Page 46 of Kisses and Paperclips

I looked back at the laptop.

If my mother wanted the truth, she was going to get it. But she might not like what I uncover about Serena, or about herself.

Because now I was watching everyone.

Chapter 9

Serena

He’s onto me.

That look Julien gave me before he walked out of my office has been trailing me like a shadow ever since. I’ve been trying to shake it off, but the spreadsheet and the suspicion in his eyes won’t let me.

“Are we watching Family Feud or not?” Zamir’s voice cuts through my thoughts, pulling me back to the stove and the chicken I was about to burn.

I glance over at him. He’s hovering over a pot of rice like a man twice his age and size. Tall as ever and somehow still growing, all limbs and elbows, one of those kids who outgrew you before you had time to process it.

His hoodie hangs off his shoulders like it belongs to someone else, and he’s wearing socks with slides like it’s not full blown winter. I shake my head at that wondering if he’s copying those little rich kids he sees at school.

“What?” he asked, catching me eyeing his clothes.

“Nothing.” I sighed, choosing my battles carefully tonight. Zamir is one of the smartest people I know. But every now and then I’m reminded he’s just a kid. Always has been. The kind of kid who’d rather explain a random history fact to you mid-dinner than talk about school drama.

“No TV,” I said, reaching for the plates. “Especially not while you’re still walking around with a D in Geometry like it’s not embarrassing.”

He groaned, long and dramatic. “That’s harsh.”

“That’s the truth,” I shoot back, flicking the back of his head before he can duck. “Get that grade up, and we’ll bring Steve Harvey back to the dinner table. Until then? It’s Alexa. Smooth jazz. Or gospel if you try me.”

He sucks his teeth but reaches for the silverware. That means he’s accepted defeat. For now.

“Since when do you get a D in anything?” I added, quieter this time. “Especially Geometry. That’s not like you.”

His shoulders dip just a little, and I don’t press. Not yet.

I set the chicken on the table between us, the smell rising warm and familiar, grounding me in something that feels safe. The house is quiet—too quiet—but that’s normal these days. Just the two of us in a space built for five.

We’re still living in the house we grew up in. The one with the wide front porch and too many windows, tucked on a quiet street full of manicured lawns and neighbors who wave but mind their business. Keeping it wasn’t easy. But I fought tooth and nail to hold onto this place when everything else fell apart.

When Dad stopped showing up.

When I realized no one else was going to fight for us but me.

So yeah, this house? It’s not just walls and floors. It’s proof. That we made it. That I kept my promise—to him, and to myself.

Zamir eyes the food, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for a plate. Just smooths his napkin flat against the table like it wronged him somehow.

My fork pauses midair.

Something’s off.

“How’s work?” he asked, not looking up.

I pause.

This boy could care less about my job unless there’s a free hoodie or a shoot that involves a model he’s crushing on. So the question? It’s a red flag. One waving hard.

“What is it?” I asked.

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