• • •

“DO I look okay?”

“Yes,” Jim said. “You look gorgeous.”

“Is my lipstick too bright?”

“No.”

“I should’ve braided my hair.”

“I like your hair.”

I turned to him. We were sitting in a Pack Jeep in front of a large house. The air smelled of wood smoke, cooked meat, and people.

“Don’t be a chicken,” Jim said.

“What if they don’t like me?”

“They will like you, but if they don’t, I won’t care.” Jim got out of the car, walked over to the passenger door, and opened it for me. I stepped out. I was wearing a cute little dress and a sun hat. My back was a little scarred and Jim was limping and careful with his right side, but that couldn’t be helped. In a month or two, even the scars would dissolve. Steven wouldn’t be so lucky. The world was better without him in it.

Jim was ringing the doorbell.

Help. Help me.

“Don’t say anything up front,” I murmured. “We can just let them sort of come to terms with it . . .”

The door swung open. An older African-American woman stood in the doorway. She wore an apron, and she had big dark eyes, just like Jim.

“Dali, this is my mother,” Jim said. “Mom, this is Dali. She’s my mate.”