18. Josiah
Tuesday Night
I wasn’t sulking.
That was my official position, even though I’d been standing in front of the refrigerator for three full minutes, staring past a container of leftover salmon like discernment might be hiding behind the orange juice.
It wasn’t.
I closed the door and leaned against the counter, surrounded by a silence heavy enough to pull confessions from me I’d meant to keep between me and God.
My boots were by the door. My tool bag rested against the wall.
My Bible lay open on the coffee table to Proverbs because I’d been trying to let scripture get to my pride before my feelings started testifying out of order.
Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
I believed that.
I did.
But my understanding had been walking laps through my spirit all evening, asking whether leaving Celeste’s patio had been wisdom or cowardice dressed up in respect.
I picked up my phone, unlocked it, and went straight to the picture I should’ve stopped looking at two days ago.
Celeste stood beneath the Celestial Crowns sign in a photo from her salon page, one hand on her hip, sisterlocs framing her face, smile soft enough to humble a man and dangerous enough to make him forget he had sense.
Her eyes held all that guarded sweetness I kept praying to understand.
Her lips were bare, full, and familiar enough in my imagination to make me set the phone down before my discipline filed a grievance.
“My Red,” I whispered.
The house gave me nothing back.
I hated that.
I missed her something awful. It wasn’t dramatic.
It didn’t have me staring out the window like I was in somebody’s music video.
It was worse than that. It was grown. It was measured.
Her absence sat in places she’d never occupied, making my kitchen feel too wide and my bedroom feel too cold.
I missed her laugh trying not to become a laugh.
I missed the way she loved her children with her whole nervous system.
I missed her stubbornness, her softness, her mouth, her fear when it told the truth, and the part of her that kept reaching for me while grief kept snatching her hand back.
I rubbed both hands over my face.
“Lord, did I leave too soon?”
The question scraped on its way out.
I looked toward my Bible, then back at my phone.
“I tried to honor her. I tried not to force my way into a place fear was guarding. But if I was supposed to say more, show me. If I was supposed to stay planted a little longer, correct me. And if that woman is the wife You’ve been preparing me to recognize, bring my baby back to me with peace in her hands and truth in her mouth. ”
My throat tightened.
“Don’t let me confuse desire with discernment, Big G. I want her bad enough to lie to myself if You don’t keep me honest.”
The doorbell rang.
I went motionless.
Something in my spirit stood up before my body moved.
I crossed the living room, looked through the peephole, and forgot every reasonable thing I’d planned to say if God answered quickly.
Celeste stood on my porch with a tote bag on her shoulder and a covered dish in her hands. She wore jeans, sandals, and a burnt-honey blouse that made her skin glow beneath the porch light. Her sisterlocs were pulled away from her face, and her expression sat somewhere between brave and terrified.
I opened the door.
For a few seconds, neither one of us moved.
She lifted the dish a little. “I brought food.”
I looked at the container, then back at her face. “You came with an offering?”
Her fingers tightened around the edge, and her thumb rubbed the same spot on the lid. “Food felt safer than flowers.”
“It’s hard to argue with smothered anything.”
“Smothered chicken. Rice. Green beans. Cornbread. And peach cobbler.”
I stepped back. “Come in, Red, before I stand here staring at you like I forgot how doors work.”
Her mouth twitched, but the smile didn’t hold. She walked past me with careful steps, shoulders drawn in, tote strap pressed tight beneath her fingers. The soft scent of vanilla followed her inside, warm and familiar enough to make my chest pull tight before I could tell my hands to behave.
I took the dish from her hands and closed the door.
“You didn’t have to cook for me.”
“I know.”
I carried the food to the kitchen. She followed but stopped near the island. I set everything down, then turned toward her.
“You want water?”
“No, thank you.”
“Tea?”
“No.”
“A minute to breathe?”
Her shoulders dropped. “Yes.”
So I gave it to her.
She drew in a breath, released it slowly, then met my eyes.
“I talked to my kids.”
My pulse changed, but I kept my voice even. “How’d that go?”
“It was hard.” She blinked fast. “And necessary.”
I leaned against the counter, giving her space without letting distance disguise itself as indifference.
“The girls like you. JJ respects you.” She swallowed. “And Kayden likes you too.”
The corner of my mouth moved, but my chest tightened at the same time. “That surprised him?”
“It made him angry. He feels guilty, like liking you means he’s betraying Jamal.”
Jamal’s name entered my kitchen, and I let it have reverence. I didn’t rush past it. I didn’t compete with it. I stood there and respected the man whose love had shaped the woman in front of me.
Celeste wiped beneath one eye. “He apologized to me. He knows he owes you an apology too. He said he’ll make it right.”
“He’s a grieving boy trying to carry armor too heavy for his age.”
“I know that now.”
“You knew it before, baby. Grief just had you too close to the wound to see what it was bleeding on.”
Her face folded.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
No excuses followed. No performance. No pretty speech wrapped around accountability. Just two words trembling in my kitchen like they’d cost her something to bring.
I needed them more than I wanted to admit.
“I hurt you,” she said. “I let fear speak for me, and instead of admitting grief was already in the room, I treated your presence like the threat. You didn’t deserve that.”
“No, I didn’t.”
She flinched, but she stayed.
Good.
I didn’t want her punished. I wanted her present.
I pushed away from the counter. “I’m glad you’re here, and I’m glad you brought food, but smothered chicken ain’t a key to get back in without a conversation.”
Her lips parted.
I kept my voice low, but I didn’t soften the truth.
“You hurt me, Red. And I know that wasn’t your intention, but impact still matters.
You don’t get to invite me into your heart, let me care about your babies, let me stand close enough to pray over what hurts, then hand me my walking papers every time fear gets loud. ”
Tears gathered in her eyes, but she didn’t interrupt.
“If we’re going to do this, truth can’t be the first thing we sacrifice so everybody can stay comfortable. I’m not a placeholder. I’m not a distraction. I’m not a threat to Jamal’s memory, and I’m damn sure not a man you can pick up when you feel brave and put down when grief starts talking crazy.”
Her breath caught.
I stepped closer, stopping with enough space between us for the words to do their work.
“I care about you deeply. I care about your children. I respect Jamal, and I respect what your family lost. But I won’t let love turn me into somebody who stands outside your door, waiting to see whether fear has voted me out again.
” A tear slid down her cheek. “You hear me, baby?”
“I hear you.”
“No, Red. Hear me with the part of you that wants to live, not the part that’s only sorry because you see I’m hurt.”
Her hand pressed to her chest.
“If you need space, you say what that means. If you’re scared, you say you’re scared. If your children need time, we make room for that. We pray, we talk, we pause, we seek counsel, and we move with wisdom.”
She nodded, tears falling freely now. “You’re right.”
“I know.” Her mouth trembled, and despite everything, a small laugh broke through her tears. I lifted a brow. “What?”
“You just said that so calmly.”
“Because I am right calmly.”
She wiped her face. “I deserved that.”
“You deserved the truth. Not cruelty. Not payback. Truth.” I let the words settle before I reached for her hand. “What are you asking me, Celeste?”
Her fingers slid into mine, warm and trembling. “I’m asking you to give us another chance. Not the version where I run and expect you to chase me forever. Not the version where I use my grief as a shield against your feelings. I want to try for real.”
My thumb moved over her knuckles.
“Trying for real means I don’t shrink,” I said. “I won’t rush your kids. I won’t compete with Jamal. I won’t step into spaces I haven’t been invited into, and I’ll move with prayer instead of ego. But I’m not becoming a watered-down version of myself so fear can be comfortable.”
“I don’t want you watered down.”
“Good.”
“I want you, Josiah.” Her voice shook, but her eyes stayed on mine.
“The man who prays before he moves. The man who listens to my children. The man who looks at me like I’m not too much, too wounded, or too complicated.
The man who told me he wasn’t asking for Jamal’s chair.
I want you, and I’m sorry I made you question that. ”
Something inside me settled.
Not empty.
Still.
Peace moved through the room without asking permission.
I pulled her close, and she came immediately. Her forehead rested against my chest, and the sound that left her cracked open the last of my restraint. I wrapped my arms around her with enough strength to reassure her without giving her anywhere to hide.
“I missed you,” she whispered.
That entered me low and stayed.
I pressed my mouth to her hair. “I missed you too, Red.”
She lifted her face. “You still calling me that?”
“When I’m behaving.”
Her laugh trembled. “And when you’re not?”
My thumb moved beneath her eye, catching what fear had left behind. “When I’m not, you’ll know.”
Her breath changed.
Mine followed.