Six years. Six years since I’d left him, since I’d last loved him with all of my being, and yet the reaction to him was as immediate and strong as if it’d been just yesterday.
My breath hitched and my gut sank.
There he was. The smoothness of dark brown skin glowing like the sun itself. Those perfect lips that had once devoured me. Thick black hair grown out just a little into short twists, shorter and clean-cut closer to his neck. Sparkling brown eyes as rich as honey. A firm, square jawline like brushstrokes from a master painter. Six feet, one inch of delightful, powerful height. One could tell from the way his clothes hugged every contour that he probably didn’t skip the gym for three months at a time like I did.
He was as immaculately and demurely dressed as his parents. He wore dark blue slacks, a black dress shirt, and a tie with speckles the color of bluebonnets.
I loved bluebonnets. He knew that, because I’d forced him to take bluebonnet pictures with me when we were both in Houston. He’d grumbled like he hadn’t wanted to, but it was a Texas spring tradition. He’d asked me to get dressed up, so I’d worn this little dark-blue-and-purple outfit that I’d thought was so cute. Then he’d shown up, decked out to the nines in a suit very similar to what he wore now. We’d driven out to some seemingly random place off a highway, when in fact he’d scoped out the best places to get a picture packed with wildflowers, without a bunch of people or traffic. And he’d found the perfect spot beneath a lone, towering oak tree. He’d put out a blanket and a full picnic and taken lots of pictures of us in a sea of bluebonnets mixed with red-and-yellow wildflowers below the setting Texas sun. It had been magical.
Daniel stabbed a fork into one of five pies and shoveled a bite into his mouth.
“Daniel!” Grandma Thompson rebuked him, but then smiled and rubbed remnants of crust from his chin.
“That one’s mine now,” he declared.
“Son, you’re going to waste your appetite,” Grandpa Thompson playfully scolded, but then he got sidetracked by a glance at three pitchers filled with amber liquid that seemed to glow in the fading sunlight.
Grandma Thompson had made her world-famous iced tea, as sweet as honey with a certain kick at the end that was sure to leave anyone feeling good and heady. She carried a pitcher out but didn’t see me.
Grandpa Thompson tore away from this nectar of the gods, as Brandy called it, to pile food on a platter. The kitchen smelled of sweet baked fruits, aromatic spiced meats, and buttery breads.
My mouth watered. Hard. My stomach growled as if I’d neglected my body for weeks with starvation.
“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” Daniel said to his grandfather. “Dad catered.”
“He can keep that fancy food for his business associates, son. My grandchild deserves some home-cooked food,” he replied.
“Mm! Can’t wait to eat!” Daniel rubbed his hands together and glanced up, his chin a little high, his gaze finally meeting mine. His smile slipped and his lips parted like he wanted to say something. But then he pressed his mouth into a tight line, flashing that dimple, and I knew he was less than happy to see me.
My heart pounded out of control and my breathing turned erratic, harsh. It was like my lungs had forgotten what they were made for, and my skin flared hotter than ever. Thoughts careened through my head, making me all sorts of antsy, bombarding me with memories, flashbacks, raw emotions.
All signs of an oncoming anxiety attack. I was too close to the edge.
There was a sense of urgency and betrayal in Daniel’s features, a reaction that fragmented my insides and reminded me of what a terrible coward I’d been, running off the way I had. His jaw hardened and his body tensed for the quickest of moments. I expected him to rush toward me and demand answers.
When Grandpa Thompson finally saw me standing off to the side, his gaze following Daniel’s, he gave me a wink. We met partway across the grand kitchen, his arms extended. He hugged me. “Oh, baby girl. You made it. Let me take a look at you.”
Grandpa and Grandma Thompson, much like my inner circle, didn’t aggravate my touch aversion. Their hugs felt like sunshine.
He pulled back, his hands still gently on my shoulders as he took in my face. “As pretty as ever. Been too long, though.”
I tried not to look at Daniel, because the truth was that I saw his grandparents every couple of months. Despite the breakup, they had insisted on having me over for brunch regularly.
“You’re too sweet, Grandpa Thompson,” I said, relaxing in his presence.
He batted away my words. “You can call me just Grandpa, you know? Thought I told you that.”
He had. But that felt weird, considering the situation.
“Come sit. We’re ready to eat.”
I shook my head. “Oh, no. I couldn’t intrude. I was supposed to take something to go?”
“You’re never intruding,” he insisted. “And you still have a bag to take with you. Don’t worry. Did you honestly think we’d invite you and not insist on you joining us?”
“This sounds like a homecoming, and I had no idea.” I finally glanced at Daniel apologetically. The edge to his features had gradually softened. The rigidity of his jaw, shoulders, and hands relaxed. Even more so when his grandfather nodded at him with his notorious, infectious grin.
“Nonsense! We have plenty of food and seats, and you can still go home with a bag of goodies. Daniel, son, do you mind?” Grandpa Thompson asked him.
Daniel stuffed his hands into his pockets, casting a cold and silent, albeit fleeting, look at me. He shrugged at his grandfather and shook his head, adding a slight, soft curve of the lips like he had no choice.
Chapter Four
Grandpa Thompson slipped into the backyard carrying a platter of food while Daniel inched toward me until he stood two feet away, his arms crossed. His biceps tugged at the fabric of his tailored shirt. My insides did all sorts of somersaults. I shivered down to my bones.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone level.
“Your grandparents insisted that I drop by and get some food. I’d planned on getting here earlier and leaving before…”
“Running into me?”
“Yeah.”
“Still avoiding, huh?” he asked sharply.
“I, um, can leave.” I pointed at the hallway behind me like an idiot.
He swallowed, contemplating an answer, which should’ve been an answer in itself. “It might be best.”
Dang if words weren’t sharper than daggers, but what did I expect?
“Unless you want to tell me why you’ve been running from me for six years.”
My body went slack. The truth burned on the tip of my tongue. He deserved to know. It wasn’t fair that he didn’t. But I should’ve spoken up years ago. Let me loose in medical school and residency to tackle the top spot, and I was a bulldog. But leave me to confess why I couldn’t handle things back then, and I was far from tenacious.
How could I tell him? How could I see the hurt and pain unfurl in his eyes?
Oh, gee, Daniel, your father loathes me because you’re too rich for my lower-middle-class, unrefined, immigrant blood. You needed a woman who could fit into your world of business empires and galas and elegant Black society. I could and would never understand your family’s struggles and ambitions and was told that I was a hindrance to your full potential.