10. Nolani
By nine thirty Saturday morning, Self Springs had already eaten enough butter pecan to make Nyla insufferable.
She stood beneath our yellow and cream canopy working the register with the effortless sociability she carried everywhere, one hand accepting a card payment while the other directed Jasmine toward the backup waffle cones.
Give my sister ten minutes in an unfamiliar place, and she’d leave with somebody’s phone number, a restaurant recommendation, and at least one new person convinced they’d known her longer than they had.
I preferred observation before participation, which Nyla had spent most of our lives identifying as evidence that I’d taken my four-minute head start entirely too seriously.
The Black Excellence Community Festival spread across the park beneath the late-summer sun, bright with vendor tents, food trucks, music, and Black families filling nearly every stretch of grass between them.
Barbecue smoke threaded through the sweetness of kettle corn and funnel cake.
Children moved from face-painting tables to book vendors wearing balloon crowns, superhero capes, and the sticky evidence of whatever their parents had already purchased.
Beyond our row, the youth sports clinic occupied one of the larger fields, and farther down, bass from the main stage made the plastic-tasting spoons tremble inside their container.
Crème & Chill had come prepared to test a market.
Self Springs was behaving like we’d taken too long to visit.
Our festival menu seemed generous when Nyla and I planned it in Self Ridge.
Butter pecan. Brown sugar praline. Midnight chocolate truffle.
Strawberry shortcake. Two dairy-free flavors.
Ice cream sandwiches. Beside the freezers, our scaled-down Scoops & Stories display held children’s books, bookmarks, and one hundred literacy bags our staff had helped assemble Thursday evening.
At 9:42, fewer than seventy remained.
Five minutes later, Jasmine struggled with the lid on our first backup tub of butter pecan. Her palm slipped, the container shifted, and my body reacted before thought reached it. I made it one step toward her before Nyla spoke without looking away from her customer.
“Don’t.”
I stopped.
Jasmine adjusted her grip, twisted harder, and the lid released with a pop.
Nyla tapped the register screen. “Look at God.”
“You’re irritating.”
“Yet effective.”
“I’m gonna unplug you.”
That made her look over her shoulder. “From what?”
“Life.”
The woman in front of her laughed, and Nyla pointed toward her like she’d just submitted evidence.
“See? Community likes me.”
“Community’s known you six minutes.”
“And already recognizes excellence.”
I picked up a stack of tasting spoons instead of inserting myself into a problem Jasmine had already solved. Nyla’s eyes followed me.
“Growth.”
“Nyla.”
“What? One word.”
“You put entirely too much satisfaction in it.”
“That’s because I’m proud of you, Noli.”
I carried the spoons toward the sample table before she could turn that into a speech.
My nerves had been sharper before sunrise.
I’d sat behind the wheel watching vendors build temporary little worlds across grass still damp from the night, wondering whether twelve inquiries and one successful application had any business becoming this real.
A month ago, I would’ve dragged every possibility into a future before the present finished introducing itself.
Leases. Staffing. Utility costs. Supply routes. Demographics.
Today, we had brought ice cream, books, our staff, and curiosity.
Curiosity could survive one Saturday without becoming a five-year plan.
A little boy wearing a red superhero cape approached with his mother and planted both palms against the counter.
“I want the pink one.”
“Strawberry shortcake?”
His head bobbed.
“One scoop or two?”
“Three.”
His mother laughed. “One.”
Betrayal rearranged his entire face.
I leaned closer. “Unfortunately, I’m legally obligated to follow the person with the wallet.”
He considered the injustice before nodding. “Okay.”
I scooped strawberry shortcake into his cup, then added a small spoonful of midnight chocolate truffle beside it.
“For emotional damages.”
His eyes widened.
His mother laughed. “You just made his morning.”
“He made mine.”
He walked away, guarding the cup like entrusted property, and I was reaching for the next order when a whistle carried from the sports field.
My attention followed it.
Landon stood across the festival grounds with a cluster of children around him.
I’d seen him dressed for work. I’d heard about practice plans, film, recruiting, eligibility reports, and players who occasionally tested both his patience and their academic survival. I knew he regarded coaching as something larger than a scoreboard.
Watching him inside it was different.
A boy stood in front of him after missing whatever movement they were practicing, shoulders low with embarrassment.
Landon crouched until neither of them had to look up or down.
I couldn’t hear him from our booth, but I watched him demonstrate the movement at half speed, break it down with his feet, then send the boy through again.
Better.
Landon clapped once.
The child lit up and ran toward the back of the line.
“Mm-hmm.”
I kept my eyes on the field. “Nyla.”
“I ain’t say nothing.”
“You made a sound.”
“That could’ve been anything.”
“It wasn’t.”
She came beside me with a fresh roll of receipt paper. “Go on and look at Big Lando, Noli. Ain’t nobody stopping you.”
“I was watching the clinic.”
“Was the entire clinic six-four with locs?”
I turned toward her.
She grinned.
“You’re exhausting.”
“And you’re in love.”
That reached further than the teasing surrounding it.
Nyla saw it.
Across the field, Landon had moved to a ladder drill where a little girl stood with both hands on her hips, apparently unimpressed with his demonstration.
He listened to whatever critique she offered, nodded with grave seriousness, then moved through the ladder again at an exaggerated pace.
She copied him, beat him through the last square, and threw both arms overhead.
Landon stumbled backward, clutching his chest.
The children screamed.
My laugh came before I could stop it.
Nyla’s shoulder touched mine. “You love seeing him like that.”
“I do.”
She waited.
I looked across the field at the man who had somehow become familiar enough to miss and surprising enough to keep discovering.
“I love him.” Nyla’s eyes widened. I pointed at her. “Don’t scream.”
She clamped both hands over her mouth and screamed directly into them.
“Nyla!”
“My sister is in love!”
“Lower your voice.”
“My contingency-planning, emergency-exit-having sister is in love with Big Lando!”
Two customers turned.
I closed my eyes. “I can’t stand you.”
“You don’t have enough emotional inventory left for that. Your heart is occupied.”
“Nyla.”
She caught me before I could move away and wrapped both arms around my shoulders. The joke disappeared inside the hug.
“I’m happy for you, Noli.”
“I know.”
“For real.”
“I know that too.” When she stepped back, sunlight caught the moisture beneath her eyes. “Don’t cry over my ice cream.”
“I’m not crying.”
“You’re shiny.”
“I’m experiencing moisture.”
“That’s crying.”
“Mind your business.” I laughed and wiped beneath one of her eyes. Her face changed almost immediately. “You told him?”
“No.”
“You telling him today?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus.”
“What?”
“I need to prepare.”
“For what?”
“History.”
“You are staying behind this counter.”
“That feels oppressive.”
“You’re four minutes younger than me. Respect your elder.”
“Noli, you got four minutes on me. Please stop acting like you signed my birth certificate.”
“Somebody had to come out first and establish order.”
“You were four minutes old. You didn’t establish shit.”
I laughed. “Go work.”
“Abusing seniority. Exactly what I thought.”
The next hour belonged to customers. Orders stacked faster than we could call them out.
Jasmine and Tasha moved around each other with the ease of women who knew our operation well enough to anticipate what came next, and every time instinct tugged me toward a task someone else already had, I redirected.
A retired teacher bought two cups, chose a book for her granddaughter, then tried to pay for one of the literacy bags.
“They’re complimentary.”
“Then let me donate.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
She folded several bills and placed them in the donation jar. “Baby, sometimes people want to help something good keep going. Let us.”
I looked at her.
Then the money.
And left it exactly where she put it.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Her name was Odessa Greene. Thirty-four years teaching kindergarten, she told me, before her knees and her common sense retired her. She accepted my card after learning Scoops & Stories held weekly reading events in Self Ridge.
“If y’all ever bring that over here, call me. I still know how many kindergarteners can fit on a rug before somebody starts lying about personal space.”
I laughed. “I might do that.”
“Do. Retirement got too many weekdays.”
She left with two cups and a bag of books.
I tucked her name into memory.
By eleven fifteen, I’d gone almost twenty minutes without looking toward the field.
Then I lifted my head.
Landon was already watching me.
Hundreds of people moved between us, but I knew the second his attention settled on my face. He lifted two fingers toward his eyes, then pointed them at me.
I see you.
A pulse stirred low in my stomach.
I pointed firmly toward the children behind him.
Work.
His shoulders shook, then he touched his chest once and pointed toward me.
My breath caught.
Behind me, Nyla made a wounded sound. “Oh, that was nasty.”
“Ring up your customer.”
“That man just flirted with you through municipal airspace.”
“He did not.”
“He touched his heart and pointed at you.”
“I have eyesight.”
“And you standing here smiling like refrigeration ain’t available.”
I picked up the scoop.
The woman waiting for me followed my attention toward the field.