7. AMAI #2
Mama stood there in a cream-colored dress, pearls at her throat, and her hair styled in soft curls that framed her face. She looked elegant. Fragile.
Lupus had stolen some of her strength over the years, but she’d never let it steal her presence.
“Amai,” she said, smiling. “You’re late.”
“Traffic.”
“Mm-hmm.” She stepped aside to let me in. “Alexis is in the sitting room with your father. Go say hello.”
I walked past her into the house.
The air smelled like roasted chicken, garlic, and something sweet baking in the oven. The kind of smells that were supposed to make you feel at home.
They didn’t.
I walked into the sitting room and found Winston in his usual chair—a high-backed leather throne that he’d positioned so everyone had to look up at him when they spoke.
Alexis sat on the sofa across from him, her legs crossed at the ankle, her hands folded in her lap.
She looked up when I entered.
And smiled.
“Amai,” she said, standing. “It’s so good to finally meet you.”
She was stunning.
Exactly like the picture Mama showed me—slim thick, deep mahogany skin, hazel eyes that caught the light, a pixie cut that framed her face perfectly.
She wore a burgundy dress that hugged her curves without being too tight, and heels that made her legs look endless.
She was beautiful.
Respectable.
Safe.
And I felt absolutely nothing.
“Alexis,” I said, extending my hand.
She shook it, her grip firm but not aggressive.
“Your mother’s told me so much about you,” she said.
“All good things, I hope.”
She laughed softly. “Mostly.”
Winston cleared his throat.
I turned to look at him.
He was watching me with that expression he always wore—half pride, half disappointment, like I was simultaneously his greatest achievement and his biggest failure.
“Amai,” he said. “Sit down. You’re making Alexis nervous.”
I wasn’t.
But I sat anyway.
Alexis settled back onto the sofa, smoothing her dress over her thighs.
“So,” Winston said, leaning back in his chair. “Alexis teaches at Loyola. African American Studies. Isn’t that right?”
“That’s right,” Alexis said, smiling at him. “I focus on post-Reconstruction Southern identity and how it shaped modern Black communities.”
Winston nodded like he understood.
He didn’t.
“Sounds important,” he said.
“It is,” Alexis replied. “History shapes everything. If we don’t understand where we came from, we can’t understand where we’re going.”
I watched her speak.
She was intelligent. Articulate. Passionate about her work.
Everything Mama wanted for me.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about Truth.
About the way she’d looked at me in the car.
About the way she’d fought beside me in the street.
About the way she’d signed that contract without flinching.
“Amai.”
I blinked.
Winston was staring at me.
“I asked you a question,” he said.
“Sorry. What?”
His jaw tightened. “I asked how business is going.”
“Fine.”
“Fine?” He raised an eyebrow. “That’s all you have to say?”
“Business is good,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Landry Enterprises is expanding. The jewelry shop is doing well. Everything’s on track.”
“And the other business?”
The air shifted.
Alexis glanced between us, sensing something but not understanding what.
“Also fine,” I said.
Winston leaned forward slightly. “I heard there was some trouble at the docks.”
“It’s handled.”
“Handled how?”
“The way it needed to be handled.”
Silence.
Then Winston smiled—cold, sharp, the kind of smile that never reached his eyes.
“Good,” he said. “I’d hate to think you were getting soft.”
Mama appeared in the doorway before I could respond.
“Dinner’s ready,” she said brightly. “Come on, everyone. Let’s eat.”
The dining room table was set with Mama’s good china—white plates with gold trim, crystal glasses, cloth napkins folded into perfect triangles.
Alexis sat across from me.
Winston sat at the head of the table.
Mama sat at the other end, smiling like everything was perfect.
The roasted chicken sat in the center of the table, surrounded by roasted vegetables, mashed potatoes, and a basket of rolls that were still steaming.
It looked like a magazine spread.
It felt like a trap.
“Alexis,” Mama said, passing her the potatoes. “Do you like the church?”
“I do,” Alexis said, spooning potatoes onto her plate. “Pastor is wonderful. His sermons always make me think.”
“He’s a good man,” Mama agreed. She glanced at me. “You should come with us sometime, Amai. It’s been a while since you’ve been to service.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Too busy for God?” Winston said, cutting into his chicken. “That’s a dangerous way to live.”
I didn’t respond.
Alexis smiled politely. “I’m sure Amai has a lot on his plate.”
“He does,” Mama said quickly. “Too much, if you ask me. He works himself to the bone.”
“Someone has to,” I said.
Winston’s fork paused halfway to his mouth.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“No.” He set his fork down. “Say what you mean, Amai.”
I met his eyes.
“I mean someone has to keep the business running. Someone has to make sure everything stays stable. Someone has to?—”
“Someone has to what?” Winston’s voice was sharp now. “Clean up messes? Handle problems? You think I don’t know what you do?”
“I think you know exactly what I do.”
“Then maybe you should remember who taught you.”
The air in the room went cold.
Mama’s smile faltered.
Alexis looked down at her plate, suddenly very interested in her vegetables.
I picked up my glass and took a slow sip of water.
“I remember,” I said quietly.
Winston stared at me for a long moment.
Then he picked up his fork and went back to eating.
Mama cleared her throat. “So, Alexis. Tell us about your research. Amai loves history.”
I didn’t.
But Alexis launched into an explanation about her current project—something about oral histories and community memory—and Mama nodded along like she understood every word.
I ate in silence.
The chicken was good.
The potatoes were creamy.
The rolls were soft and buttery.
And I tasted none of it.
All I could think about was Truth.
Sitting at Delphine’s kitchen table with a highlighter and a legal dictionary.
Signing a contract that would change her life.
Trusting me.
“Amai.”
I looked up.
Mama was watching me with that expression she always wore when she was about to say something she thought I needed to hear.
“Alexis was just telling us about a gallery opening next week,” she said. “I think you should go with her.”
Alexis smiled. “It’s a small exhibit. Local artists. Nothing fancy. But I think you’d enjoy it.”
“I’m sure I would,” I said.
“Then it’s settled.” Mama beamed. “You’ll pick her up at seven.”
I didn’t agree.
But I didn’t argue either.
Because this was what Mama wanted.
A nice girl.
A respectable girl.
A girl who went to church and taught at universities and didn’t ask questions about the blood on my hands.
A girl who wasn’t Truth.
Dinner dragged on.
Dessert was peach cobbler—Mama’s specialty.
Alexis complimented it.
Winston talked about a deal he was working on.
Mama dropped another hint about grandchildren.
“I’m not getting any younger,” she said, laughing softly. “And I’d love to see you settled, Amai. With a good woman. Someone who understands family.”
This time.
She didn’t say it.
But I heard it anyway.
I looked at Alexis.
She was lovely.
Kind.
Intelligent.
Everything a man was supposed to want.
And all I could think about was a woman covered in strawberry Fanta, standing at a bus stop with her pride in pieces, looking at me like I was the only person who could put her back together.
I pushed my plate away.
“I should go,” I said.
Mama frowned. “Already?”
“I have an early meeting tomorrow.”
“On a Sunday?”
“Business doesn’t stop for weekends.”
Winston grunted. “That’s the truth.”
I stood.
Alexis stood too. “It was really nice meeting you, Amai.”
“You too.”
“Maybe I’ll see you at the gallery?”
“Maybe.”
Mama walked me to the door.
“She’s lovely, isn’t she?” she said quietly.
“She is.”
“And she’s nothing like—” Mama stopped herself. “She’s a good girl, Amai. The kind of girl you should be with.”
I looked at my mother.
At the hope in her eyes.
At the desperation.
“I know, Mama.”
She smiled and kissed my cheek. “Drive safe.”
I walked out into the night.
Got in my car.
Sat there for a moment with my hands on the steering wheel.
Alexis was perfect.
And I didn’t want her.
I started the engine and pulled out of the driveway.
And all I could think about was Truth.