“Eat your food, B.”

She didn’t argue. Just unwrapped her hash browns, slowly picking at the edges.

The tension stayed. Because there were some things we couldn’t take back. Because the next time she tested me…

I didn’t know if I’d let her win.

* * *

I was restless. Even after I went home, showered, and grabbed a book, I couldn’t sit still. I tried sitting in the backyard under the oak tree—the same place where Beverly used to read her magazines beside me, where she used to steal my books just to irritate me, where she used to kick my leg whenever I ignored her for too long. But the book in my lap felt like dead weight.

I read the same line six times before I gave up, climbed into the car, and drove to Jamal’s.

The drive was short, but my thoughts stretched long.

By the time I parked in front of his place, the sun was sitting high in the sky, beating down on the pavement. I barely had time to knock before the door swung open.

“Blake!” Jamal’s mom answered the door, beaming when she saw me. “You finally come visit me,” she said in her thick accent, pulling me inside before I could protest.

“I was just here last week,” I pointed out, the smell of food hitting me the moment I walked in.

She waved a hand, dismissing me like that wasn’t nearly enough. “You boys disappear for hours at that gym. You know Jamal is always grumpy after workouts? Like a tired little baby.”

“He says it’s your fault because you make him eat too much.”

Her eyes widened. “This boy. I should disown him.”

I laughed softly. “You wouldn’t.”

“No, I wouldn’t… But he should still learn some manners.”

“I have manners!” Jamal called out from his room.

His mom rolled her eyes, then turned back to me with a smile. “You’re here just in time. You’ll eat with us, yes?”

I hesitated, but she was already pulling me into a hug, patting my back. I still wasn’t used to that—affection, warmth that didn’t come with conditions.

It made me uncomfortable, but not in a bad way.

Jamal’s dad was nowhere in sight, but the TV was on in the other room, playing a soccer game at full volume.

“You look tired,” she noted, cupping my face for half a second before turning back to her pot. “Sit, sit. I’ll make you a plate.”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Thank you, Mrs. Majeed.”

“And tell Jamal to come eat before I drag him out by his ear.”

I suppressed a laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”

I found him sprawled out on his bed, flipping through a basketball magazine. He barely looked up when I walked in.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” he muttered. “Took you long enough, Loverboy.”