26. Nairobi Crawford
I wasn’t this nervous bringing Jasmine over here.
So why was I sweating bullets in the passenger seat of Fontaine’s truck?
I’d brought down men twice my size without blinking, but the thought of walking through that front door with him had my stomach in knots.
The turtleneck wasn’t helping either—it felt like a noose tightening around me by the minute.
“Hey.” Fontaine’s hand landed on my thigh. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lied, wriggling in my seat as he pulled into my parents’ driveway.
He didn’t press. Just squeezed my thigh once before putting the car in park and killing the engine. “Crazy—you’re a whole killer and you grew up in this big ass house.”
I side-eyed him, biting back a snide remark as he climbed out.
I sat there for a second longer and took a deep breath.
Fontaine looked good as hell in his navy blue cashmere sweater, with charcoal gray slacks hugging the outline of his muscular legs. The peacoat and scarf pulled the look together, making him look like a true upstanding citizen. He grabbed the flowers and wine from the back seat.
“You think I’ve never met mothers before?” he’d said earlier, after catching my expression when he came out dressed like that. “Plus, quiet as it's kept, you’re bougie as hell, Nairobi. You just carry it differently.”
He wasn’t wrong, but I’d never tell him that.
I rang the doorbell and fingered the keys in my pocket. My mother and I were making strides, but I still wasn’t at the point of just walking in yet.
Kenya opened the door, and her whole face lit up when she saw the flowers and wine.
I cleared my throat. “Hi, mama.”
“Nairobi,” she smiled and pulled me into a hug. I didn’t tense up the way I normally did, and I think we were both surprised by that.
She recovered first, turning to Fontaine with her hand out. “And you must be the boyfriend.”
“Fontaine.” He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckle. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Crawford.”
I looked at him. Now when did this man start kissing hands?
Mama stepped aside to let us in. The scent of something rich and savory—maybe a roast—drifted through the house, making my mouth water.
“You cooked?” I asked as we moved toward the dining room.
“Nai, please,” she scoffed. “I had it catered. You know I’m no good at cooking for a crowd.”
Fontaine snorted beside me, low enough that only I could hear it.
The dining was set beautifully of course—wouldn’t expect anything less from Kenya Crawford. The table was set with crisp white linens and the good china she only brought out for company she wanted to impress.
Mama put the flowers in a vase while Fontaine opened the wine, moving around her kitchen with an ease that caught me off guard. He poured her a glass first without being asked.
I brought the food to the table—a rack of lamb with roasted vegetables and creamy mashed potatoes—and we settled in. For the first few minutes, it was a polite quiet—just the sound of forks against plates, nobody wanting to be the first one to say the wrong thing.
“So, Fontaine. Where are you from originally?” Mama asked, breaking the silence.
“Decatur,” he said. “Born and raised.”
“Do you still have family there?”
“Yes, ma’am. My mother’s still out that way, as well as my sister and nephew.”
Mama smiled at that.
I watched him from the corner of my eye. He was relaxed in a way that I’d never been around my own mother. He wasn’t trying to be likable. He was simply being himself, but I found myself frowning at that.
I mostly listened to them talking. Every now and then one of them pulled me back into the conversation and I’d answer and retreat again.
I wasn’t trying to be cold—but outside of our few therapy sessions, I’d never really held a casual conversation with my mother before.
And here Fontaine is, doing it like he’d known her forever. It was just so natural for him.
The conversation between them moved easily. Fontaine answered her questions without volunteering more than needed—where did we meet? Through mutual friends. What did he do for work?
“IT consulting,” he said, cutting into his lamb. “I run my own firm. We work primarily with mid-tier businesses throughout the state. I’ve been doing it for about six years now.”
She smiled and sat back slightly, pleased with his answer.
“You love birds planning on moving in together?” Mama asked.
I nearly choked on my wine. “Ma?—”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we’re ready,” Fontaine answered smoothly. “I’ve had some family things come up recently, and Nai travels a lot for work. It’s just not a priority.”
A strange feeling settled in my chest. We’d never talked about moving in together, even though these days I was at his place more than my own.
My mother’s eyes flicked between us as I felt Fontaine give my leg a reassuring squeeze under the table.
We’d helped her tidy up dessert and decided to call it a night.
“It was really nice meeting you, Fontaine,” Mama said as we put on our coats.
“Likewise, Mrs. Crawford,” he said, flashing her a dimpled smile.
I sat with my arms folded, eyes trained ahead and tried to talk myself out of the annoyance that kept crawling up my spine.
Fontaine drove with one hand on the wheel, unbothered, humming along to whatever was playing on the radio. I wanted to flick him in his stupid face.
“You were really comfortable in there,” I said.
He glanced over. “I thought the evening went well.”
“I bet you did.”
He sighed and looked back at the road. “What’s the problem, Kitten?”
“There’s no problem,” I huffed. “I just find it funny how you could walk into my mother’s house and hold a whole conversation with her like you’ve known her for years. Meanwhile I can’t get through a meal without feeling like I’m talking to a stranger.”
“So you’re mad because I got along with your mom?” he asked slowly, making sure he heard me correctly.
“I’m not mad.”
“You’ve had a scowl on your face since we pulled out of the driveway.”
“I have a headache.”
He sucked his teeth. He knew I was lying and we both knew he knew, and that made it worse somehow. I turned toward the window and watched the streetlights blur past.
It was childish. I’d set this whole thing in motion—been the one to invite him, worked up the nerve to do it. And he made the whole thing look like a walk in the park.
What did I expect? For my mother to be stiff and formal the way she was with me most of my life? For there to be some kind of disconnect between them that would make me feel less of a failure because I was just now forming a relationship with my mother?
It shouldn’t have bothered me. I knew that. Yet, I was sitting at dinner feeling like a guest in my childhood home.
He didn’t press me for the rest of the ride and let me stew in it. By the time we got inside I wanted to fight, scream, punch, something, and I wasn’t proud of it.
I dropped my coat on the chair and went to the kitchen. Fontaine came in behind me and leaned against the fridge, watching me pour myself a glass of water, like he was waiting for me to say whatever was still bottled up.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m a problem you’re trying to solve.”
“Nairobi—”
“She’s never been like that with me.” It came out before I could reel it back in.
“That warm. That welcoming. Even now when we’re working through our mess, it still feels like I’m pulling teeth most of the time.
And you walk in one time—” I laughed dryly.
“One fucking time, and she’s laughing and pouring wine, asking about your life like she actually cares. ”
“And that’s my fault?” he stood, studying me.
“Did I say that?”
“Then what are you saying?”
“It’s frustrating!” My voice came out louder than I meant it to.
I pressed my hands against the counter, my eyes burning with tears that I prayed didn’t fall.
“All I’ve wanted my entire life was to connect with either of my parents and you waltz in there, getting more warmth out of her than I’ve gotten in thirty-eight years. That's what I'm saying.”
The kitchen was silent.
“I didn’t go in there to outshine you, Nai,” he said. “I came because I was trying to show up for you like you asked.” He pushed off the counter. “I’m not about to stand here and be your punching bag because you’ve got unresolved shit with your parents that has nothing to do with me.”
I rubbed my temples. “I know that.”
“You sure? Because it feels like you’re making me out to be the enemy right now.”
“Fontaine—”
“Nah.” He held up a hand, cutting me off. “I understand tonight may have brought up a lot. I do. But you need to be honest about what this actually is instead of making it about me being too charming or whatever else you want to call it.”
I hated that he was right.
My father’s disinterest still resided in the back of my head even in death.
And my mother, whose aloofness was her way of surviving Sterling’s fuckery, was only now starting to see me.
Thirty-eight years of being programmed that love came with conditions or didn’t come at all, and Fontaine made it look like the simplest thing in the world.
“I’m sorry,” I sighed and leaned against the counter. “I—I’m still figuring out how to do this. All of it. The mother thing, the family thing—” I gestured between us. “This.”
He crossed the kitchen and pulled me into him before I could say anything else. I wrapped my arms around him and let the beat of his heart ground me like it always did.
“Is this what people mean when they say they got ‘triggered’?” I asked against his chest.
“Yes.” His hand moved slowly up my back. “You could’ve just said that in the car.”
“Aw, where’s the fun in that?”