Chapter 19 Zahara
ZAHARA
The lunch rush at Grits was brutal. I’d been on my feet for six hours straight, dealing with customers who snapped their fingers at me, left terrible tips, and acted like I was personally responsible for every little thing that went wrong with their meals.
“This sweet tea ain’t sweet enough.”
“My eggs are too runny.”
“Why my biscuit so small?”
I smiled through it all, refilled drinks, apologized for things that weren’t my fault, and pocketed the measly tips they left on tables sticky with syrup.
And then there was Larry. He’d been worse than usual today. Lingering too close when I passed by. Making comments about how my uniform fit. Brushing against me when there was plenty of room to walk by. Every time I felt his presence behind me, my skin crawled.
“Zahara, baby,” he’d said earlier, cornering me by the coffee station. “You look tired. You need someone to help you relax. I could—”
“I’m fine, Larry.” I’d stepped around him, carrying a pot of coffee like a shield.
“Just saying. You ever need anything, you know where to find me, with yo’ fine chocolate self.”
The way he’d said it made me want to pour the hot coffee on him.
But I needed this job. Needed the money. So I smiled and nodded and kept moving.
I was clearing a table near the window when I saw Mehar, one of my younger sisters. One of my father’s other wives’ daughters.
She walked in wearing a long, modest dress and hijab, looking much older than when I last saw her in Baltimore. She was twelve when my twin sister and I ran off to Cali. But she was beautiful, serene, and modest. Everything our father had wanted his daughters to be.
My heart stopped.
I turned immediately, walking quickly toward the kitchen, keeping my back to the dining room. My hands were shaking so bad the dishes rattled on my tray.
“Zahara, you good?” Cookie asked as I pushed through the kitchen doors.
“Yeah. Just—bathroom. Be right back.”
I didn’t wait for her response. Just set the tray down and kept moving, heading for the back hallway where the bathrooms and storage room were.
“Z?” Mehar’s voice called out from somewhere in the dining room.
I froze for half a second, then kept walking. Faster now.
“Z! Is that you?”
I pushed into the bathroom and locked the door behind me, my heart pounding so loud I could hear it in my ears.
“Hey?”
She was closer now. In the hallway.
I pressed my back against the door, holding my breath, praying she’d give up. Praying she’d think she was mistaken.
A knock on the bathroom door. “Z? I know you’re in there. Please. I just want to talk.”
I didn’t answer. Just stood there, frozen, my pulse racing.
“Please. Just for a minute. Nobody’s seen you in years. We thought—” Her voice cracked. “We thought y’all were dead.”
Tears burned my eyes, but I blinked them back. Stayed silent.
Another knock. Softer this time. “If you’re in trouble… if you need help… please. Let me help you.”
I closed my eyes, my hand on the door handle, fighting every instinct that wanted to open it. Wanted to fall into my sister’s arms and tell her everything.
But I couldn’t. Opening that door meant risking everything. Meant exposing myself. Meant putting Yusef in danger.
Then I heard footsteps. Someone else in the hallway.
“Miss, you can’t be back here.” Cookie’s voice, firm but polite. “Employees only.”
“I’m sorry, I just—I thought I saw someone I knew.”
“Well, she ain’t back here. You need to return to the dining area, or I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”
A long pause. I could picture Mehar standing there, deciding whether to push it.
“Okay,” she said finally. “I’m sorry.”
I waited, listening to her footsteps retreat. Listening to Cookie mutter something about customers not knowing boundaries.
I stayed in that bathroom for ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Long enough to be sure Mehar was gone. When I finally emerged, I peeked around the corner first. The dining room was visible through the kitchen window. Mehar’s table was empty. I let out a breath of relief.
“You aight?” Cookie asked, giving me a look. “That lady was looking for you.”
“Wrong person,” I said quickly. “Happens sometimes. Common name.”
Cookie didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push it. “Well, table six needs a refill, and Larry’s been asking where you are.”
Of course he has.
I got back to work, but my hands didn’t stop shaking for the rest of my shift. Every time the door opened, I tensed. Every time I heard someone call out, I flinched.
But Mehar didn’t come back.
By the time my shift ended, I was exhausted. Emotionally, physically, mentally drained.
I took the bus home, my mind replaying the moment I’d seen Mehar walk through that door. Analyzing every second. Trying to figure out what it meant.
Had she been looking for me specifically? Or was it just bad luck that she’d walked into Grits?
DC wasn’t that big. And if Mehar was here, others might be too.
Growing up, my folks never left Baltimore, so why the hell was she here?
I was stupid for thinking I could hide in a city that was only an hour away from my hometown.
But I had run from everywhere else. I needed to be more careful.
Needed to keep my head down even more than I already was.
When I got to my apartment building, I saw them.
Grocery bags. Four of them again. Sitting by my door.
I looked around, half-expecting to see Prime lurking somewhere.
But the hallway was empty. I picked up the bags and carried them inside.
Fresh vegetables. More fruit. Meat. Rice.
Pasta. All the staples I’d been running low on.
And tucked in one bag, a box of the expensive organic cereal Yusef liked but I could never afford without a coupon. Something warm bloomed in my chest. Something dangerous. He’d done it again. Come by while I was at work and left groceries. No note. No demands. Just… taking care of us.
I put everything away, then stood in my kitchen, staring at the full fridge.
I shouldn’t let him do this. Shouldn’t accept his help. It complicated things. Made me feel things I couldn’t afford to feel. But God, it felt good to not worry about food for once.
I heard the piano from Yusef’s room. Soft, melancholic notes that filled our small apartment.
I knocked on his door. “Yu?”
The music stopped. “Yeah?”
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah.”
I opened the door. He was sitting at his keyboard, sheet music spread out in front of him. His face still showed the bruises, though they were fading now.
“You’ve been practicing a lot,” I said.
“The Christmas recital is coming up. I want to be ready.”
“You’re going back for the recital?”
“Yeah. I have to. It’s my solo.” He looked down at the keys. “My teacher says I’m good enough to perform at the Kennedy Center next year if I keep practicing.”
Pride swelled in my chest. “That’s amazing, baby.”
He shrugged, but I could see the small smile.
“You want to go down the hall? Play with Nigel for a bit?”
“Nah. I just want to practice.”
I walked over and kissed the top of his head. “Okay. But take a break soon. Eat something.”
“I will.”
I left him there, the music starting up again as I closed the door.
And I stood in the hallway of our tiny apartment, listening to him play beautiful music, groceries in the fridge courtesy of a man I was trying not to fall for, hiding from a past that had just found me.
Something had to give.
I just didn’t know what it would be.