12. Josiah
By Wednesday morning, Celeste Coleman had become the first thing I reached for and the last thing I talked myself out of reaching for again.
I stood in my kitchen with coffee brewing while morning light spilled across the rosemary, and her name glowed on my phone.
Pretty Red
I’d saved her that way the night of our first date. I hadn’t called her that to her face. Not yet. A name like that needed roots before it needed sound.
I typed before I could overthink myself into silence.
Josiah:
Good morning, beautiful.
Pretty Red :
You always wake up flirting with women before the sun gets fully dressed?
I smiled.
Josiah:
Only one woman.
Pretty Red :
That was too smooth for 6:42 in the morning.
Josiah:
It was honest. The smooth part is just how you received it.
Pretty Red :
Oh, so now I’m the problem?
Josiah:
No, ma’am. You’re the reason.
Her bubbles appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.
Pretty Red :
See, this is exactly why I can’t text you before coffee.
Josiah:
You drink coffee. I’ll behave.
Pretty Red :
Behave feels ambitious for you.
Josiah:
I said behave. I didn’t say stop liking you.
Pretty Red :
Josiah.
Josiah:
Celeste.
Pretty Red :
You’re doing entirely too much before my coffee can defend me.
Josiah:
I’m consistent.
Pretty Red :
That might be worse.
Josiah:
Good. Let that sit with your coffee.
Her response came with a laughing emoji and one word.
Pretty Red :
Menace.
I set the phone down and looked at the rosemary again. The little sprigs leaned toward the window, green and stubborn, like they intended to survive because surviving was what they knew how to do. I touched the rim of the clay pot, then checked the soil even though I’d checked it the night before.
A few minutes later, my phone lit again.
Pretty Red :
Are you working today or just terrorizing my nervous system?
Josiah:
Both. I believe in balance.
Pretty Red :
I rebuke balance.
Josiah:
You free this evening?
The pause after that message was long enough for my coffee to cool.
Pretty Red :
Depends on what free means.
Josiah:
Dinner at my place. Movie if you want. No crowd. No performance. Just us.
Pretty Red :
You cooking?
Josiah:
I’m capable.
Pretty Red :
That’s not an answer.
Josiah:
Yes, I’m cooking. But you can help if you need to supervise.
Pretty Red :
I do enjoy supervising men who think they know what they’re doing.
Josiah:
Then come supervise me.
Pretty Red :
What time?
Josiah:
Seven. Dress comfortable. I promise to feed you and keep my hands respectful.
Pretty Red :
You always add the respectful part like you’re trying to reassure me or yourself.
I stared at that one.
Josiah:
Both can be true.
Pretty Red :
Seven.
Josiah:
I’ll be waiting.
Pretty Red :
Don’t be too fine at the door. I’m still somebody’s mother.
I laughed into my coffee.
Josiah:
I’ll do my best.
Pretty Red :
Your best sounds suspicious.
Josiah:
It is.
By noon, I’d checked two job sites, approved payroll, handled a supplier who suddenly remembered how to answer the phone once I stopped sounding polite, and ordered groceries like I had five children coming with her instead of one woman I was trying not to scare with the size of my attention.
I grabbed salmon, fresh herbs, hibiscus tea, her favorite creamer, and enough snacks to stock an elementary school pantry.
A man didn’t need a full pantry for children who’d never stepped inside his house.
Still, I bought snacks.
That evening, my house smelled like lemon, garlic, rosemary, and nerves I refused to name. I wiped down the counter twice, checked the salmon once too often.
At 6:58, headlights swept across my front windows.
My body knew before the doorbell rang.
I opened the door.
Celeste stood on my porch in jeans, a cream sweater that slipped off one shoulder just enough to test my entire upbringing, and sandals that showed off toes painted deep purple.
Her locs fell over one shoulder, red and brown and copper beneath the porch light, thick enough to make a man remember God had never been lazy with beauty.
She held her purse in both hands, nervous but trying to look casual, and the sight of her on my porch made the evening go still.
“Celeste.”
Her eyes traveled over me before settling back on my face.
“Josiah.”
“You look beautiful.”
She glanced down like the compliment had touched her before she gave it permission. “Thank you.”
I stepped back. “Come in.”
She crossed the threshold, and I closed the door behind her. Her gaze moved through the house, taking in the brown floors, cream walls, bookshelves, and framed photos before stopping on the console table.
She stepped closer to the picture of my father. “This is your daddy?”
I nodded. “Jeremiah Brooks.”
“You favor him.”
“I get that a lot.”
She smiled softly at the photo. “He had kind eyes.”
I looked at Pops, then back at her. “Serious hands, kind eyes.”
“That sounds like a good combination.”
“It was.”
Her stomach made a small sound before the moment could get any heavier. Celeste closed her eyes. “Please don’t.”
I laughed. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You laughed with your soul.”
“I’m glad you’re hungry.”
“I skipped lunch because my last client decided her scalp needed deliverance and a full retwist discussion.”
“Then I need to feed you before your attitude gets organized.”
She pointed at me. “My attitude is already organized. It has folders.”
“I believe that.”
Her smile came quick and pretty, and I had to turn toward the kitchen before my face told too much.
The rosemary sat in the window above the sink. Celeste saw it as soon as we walked in. She went still for half a breath, then touched one finger to a sprig.
“You kept it in the kitchen?”
“I spend most mornings here.”
“It looks good.”
“I’m trying not to overwater it.”
“Look at you learning restraint.”
I stopped beside the island, close enough to smell her perfume again. “Restraint and I are well acquainted.”
Her eyes lifted.
The kitchen hummed around us, stove low, dishwasher quiet, dusk darkening the windows. She looked away first.
“Something smells good.”
“Salmon, green beans, baby potatoes, and rolls.”
Her brows lifted. “You did all that?”
“I started all that. You said you enjoy supervising.”
“I do.” She set her purse on a counter stool and rolled up her sleeves. “What you need me to do?”
“Nothing.”
She blinked. “Josiah.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I know you didn’t invite me over here to watch you cook like I’m company.”
“You’re company.”
“I’m helpful company.”
“You’re hungry company.”
“And still helpful.”
I handed her a small bowl of lemons. “You can squeeze these.”
She stared at the bowl. “This is busywork.”
“It’s safe work.”
“Do I look like I can’t be trusted with a knife?”
I looked at her mouth for half a second before turning back to the cutting board. “Tonight? No.”
She stared at me.
I picked up the knife and chopped parsley. “Lemons, Ms. Coleman.”
She laughed under her breath and took the bowl. “You think you slick.”
“I think you’re hungry.”
“I think you’re scared.”
“Of what?”
“Me with a knife, apparently.”
“No. You standing in my kitchen looking like that.”
Her hands stilled around a lemon.
I kept chopping.
She cleared her throat. “Lemons, you said?”
“Lemons.”
She squeezed lemons and stole a potato from the pan when she thought I wasn’t watching. I slid the seasoning closer before she asked for it. She rinsed green beans, shook water from her fingers into the sink, and fussed because I wouldn’t let her lift the heavy skillet.
“I’ve lifted children, chairs, laundry baskets, bulk shampoo boxes, and one grown client who fainted during a silk press. I can lift a skillet.”
I took the pan from the stove. “I believe you.”
“And yet.”
“And yet I’m standing right here.”
She leaned against the counter, trying not to smile. “You know what? Fine. Be useful.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She opened the refrigerator for the creamer and froze. The door stayed open while she looked from the juice boxes to the fruit snacks to the variety chips stacked like evidence on the shelf.
“Josiah.”
I wiped my hands on a towel. “Yes?”
“Why do you have enough snacks in here to survive Vacation Bible School?”
“They might come over one day.”
“They might?”
“They might.”
She turned slowly, holding the creamer in one hand. “You bought snacks for my kids?”
“I bought preparation.” Her mouth softened before she could hide it. I closed the refrigerator door gently. “Not as a burden. As part of you.”
She looked down at the creamer, then back at me. “You thought about them?”
“I think about what comes with you.”
The kitchen got quiet.
Then she looked away and laughed softly. “Kayden might bring a clipboard.”
“I’ll have coffee ready.”
“He doesn’t drink coffee.”
“He will after questioning me for two hours.”
Her laugh moved through my kitchen as if it belonged there.
We ate at the dining table with the back blinds open to the patio. She noticed my basil, then the thyme, then the lavender Mama had bullied me into planting and I’d started pretending not to love.
“You have plants.”
“I do.”
“By choice or because your mama threatened you?”
“Both can be true.”
She laughed. “Yolanda Brooks sounds like she gets results.”
“She does.”
“I like her already.”
“She likes what she’s heard.”
Celeste looked down at her plate. “She doesn’t know me.”
“Not yet.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That you love your children, run your business with care, ask good questions, and laugh like you forgot you were allowed to for a second.”
She stared at me.
I took a sip of water. “Also, that you were bossy about wiring for somebody who called me for help.”
Her mouth dropped open. “I wasn’t bossy.”
“You took notes.”
“That’s responsible.”
“You asked follow-up questions.”
“That’s intelligent.”
“You looked at me like I’d personally offended the outlets.”
“Because the outlets were offending me.”
I laughed, and she smiled into her food.