4. TRUTH #3
“You hungry, Amai?” Mama asked, gesturing toward the pot of crawfish. “We got plenty. You welcome to stay and eat.”
“That’s very kind of you, ma’am, but I don’t want to impose.”
“Boy, hush,” Mama said, waving him off. “Ain’t no imposin’. You brought my baby home safe, the least I can do is feed you.”
She turned and walked back toward the table, calling over her shoulder. “Truth, go get cleaned up. And bring this man a plate when you come back out.”
I stood there, frozen, still covered in Fanta, watching my mama return to her dominoes like she hadn’t just invited my future employer to eat crawfish in our front yard.
Amai glanced at me.
The polite, friendly mask was still in place, but his eyes—his eyes—were sharp and amused, like he knew exactly how ridiculous this was and was enjoying every second of it.
“You heard your mama,” he said quietly. “Go get cleaned up.”
I wanted to argue.
Wanted to tell him he didn’t have to stay, that he could leave, that this was too much.
But the look in his eyes stopped me.
So, I turned and walked toward the house, my heart pounding, my mind racing, wondering what the hell I’d just gotten myself into.
I showered fast, scrubbing the Fanta out of my hair, washing the stickiness off my skin, and trying to process the fact that Amai Landry was currently sitting in my front yard, eating crawfish with my mama.
When I came back outside ten minutes later in clean clothes—denim shorts and a faded LSU tank top—the scene that greeted me was so surreal I almost turned around and went back inside.
Amai was sitting at the table.
He’d rolled up his sleeves. Taken off his watch. And he was cracking crawfish like he’d been doing it his whole life, pulling the tails, sucking the heads, and tossing the shells into the communal pile in the center of the table.
Mama was watching him with that look.
The one that said she was reading him like a book and taking notes for later.
“So, Amai,” Mama said, her voice casual but her eyes sharp. “What is it you do? For work, I mean.”
“I’m a jeweler,” Amai said smoothly. “I design custom pieces. Engagement rings, mostly. Some estate work.”
“A jeweler,” Mama repeated, nodding slowly. “That’s real nice. You got a shop?”
“On Magazine Street,” Amai said. “Been there about five years now.”
“Mm-hmm.” Mama cracked another crawfish, her eyes never leaving his face. “And business is good?”
“Business is very good,” Amai said.
“I bet it is.”
The way she said it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
I grabbed a plate and started loading it with crawfish, corn, potatoes—anything to keep my hands busy and my mouth shut.
Miss Claudette leaned over and whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, “Delphine, that boy is fine.”
“Claudette, hush,” Mama said, but she was smiling.
“I’m just sayin’,” Miss Claudette continued, fanning herself dramatically. “If I was thirty years younger?—”
“You’d still be too old for him,” Mr. Jerome said, and everyone laughed.
Amai smiled—easy, relaxed, like he was exactly where he belonged.
But I could see it.
The way his eyes tracked every movement. The way his body stayed loose but ready. The way he was performing normal while being anything but.
Mama saw it too.
I knew she did.
Because after a few more minutes of small talk and laughter, Mama set down her crawfish, wiped her hands on a napkin, and looked at Amai with that smile.
The one that wasn’t really a smile at all.
“You know, Amai,” she said slowly, “I been around a long time. Raised four kids in this house. Seen a lot of people come and go. And I got pretty good at readin’ folks.”
Amai met her eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”
“So I’mma tell you somethin’,” Mama continued, leaning back in her chair. “And I want you to hear me real clear.”
The table went quiet.
Even the music seemed to fade into the background.
“I know a hood nigga when I see one,” Mama said, her voice calm and matter-of-fact. “Don’t matter how nice the car is. Don’t matter how polite you talk or how good you crack crawfish. I can see it in your eyes, baby. You ain’t no jeweler.”
Amai didn’t flinch.
Didn’t deny it.
Just held her gaze, his expression unreadable.
“Or maybe you are a jeweler,” Mama amended. “But that ain’t all you are. Is it?”
Silence.
Then Amai smiled—small, genuine, and for the first time since we’d pulled up, real.
“No, ma’am,” he said quietly. “That’s not all I am.”
Mama nodded, like that was exactly the answer she’d expected.
“That’s what I thought,” she said. She picked up another crawfish, cracked it open, and pointed the tail at him. “Now, I don’t know what my daughter got herself into with you. And I ain’t gonna ask, ’cause Truth is grown, and she make her own choices.”
She paused.
Looked at me.
Then back at Amai.
“But I’mma tell you this,” Mama said, her voice dropping into something low and dangerous. “You hurt my baby—and I don’t care what you are or who you know—I will make it my life’s mission to make you regret it. You understand me?”
Amai didn’t hesitate.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I understand.”
“Good.” Mama popped the crawfish tail into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Now pass me them potatoes.”
And just like that, the tension broke.
Miss Claudette started laughing. Mr. Jerome shook his head. Rochelle muttered something about Delphine being crazy.
And Amai looked at my mama with something that might’ve been respect.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said again, and passed her the potatoes.
I sat down at the table, my heart still pounding, and watched the two of them—my mama and Amai Landry—eating crawfish in my front yard like this was normal.
Like this was fine.
Like my entire world hadn’t just tilted sideways.
And I realized something that terrified me more than anything else:
Mama liked him.
And that meant I was in deeper trouble than I’d thought.