The man is fine AF, yes, but he’s taken. I’m not trying to walk on Aiko’s grass, though to be clear, it is a beautifully maintained lawn. Yes, there is an attraction between us. I’d have to be a tree stump not to feel it, but that’s perfectly natural. In addition to the bond of being best friends years ago, we’re both healthy adults with typical needs.

Do not think about Ezra Stern’s needs.

He needs to look at his wife the way he was looking at me over pulled pork yesterday. Wife…girlfriend…whatever someone is when they have your baby and live with you for ten years.

Her.

Resistance is futile. I hop up and rush across the small guest bedroom Mama converted into an exercise studio. Homegirl has a Peloton up in here. I snatch the phone from the granite counter where I left it and scan the text.

Kayla:  What are you doing? It’s hair wash day. Don’t you want to come help your big sister?

Blessed assurance. Jesus is mine.

I shudder. Kayla has four girls and one boy. That’s FOUR heads to wash with hair as thick and unruly as Kayla’s when we were growing up.

Me:  Couldn’t I just give you a kidney? That sounds less painful and with a quicker recovery.

Kayla: Get your ass over here and help me. Besides they want to see their auntie. They don’t know you’re mean as a snake. I shield them from that truth. You’re welcome.

Me: Then I won’t tell them how their mother tortured me as a child either.

Kayla: You think I don’t torture them? I would not be Janetta Allen’s daughter if I wasn’t torturing my children. I learned from the best.

Mama’s speaking at one of her charity luncheons, so I am here at the house alone.

Me: Alright. Give me an hour.

Kayla: You have thirty minutes.

Ugh. Drill sergeant.

My Uber drops me off at Kayla’s Brookhaven home approximately thirty minutes later. When I ring the doorbell, she answers with a child on one hip and another holding her hand.

“You’re late,” she says, turning and striding back through the marble tiled entrance with its soaring ceiling and dramatic staircase. I follow her slim figure back into the living room. It’s a zoo, toys everywhere, children in various stages of undress, hair in disarray, and a collection of sippy cups congregating on the glass coffee table. In contrast, Kayla in her luxury loungewear and brightly colored silk head wrap looks completely serene and unbothered.

“I’m not late,” I tell her, bending to hug my niece Triniti, who’s working on a Rubix Cube. “Hey, Trin. I didn’t know kids still played with things that don’t require Wi-Fi.”