“What about it?” He doesn’t hedge or pretend he doesn’t know which part I mean.

“You said you wanted to be my last.”

“I do.”

We stare at each other through steam and candlelight, seeing clearly.

“I’m not asking you to put a name to it or formalize it yet, Tru, but I already know I only want you.”

For an anoxic second, I can’t breathe. Those words take my breath, steal my reasons for never wanting strings. What if he is the reason I never wanted strings? For the first time with anyone, I want to put a name to it.

Us.

Mine.

His.

Love.

I sort through the new emotions he has inspired. Are they new? Or just renewed from our childhood? Reborn into this age, this new epoch of our lives?

The back door opens to the kitchen.

“It’s just me!”

Ezra’s lips tighten and exasperation crinkles a frown on his face. I touch his hand on the table.

“We’ll talk more later,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Promise.”

“Pho!” Mona yells from the kitchen. “I thought I smelled it wafting all across the backyard through my window.”

Ezra rolls his eyes and silently mouths “wafting.” I cover my mouth to suppress the giggle that threatens to come out. He gives me a wry grin and drops his head back to stare at the ceiling when we hear Mona in the cabinet getting a bowl, rummaging through the drawer for a spoon.

She walks into the dining room wearing a huge smile and a T-shirt declaring I AM MY ANCESTORS’ WILDEST DREAMS.

“Damn.” She frowns, taking in the dimly lit room. “Y’all got it all dark in here.”

She turns on the overhead light, simultaneously dispelling the darkness and the romance. She plops down beside me with her bowl and a glass of water.

“You’re outta beer, Jack. You know I like beer with my pho.” She points her spoon at him. “Ya slippin’.”

“I would have stocked up,” Ezra says, his words clipped and sarcastic, “if I’d known you were coming.”

“I always come for pho, silly rabbit,” she says. “Kimba, you were so good on CNN tonight, by the way. Your hair looked fabulous.”

“Thanks, Mo.” I pull a knee up to my chest, propping my heel on the seat.

“That jumpsuit you had on.” She executes a chef’s kiss. “Perfection. I need it.”

“A Lotus Ross design.”

“Ooooh, I like her and that husband of hers—um, the ex-NBA dude.”

“Kenan?”

“Yasssss. Fine ass.”

She casts a glance over my attire, several steps down from what I wore earlier on the show. She looks at Ezra, whose shirt is inside out.

“Did I interrupt?” she asks with a straight face, but her lips twitch. “Y’all been in here fucking?”

The three of us break the silence with laughter.

“You’re forgiven,” Ezra drawls, standing with his empty bowl. “Want more, Tru?”