Page 92 of Deeper

Putty, I felt like putty in his hands. All of this was too good to be true. His generosity and his care were too much for me at times. Only an idiot would think before just jumping in with Zander without looking back to check if there were a parachute or not. “Just…keep going.”

Nervously, I smoothed out the material of my pants, plucking up a piece of lint. I wasn’t trying hard—okay, I was. But I just wanted to look my best.

Silently, Zander’s free hand came into my line of vision as he reached out and took my hand and squeezed. His tattooed hand warmed my freezing cold one. I wanted to be angry at him just then, to push his hand away and be strong on my own.

Damn my pride.

I didn’t push him away and he didn’t let go.

Not too long later the sounds of Outkast and Killer Mike were bringing us across the threshold of Lindenwood, California.Home sweet home.

We drove by a familiar ice cream truck and the sight of old Mr. Harris serving a group of teenagers shaved ice brought nostalgia to me. It was summertime, and nothing beat a frozen treat from Mr. Harris’s truck.

I almost felt tempted to have Zander stop so we could get something, but my belly was too full with butterflies at the idea of eating.

Zander drove to my family home in no time and parked in the same space I’d become accustomed to parking during each of my visits. Those butterflies in my stomach began flapping and nausea was quick to take over.

Easy, Bia, breathe.

“We can go back,” Zander said beside me. “If you let me, I’ll take care—”

I unbuckled my seat belt and hurried out of the car, refusing to hear him out. I didn’t even want to do this, grovel to my father for a place to stay, but anything was easier than leaning on Zander.

I let out easy breaths to calm myself down as I stared up at the house ahead of us. Zander came to my side and his presence gave me strength once more.

“I’ll be quiet,” he swore.

Looking at him, seeing how sincere and gentle he was, made my heart melt into a puddle of pathetic need.

“This is where I’m from,” I let out softly. “This is my home.”

Zander took my hand, but really, it was more than that. He took my heart and walked with me up the front walk, up the front porch, and waited beside me as I knocked on the front door.

I should’ve called, to let my father know I was coming instead of ambushing him. In some families, that idea was absurd, as some families let you know you were always welcomed home without knocking or calling, but my family, or what was left of it, was different.

My father came to the door and naturally he was surprised to see me, and Zander. Perplexity peppered his aged face as he took me in first, and then the stranger beside me.

“Hey, Dad, I…I should’ve called. I’m sorry, but I need to talk to you,” I said. “Especially since I brought someone with me.”

With his other hand free, Zander went forth to extend it to my father. “Hello, I’m Zander, nice to meet you.”

My father’s gaze lifted from our hands to me, ignoring Zander’s offer of a handshake. He questioned me silently at the foreign accent he was hearing, before going and being polite enough to shake with Zander. “Elijah, pleasure to meet you as well. Come in. Let’s get out of this heat.”

My father led the way into the house and I kept a slow pace behind him, not that Zander seemed to mind as he caught early pictures of my childhood and teen years littering the walls and shelves here and there on the way to the dining room. He smiled at a photo of younger me decked out in early 2000s gear, standing beside my brother as we were in the kitchen posing for the picture. I had hair balls in my hair, a Black-American tradition I couldn’t wait to pass down to my daughter along with beads. Pryor was topless in the picture, folding his arms and appearing tough while I stood cheesing all big.

Another picture was of my mother standing on our green lawn out front holding a one-year-old me in her arms while smiling for the camera. The denim bucket hat with the flower on the front was a classic throwback. That photo was the one that Zander got lost in, pausing to study it intently.

“You look just like your mum almost.” He turned to me. “She’s very pretty.”

Yes, my mother was.

Further down the hall to our left we joined my father in the dining room, where he was already seated at the table. He’d pulled out the coloring books, colored pencils, and crayons, as if this counted for our usual meeting.

Zander took a seat next to me at the six-chaired table and said nothing as he’d promised. He didn’t grab a coloring book and he didn’t ask what was going on. He kept mute.

“So much has changed since we last spoke,” I said. “Zander is a singer, and we met at one of his shows.”

No response. My father was trying to find a picture to color in.

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