Page 75 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

My last day at mPOWER…I really don’t want to think about that.

“I haven’t decided,” I reply. “There’s really no rush. I’ll be here at least until next June or July.”

“Uh-huh,” Mama says, drawing out the word. “Well, make sure you don’t over-commit, Shae. You’re in the fourth quarter of this college game. You’ve done everything you can to make yourself a compelling candidate, but this is out of your hands now. You need to rest more.”

My eyes start to burn, and I’m not sure it’s from the onions.

“I’m pacing myself, Mama,” I say, setting my knife down and grabbing the bunch of green onions. I run them under cool water at the sink.

“Yes, but are you having fun?” she asks, her voice pointed. “What happened Thursday night wasn’t your fault. You’re anadult. You can handle a few drinks. Hell, when I was in school, I waswild.”

I cut the faucet and give her a look.

“I don’t usually drink, Mama,” I say. The feeling I should prove my innocence—both in virtue and in action—weighs heavily on me.

“That’s the thing, Shae,” she says, lifting the lid on the pot of white rice to check the doneness. “Youshouldbe drinking. Not to excess, but you should be partying. You should be having fun. Meeting boys. Actually acting like you’re twenty-two, rather than forty-two.”

“Hey!” I say, my tone broken by laughter.

“I just want you to live life, baby,” she says, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’ve only got one, and you don’t want to look back and have regrets that you spent your youthexistingand notliving.”

Her mouth twists, and her words make my nose burn and my eyes tingle.

The moment breaks when my phone vibrates on the counter next to me. I’ve been hyper aware of its presence for the last few hours—not that I’ve been waiting around for it to buzz with word from Storm.

Nope. Not at all.

Mama swipes my phone from the counter, and I panic when she tries to unlock the screen. The knife slips a bit, cutting a hole in my glove, but somehow miraculously avoiding actually slicing my flesh.

I suck in a breath anyway, dropping the knife on top of the wooden cutting board, where it lands with aclack.

“Ooh, if it isn’t Mr.Storm Sandoval himself,” she says, reading the lock screen.

“Mama!” I shout, and she looks up at me with wide-eyed innocence. I peel the gloves off, dropping them next to the cutting board.

“Don’t use that tone with me, Shae Olivya Rivers,” she chides, and I bite my lip, clasping my hands in front of me so I don’t jump on my mother to steal my phone back.

Taking a deep breath, I patiently say, “Ma, may I have my phone back?” I pause, and she taps her cheek with the side of my cell.

“Hmm,” she says. She’s really, really enjoying my misery. Maybe this is payback for all the years Ihaven’tbrought anyone around.

“Mama, please,” I beg. She smiles and hands the phone back to me. I clutch it to my chest, not daring to read the notification yet. My heart beats against my ribcage as if I’ve just sprinted down the road.

She takes a big step forward and places her cool, damp hands on my cheeks.

“Don’t be nervous, baby girl,” she says, keeping her voice low. She smooths my eyebrows with her thumbs. “He’s the one on trial here, not you. You, my dear, are the prize.”

I smile, and she brings me closer to kiss my cheek. I inhale her familiar scent.

Pulling back, she puts her hands on her hips. “Now, go get all dolled up. I’ve got it from here.”

I nod, but I don’t move quickly enough because she swats me on my butt with a kitchen towel.

“Go on, git!” she chirps, laughing. The sound loosens a knot of anxiety in my chest.

Blowing out a breath, I say, “Thank you, Mama.”

She picks up the bowls with the bell peppers and onions and strides to the stove to drop them in the melting butter.

---