Everything inside is new and shiny—matching living room furniture, gleaming kitchen, and little light-rainbows glittering from the glass fixture over the dinner table. No wonder Devontae can buy so many fancy boots. The floors are smooth tile. Even better, the first-floor bathroom has a big, open design.

“Come on,” Devontae says when he’s finished showing me around. “Let’s eat!”

Dinner’s fantastic—Beaufort stew that’s heavy on the shrimp, light on the potatoes, and perfectly spicy—but I spend the whole meal stressing that I might accidentally chip one of the thin, delicate plates. Devontae’s family is so much fun. He has three much-older sisters, two in college nearby and one who’s a nurse up in Charlotte but comes home weekends. His mom works at the bank, and his dad teaches at the same college his sisters go to. Dinner’s way louder and livelier than at my place. Mrs. Washington watches my plate like a hawk, and soon I’m begging her to stop reloading.

“If I don’t quit, I’ll end up with two flat tires,” I finally protest, when all else fails.

There’s a pause, as everyone wonders if it’s okay to laugh at a wheelchair joke, even if I’m the one who made it. Then Mr. Washington grins.

“I like this girl, Tae,” he declares.

Before long, I’m feeling right at home with these chatty, friendly people, and it makes me think about how quiet things have been at home lately.

Devontae’s grandma, Momma Rose, hasn’t said much during dinner. Then, as we’re all scraping pecan pie from our dessert plates, she turns to me.

“Your momma was a Wolfe, wasn’t she?”

“Jeannie Wolfe, ma’am,” I answer. “Before she got married.”

Devontae throws his mom a look. “Momma Rose…” he says, real low.

She ignores him. “I remember you, child,” she tells me. “I was secretary at the clinic where your momma used to bring you for therapy when you were a tiny thing.” Then she squints at Devontae.

“You never said you were bringing a girl home.”

Everything goes sort of quiet. I stare at the rips in my jeans, wondering what that means. Is she surprised that he’s brought a girl home? Or that the girl he brought is me?

Devontae looks ready to dive under the table. “We’re studying.”

Mr. Washington cuts in. “Momma, have more pie.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Momma Rose takes the pie and doesn’t say much more, but I feel her gaze roaming down to my chair and back up to my face while we finish up dessert. Tasty as it is, I have to swallow a couple extra times to get the last of my pie down under the weight of her eyes.

The second we finish, Devontae all but knocks his chair over leaping up. “Study time!” he announces, a little too loud. “Want to meet my horse first?”

His parents excuse us, and his sisters shoot us sympathetic looks as we make for the door.

Out in the super-clean stable, rows of ribbons and certificates line one wall. Devontae’s been stacking up the first-place wins. We’re both too embarrassed to say much for a few moments, but Devontae finally goes first.