Imani fingered the neck of her cream cashmere sweater, as if the lush fabric were making her itch. As if she, not Philip, had the allergy. “Unfortunately, even the steam from cooked peanuts or peanut products can cause reactions. When Jay was about four or five, he broke out in hives in school. Peanuts weren’t allowed, so I didn’t understand. Turned out that a kid in his class had eaten peanut butter and crackers before school and then held his hand with the oil residue on it. Just like that”—Imani snapped her fingers—“hives all over the back of his hand and wrist. Some on his face too. I guess he touched it after the kid’s hand.”

Tonya forced herself to nod. As a fellow mom, she could understand how scary it was for Imani to pick up a toddler having a full-blown allergic reaction. But Jay was in middle school and older than Layla. Both he and Philip knew not to eat peanuts or go around holding hands with near strangers. Surely she and Layla having a PB&J wasn’t a big deal. Moreover, Tonya had just spent eleven dollars on a case for Layla’s backpack.

“I’ll make sure not to cook this anywhere around him,” Tonya said.

Imani’s brow pinched, finally adding an age-appropriate wrinkle to her smooth brown skin. “I know allergies are a pain. Philip plays his down because he’s in a kitchen. A chef with a food allergy is kind of taboo. But it’s serious.”

Death and cancer were serious, Tonya thought. Losing a job was serious. Getting thrown out of an apartment during a pandemic after your child support was abruptly cut off was serious. A peanut allergy was an annoyance, easily managed by reading packaging and not eating food that she’d already agreed to label.

“Well, I’ll try to avoid buying anything to cook with peanuts. These are all prepackaged in plastic, in the freezer, in a box separated from the other food, which I’ll slap my name on. I don’t need to microwave them. I usually pop them in Layla’s bag for school and let them defrost during the morning session.”

Imani’s eyes narrowed. She held Tonya’s gaze as she placed her phone on the coffee table. “So, Philip tells me you were an actress.”

Tonya examined Imani’s expression. Was her landlord simply switching the subject or fishing for information about her connection with Nate and the scholarship? Or was she being bitchy because of the peanut butter? Imani had used the past tense concerning her prior career, hammering a nail into the coffin of Tonya’s acting profession. Tonya didn’t think of her acting in the past tense. Once an actress, always an actress, she thought, even if twelve years of taking orders instead of auditions had long erased any illusions of her being a working actress.