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“That itis got me.” She yawns and laughs. “I ate too much, but it’s the only time I get neck bones.”
I bark out a laugh. “Wait, wait, wait. Did you say neck bones? Damn, Vee. How countryareyou?”
“Y’all don’t eat neck bones?” I hear the smile in her voice. “I’m revoking your country-boy card.”
“Wedoeat oxtails, so I should get points for that.”
“The Country Council will take it under consideration,” she says, giggling. “How’s home?”
“About the way I thought it would be.” My grin fades, the conversation with my father playing back in my head. “Ready to get back to campus.”
“I love seeing my aunts, but I’m ready to get back to you.”
“You have no idea,” I groan. “I miss you, Vee.”
“I’ll be back Sunday.”
I glance toward Mama’s apartment and my fractured family. I haven’t had this relationship long, but it feels like the best thing in my life right now. “I’ll see you then.”
EIGHT
Verity
January
“So when we gon’ meet this boy?” Aunt Roz asks. “You spent half Christmas break on the phone with him.”
“You’re exaggerating.” I adjust my earbud as I cross the yard at a brisk pace. I’m running late for my screenwriting class. As if I didn’t already dread going. Being late won’t help. Things have been so hectic, squeezing in a call with my aunts while I walk to class is the best way to catch up.
“And you went to seehimover break, but he never came to seeyou,” Aunt Grace reminds me. “Is he a gentleman or what?”
Technically, we met at a hotel halfway between Georgia and Virginia. Twice. Three weeks of break was too long to go without seeing Monk. It was two days each time and we barely left the cheap hotel room because we were so consumed with each other.
“You’ll meet him soon,” I say, giving in to a smile. “You’ll love Monk.”
“What kinda name is Monk?” Aunt Grace demands.
“It’s actually Wright Bellamy. His middle name is Thelonious and so… never mind. We call him Monk.”
“His mama named him Wright,” Aunt Roz says. “I’mma call him Wright.”
“Okay. Whatever, Auntie.”
“And when did you say you started seeing him?” Aunt Roz presses.
“Early November.”
“It’s only January, so not long,” Aunt Grace muses. “Don’t getdistracted. You just found your footing again. You don’t want… well, we just don’t want what happened in California to happen again.”
My heart rate picks up speed and sweat dampens my palms. I don’t have words for a few seconds.
“Verity?” Aunt Roz asks sharply. “You there? Grace was saying she—”
“Doesn’t want what happened in Cali to happen again,” I say, my voice flat. “It happened to me. Pretty sure I’m the last person who wants a repeat of it.”
It’s silent on the other end for an extra beat, and I envision the two of them in our small, bright kitchen at home, sitting at the counter, phone on speaker as they exchange a worried glance. They’d shot those same looks my way over Christmas break. And last summer before I transferred to Finley. And when I returned from USC. So much worry. So much failure. Sometimes I can let it roll off me, but today something scrubs like Brillo just under my skin. It feels like I’m poised on a knife’s edge of agitation, and at one wrong word or look, the sharp point punctures the surface, slicing through my last nerve.
“We know it happened to you,” Aunt Roz finally replies, striking that maddeningly careful tone they use with me now. “But it was hard for us to see you like that, and we—”
