Page 93 of The Sweetest Return

I reached across the table, palm up.

She looked at my hand for a moment, then put hers in it.

Her fingers were warm.

Still trembling a little.

I closed my hand around them carefully.

“I never wanted you to choose less,” I said.

“I know that now.”

“And I never stopped being proud of you.”

Her eyes filled again.

“That would’ve helped to hear back then,” she said softly.

“I know.”

Her thumb brushed mine.

“It would’ve helped if I’d asked.”

I nodded.

We sat with that for a minute.

No fixing it.

No pretending the apology could reach back eight years and make us braver than we had been.

Just the two of us in the back booth at Mason’s, older now, quieter in some places, finally telling the truth where our younger selves had left too much unsaid.

Ms. Jean appeared with the food before either of us could drown in it. She set Imani’s fries and strawberry shake down, put my burger in front of me, then pushed that unwanted coffee closer like I had personally offended her by refusing it.

“Drink.”

“No.”

“You need something.”

“I got water.”

She looked from me to Imani. “You got something.”

“Ms. Jean.”

Imani laughed into her hand, a little teary and a little relieved, while the old woman walked away pleased with herself.

The interruption helped. It gave us food, napkins, a reason to breathe, somewhere to put our hands while the apology settled between us without either one of us trying to dress it up too fast.

Imani dipped a fry in her strawberry shake.

I stared at her. “You still doing that?”

“And it’s still good.”