Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
DK
Iwatch for her.
It’s another first that belongs to Luna.
Even as a teenager, I didn’t bring girls home.
I rarely dated, usually keeping my nose buried in schoolwork and my focus locked on getting straight A’s.
I was seventeen when I lost my virginity to a girl in my English class.
She picked me up in her mom’s white minivan, and as she drove us past the manicured lawns of Skokie, the Trig test I was supposed to be studying for pressed on my mind.
But when she parked at the bluffs and suggested we get in the back, where the seats folded flat like a bed, I decided a couple missed hours of study time wouldn’t kill me.
It was quick, sweaty, and graceless. Still, I remember the crushing B-minus more than I remember the girl.
Until Luna, I wasn’t sure I had the capacity for real emotional connection, for falling in love or making space for someone else in my carefully controlled plans. I had a few close calls over the years, but college came first. Then work. Then my own survival.
Now, she’s my number one. My heart. My peace. My obsession.
I check my watch again. It’s almost noon. She’ll be here. Manners and discipline would never let Luna be late. Still, I pace the length of the driveway, the August heat rising off the asphalt in visible waves.
This neighborhood is a world away from the high-rises and glass offices where I spent most of my adult life in D.C. Our house is gray brick, two stories tall, with a wide wooden porch and gardens well tended by Gogo’s hands.
Today, I’m grateful for her high bushes and the heavy oak trees lining the block that offer a protective veil. The deep setback of the homes and the distance between lawns mean Luna can pull into the driveway without the neighborhood taking note.
As I pace, charcoal smoke wafts through the air.
My father is in the backyard, commanding the grill while my mother and Gogo are in the kitchen.
I can hear the melodic lilt of their voices carrying through the open window as they speak isiZulu, their chatter rising between the clatter of pots and dishes.
Neo was supposed to be here by eleven, but we all took that with a grain of salt.
To him, an arrival time is merely a suggestion.
I move closer to the street. Somewhere nearby, a lawn mower whirs and kids shout in play. The distant rumble of Edens Expressway is a reminder that the road back to Bayside is close, but for the next two days, we have a haven of our own.
With five minutes to spare, I see her silver sedan turn the corner. She waves with a smile, and I guide her toward the open garage. Bayside politics probably won’t reach a suburban street in Chicago, but I’m not taking that chance.
After the fallout with Anika, I know Luna is arriving with a fractured safety net. I want her to feel protected here. I want her to know I’ve got her.
Silence hums when she cuts the engine, and I tap the panel on the wall, closing the garage door behind her. The space is tidy—storage bins stacked in one corner, shelves lined with tools and old wires, my mother’s car filling the spot beside Luna’s Acura.
She steps out, and I pull in a breath. She’s wearing a white sundress with spaghetti straps, her curls loose to her shoulders. She looks soft. Accessible. The woman beneath the power suits and campaign speeches. Both versions of her fit so smoothly together that I can barely see the seam.
“You made it,” I say, drawing her into a hug, needing to feel her heart beating against mine to believe she’s really here.
She smells like sunshine and flowers. I lower my mouth to hers for a quick kiss, but the want that’s been building since our night at the dunes twists low in my gut.
Luna’s response is just as charged, gripping my shoulders, pulling me closer, like she’s been holding her breath for days, too.
When we finally come up for air, her eyes have that glazed look I love, and her lips are damp and slightly swollen, proof that somewhere in that kiss, time stopped existing.
“That was quite the greeting,” she murmurs.
“I’m happy you’re here.”
“I’m happy to be here too, but…” She runs her hands down the front of her dress. “Now I’m thinking the white might be a little too… bridal.”
“The dress is perfect.” Fitted bodice, knee-length, simple and pretty, elevated by the lush body inside it. “You’re perfect.”
She smiles, but it’s not the one that’s naturally home to her face. A part of her is still back in Bayside.
“Have you heard from Anika?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Not really. She confirmed this morning’s meeting by text. It was curt. All business.”
“I’m sorry, Luna. I know she means a lot to you… and it leaves everything with your campaign in limbo.”
“It’s not on you, DK,” she says softly. “I chose not to tell her. I regret that, but I don’t regret us.”
I pull her in for another hug, and she melts into my arms. I’ve already run through my mental rolodex of skilled campaign managers who might be up for a temporary move to Bayside to get Luna through the election. Though I hope for her sake that Anika comes around.
“I could try talking to her,” I suggest.
“I’m not sure that will help. I sent her a note so she knows how much I want to work this out. But I’ll respect whatever she decides. Let’s not make it the focus of the weekend.”
I nod. And voices on the other side of the door gain our attention. “Ready to do this?” I ask, kissing the tip of her nose. “My mother and Gogo probably have their ears pressed to the wood.”
Luna laughs, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders.
I grab her overnight bag while she gathers two bouquets of flowers and a gold wrapped box. I lead her to the mudroom door that opens into the house. Right on cue, my mother and Gogo scurry away thinking they’re slick, but I catch the retreat of their backs and fight a smile.
“You’ve already gotten a taste of them,” I warn lightly.
“That’s so cute,” she says. “I just hope I don’t disappoint.”
She’s usually so confident that moments like this hit me harder. It’s a window into her past, a time when she hid her vitiligo, when she struggled with her body, when she settled for scraps from weak-ass men like Hollis.
“You could never disappoint, Luna.” I take her hand, grounding us both. “I’m proud to have you here and to introduce you as mine.”
We enter the kitchen, and the scents of onions and spices wrap around us.
Luna takes it all in—the simmering pots, the plants lining the windowsill, my mom at the stove.
Her hair is in passion twists. She’s wearing a cotton shirt dress with the sleeves rolled past her elbows, and a beaded Zulu necklace sitting at her throat like a choker.
“Hello, Rayne,” my mother beams. “You’re even lovelier in person.”
Luna smiles, warm and just a little shy, as she hands me the gift box and one of the bouquets to hold while she steps forward.
“Hello, Mrs. Ramos—”
“Please call me Naledi.”
“Naledi,” Luna says. “These are for you. Thank you for having me.”
She offers the bouquet of white lilies, elegant and understated, exactly right for my mother.
“They’re beautiful,” Mom says, bringing them to her nose. “Thank you, Rayne.”
Gogo appears behind us like she materialized straight out of kitchen smoke, making an entrance, of course. Her towering dhuku is perfectly wrapped on her head, and her starched apron is tied over her traditional Shweshwe dress, the geometric patterns swishing against her ankles as she moves.
Luna’s eyes round—equal parts intimidated and awed—before she pulls from the customs she’s been grilling me about all week. She bows her head slightly, cupping her hands together. “Sawubona, Gogo.”
Gogo nods once. “Yebo.” No smile yet. She’s still assessing.
Luna takes the second bouquet from me—sunflowers tied with a yellow ribbon—and presents them. “Happy birthday, Gogo. Thank you for letting me share your celebration.”
Gogo accepts the flowers, examining them like she’s evaluating Luna’s soul through her floral choice. “Hmmm. Good. At least you did not bring me funeral flowers.”
“Ma,” my mother warns.
Gogo sucks her teeth with a sharp click. “Let me see the girl.” She sets the bouquet down and takes Luna’s face gently between both hands, studying her like rare art. “Pretty. Honest eyes. Nice teeth. Hips for childbearing.”
I choke on absolutely nothing. “Gogo!”
She ignores me, unbothered. “So far, so good.”
Luna, to her credit, doesn’t even flinch. “Thank you,” she says with a smile. “I’m glad I passed the initial inspection.”
“Inspection is ongoing,” Gogo replies. “Do you cook?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Do you eat?”
“Yes.”
“Better.”
Luna’s laugh rings out, easy and light. She takes the small, gold-wrapped box from me, and offers it to Gogo with both hands—her left hand lightly supporting her own right forearm—a show of deep respect that elicits an impressed smile from my mother.
“Please accept this,” Luna says. “And wear it well.”
Gogo takes the box with both hands and tears the paper away. Inside is a fold of rich, African silk—royal blue and gold swirling together in a diamond pattern that symbolizes family. Gogo’s rough, lined fingers trace the edge of the fabric.
“Rayne,” my mother murmurs, leaning closer. “That is stunning.”
“It is,” Gogo agrees, her voice softer now. She lifts the fabric toward the kitchen light. “Ngiyabonga kakhulu, mtanami,” she says, thanking Rayne. “You have an eye for quality.”
“Only the best for the birthday queen,” Luna replies. Watching her, I see what I already know that Luna would lead Bayside with that same authenticity and down-to-earth grace shown in everything she does.
Gogo nods once and folds the silk with meticulous care, pressing it flat with her palm before she looks up at Rayne. A first smile. “I will not ruin such a piece with kitchen grease. But when we eat, I will wear this dhuku like a crown.”
She turns to me with a flick of her wrist. “Take Rayne to meet your father. Then we’ll see how well she copes in the kitchen.”