“Fox is the same. He’s not as, umm, emotionally open, I guess, but he’s still amazing. He does things without you having to ask and always tries to make people feel better if they’re having a hard time. I’m lucky to have him. Do you know about love languages? I think his is acts of service. I think Malcolm’s is a mix of gift giving and words of affirmation.”

A nagging voice whispers to Joy that Summer really cares about them. She isn’t pretending or trying to endear herself to Joy. It’s honest. Her feelings for them are the real thing.

But then another voice yells, Do not let your guard down! The enemy will try anything!

Enemy.

Is Summer her enemy?

Does she even have to be?

Summer interrupts her thoughts. “Do you know yours?”

“No.” Joy glances at her. “I know what they are, but I’ve never taken the test.”

Wrong answer. Joy basically just handed Summer a loaded gun. They spend the rest of the drive taking the test—Summer reading the questions and Joy answering. When she finds a parking spot near the front of the store, Summer exclaims, “You’re a split between words of affirmation and quality time! I knew it!”

Summer continues chattering on next to Joy as they enter the store, completely oblivious. Nothing out of the ordinary for her. This isn’t the first time Joy’s been with non-Black people who didn’t go into immediate high alert when in new places.

It’s a sick game she’s forced to play where she counts all the Black people she sees. And if that fails, she moves on to non-Black POCs. It doesn’t mean she’ll be safe. It just helps ease some of her anxiety.

Immediately, she spots two workers at the register and one behind the deli counter whom she’s pretty sure are Black. She sees people of other races and ethnicities shopping. It’s a good mix. The tension automatically releases from her shoulders and neck as she exhales. Malcolm planned this trip—but even knowing that he’d never take them somewhere dangerous can’t stop her from fretting.

In the bakery section, Summer carefully scans the display, systematically inspecting the cakes from right to left, face screwed up in concentration. She’s giving each cake a once over with the seriousness of someone disarming a bomb. The fate of the world rests on her finding the perfect dessert.

“None of these look good.” Summer’s gaze flicks up toward the bakers behind the counter, probably hoping they didn’t hear her.

Joy asks, “Why don’t you just make one, then?”

“He would see us making it. It would spoil the surprise.”