn’t go in.”
“You missed out.”
“What makes it special?”
“Mr. Franklin remembers what people love, not just what they bought.”
That opened something in her.
Nolani started telling me about Franklin Books, how the stacks looked like a fire-code discussion until somebody asked for a title and Mr. Franklin walked straight to it. Then she mentioned his daughter, Camille, wanting a winter partnership with Crème & Chill, which led me to Scoops & Stories.
“So you got a bookstore inside the ice cream shop?”
“Not exactly. Scoops & Stories is part of Crème & Chill. We built a reading area into it with shelves, floor cushions, little tables, and weekend story hours.”
I sat back. “You giving children sugar and unrestricted access to literature under one roof.”
“When you say it like that, it sounds irresponsible.”
“Nah. Sounds strategic.”
Her expression changed when she talked about it. She leaned in without realizing it, hands moving now because she was interested instead of nervous.
“A lot of children associate books with correction. Reading logs, tests, questions about what they misunderstood. I wanted them to experience stories as joy first. Something they could choose. Something that belonged to them before anybody graded it. Imagination shouldn’t feel like another assignment.
Crème & Chill was never only about dessert.
I love developing flavors, but I love creating spaces where people feel good enough to stay too. ”
I watched her for a second.
“So you ain’t really selling ice cream.”
Her brows lifted. “What am I selling?”
“Belonging. Ice cream just got better margins.”
She smiled, slower this time. “Something like that.”
“Smart.”
“Thank you.”
“And dangerous.”
“Why dangerous?”
“’Cause now I’m interested in seeing it.”
Her attention held mine.
Good.
I wanted her to know I wasn’t listening just to wait for my turn to speak.
The entrées arrived before I could ask anything else. Her snapper smelled good enough to test my earlier confidence, but I had already committed publicly to my redfish and wasn’t about to fold under pressure.
Nolani pointed her fork toward my plate. “Is yours better?”
“Absolutely.”
“You haven’t tasted mine.”
“Don’t need to.”
“That’s arrogance.”
“That’s faith.”
“In fish?”
“In my discernment.”
She cut a piece of snapper and placed it on the bread plate between us. “Taste it.”
I did.
Unfortunately, it was excellent.
Nolani waited with the patience of somebody who knew she was about to win.
I swallowed and took a drink.
“Well?”
“Respectable.”
“Respectable?”
“I’m protecting your humility.”
“You’re protecting your plate.”
“Both can be true.”
She laughed and shook her head.
I liked this.
The ease of it. The fact that conversation could move from stupid to substantial without either of us announcing the transition.
“What about football?” she asked. “Why coaching?”
There were several answers I could’ve given her. Competition. Structure. Leadership. Loving the game. All true. None complete.
I set my fork down.
“I like winning. I’m not gon’ sit here and lie in front of this good fish like that part don’t matter.
But wins ain’t why I stay. I stay because boys turn into men while everybody watching the scoreboard, and too many people only know how to value them when they producing something.
Speed. Strength. Grades. Tackles. Scholarships.
Then somebody gets hurt, benched, scared, or starts struggling, and suddenly, the love come with performance metrics.
I need my players to understand that jersey don’t create their value. ”
Nolani’s fork paused above her plate.
“You make it sound bigger than football.”
“It is bigger than football. Football just gives me access.”
“That’s beautiful.”
“It’s practical.” She gave me a look. I smiled. “Can be both.”
“What keeps you from carrying all of them home with you?”
A laugh left me because that question had found me faster than expected.
“Nothing, apparently. Ask my daddy.”
Recognition showed up in her face.
I rubbed my thumb against the condensation on my glass. “Dependable people get rewarded with more dependency. That system works great until the dependable person starts running low.”
Nolani sat back slightly.
“People get comfortable with what you can survive,” she said. “Then they start mistaking survival for permission.”
“Exactly.”
We left it there.
That was enough for lunch number one.
I wasn’t trying to turn a good meal into group therapy because we’d discovered overlapping dysfunction.
“What does faith look like in all that?” she asked.
“Correction.”
Her brows rose. “That wasn’t what I expected.”
“God got a long-standing disagreement with my savior complex. He keeps reminding me stewardship and omnipotence are different job descriptions.”
That made her smile. “And do you listen?”
“Eventually. Consequences got tuition.”
Her laugh came out full this time, head tipping back as one hand went to her stomach.
I sat there smiling like I’d accomplished something.
Probably because I had.
That sound?
Yeah.
I wanted another one.
“Lennox tried cooking for Mama after one of her treatments once and seasoned a whole pot of rice with cinnamon because he grabbed the wrong container. Refused to admit anything was wrong until Daddy asked why dinner tasted like breakfast had lost its way.”
Nolani laughed harder. “Stop. He fed it to everybody?”
“With confidence. Put parsley on top like presentation could save it.”
“You’re lying.”
“I wish. Daddy ate half a bowl out of loyalty and hypertension.”
She leaned forward, laughing into one hand.
“You’re doing this on purpose.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“’Cause I like your laugh.”
That slowed her down.
Her eyes met mine.
I didn’t dress the answer up or take it back.
I liked her laugh.
She knew now.
Good.
The server returned to collect plates we’d somehow emptied while talking and looked between us.
“Y’all want dessert?”
Nolani turned toward me. “What do you recommend?”
I leaned back. “Look at you, requesting informed counsel.”
“I’m considering expert testimony.”
“Growth.”
“Don’t make me regret this.”
“Praline bread pudding.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You answered too fast.”
“’Cause I know the answer.”
“And if I hate it?”
“I’ll take the loss.”
“That’s new.”
“I believe in situational accountability.”
She laughed beneath her breath. “One bread pudding. Two spoons.”
The bread pudding arrived warm beneath bourbon caramel, toasted pecans, and a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream already beginning to melt. Nolani took the first bite.
Her eyes closed.
I leaned back in my chair.
“Yeah, keep doing that, and you gon’ make my recommendation look better than it was.”
She pointed the spoon at me. “Don’t ruin this with arrogance.”
“That was appreciation.”
“It was gloating.”
“Semantics.”
She took another bite. “It’s good.”
“Respectable?”
“Better than respectable.”
“Say it right.”
“It’s excellent.”
I nodded. “Appreciate your integrity.”
“You are aggravating.”
“You keep rewarding the behavior.”