Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
My stomach sinks deep into my knees. Jamila looks uncertain as she knocks on her grandmother’s door again, and finally, it opens up.
Revealing Nolan standing beside a wrinkled old woman, the aged version of Jamila.
I step back in shock. Jamila goes stiff. The whole block is silent, like everyone’s staring as Nolan turns to Jamila’s grandmother and kisses her cheek.
The old woman pats his face. “Thank you, young man,” she murmurs. “I can’t forgive you, but this helped.”
“I understand. I’m thankful you spoke with me.” Nolan glances at me, a frown tugging at his lips. “Keely. Jamila.” He brushes past us, down the stoop, and walks away.
I gape after him in total shock. Once Nolan’s gone, the block comes to life again, everyone chattering at each other. Gossiping about the kiss, about what the old woman said to him.
“Keely.” Jamila beckons at me from her grandmother’s door. “Come on.”
I follow the pair inside, not sure how to feel. My emotions are a conflicting mess.
Why would Nolan be here? What was he thinking, visiting Jamila’s grandmother like that? And what did she mean, their conversation helped? I don’t know what Nolan could possibly have to say to her that might make any difference. And yet it seems like it did.
But I know already. He’s here for me—because of me—because he wants to wipe away some of the stain, some of the sin. Even if he’s not ashamed, he came here to make things right, or at least to try, all for me.
All because of me.
I’m in a daze as I’m introduced to Jamila’s grandmother, a sweet older woman named Adhya. She eats a donut and praises it effusively, which helps bring me back down to earth, although Jamila remains concerned.
“Grandmother, what was Nolan Crowley doing here?” she asks, taking her grandmother’s hand. “I thought you hated him.”
“I do, darling, I do.” She pats Jamila, shaking her head. “But he came to make things right between us. Him personally, not as a member of his family. That sort of visit takes guts. I respect that.”
“What did he say?” I ask, unable to help myself.
The old woman glances at me. “You’re the wife, aren’t you? He said you were friends with my Jamila. I wasn’t sure I believed him, but now here you are, sitting in my kitchen.”
I feel my cheeks turn red. “He mentioned me?”
“He did,” he says, nodding sagely. “He talked a lot about family. It seems very important to him. Another thing I can respect.”
“Grandmother, you don’t need to tell us.” Jamila looks almost panicked. “Whatever you said to Nolan, you can keep to yourself.”
But the old woman waves her off. “I will not speak about the details of what was said, but I will tell you this. Nolan Crowley is a man like any other, dedicated to his own people, and I can respect that. He is dedicated to his wife as well, though, perhaps she doesn’t know it.” Her smile turns mischievous as my eyes widen.
“Grandmother,” Jamila says, her voice chiding now.
“That is all I will say on that subject. What was spoken remains between me, him, and the dead. Please, let’s move on to a nicer topic. Like eating more of these donuts. Or perhaps finding a husband for Jamila.”
“Grandmother,” she groans, looking up at the ceiling. “I never should’ve come here.”
I can’t help but laugh.
The absurdity of the situation isn’t lost on me. I show up here, only moments after Nolan came through to talk with the matriarch of the family he destroyed, to offer apologies, condolences, explanations, I don’t even know.
But he talked about me. And it sounds like he explained to Jamila’s grandmother that he loves me, and maybe he even gave her a good sense of our situation together. It’s strange, bizarre even, and I don’t know what to do with it.
Fortunately, Jamila’s grandmother is easy to talk with. She laughs a lot, loudly and deeply, and asks a lot of questions. Especially about Jamila’s love life, which seems to be her favorite topic in the world.
“You know, when Jamila here was a young girl, she brought a boy home from school. A handsome young white boy.”
“Grandmother, it doesn’t matter that he was white,” Jamila says, wagging a finger.
But Grandmother only shrugs. “He was so uncomfortable at first. Can you imagine? Growing up in your suburb, surrounded by people like you, only to be thrown into this big, strange family?” She laughs, delighted. “He was a nice boy though. I did like him. Whatever happened? What was his name?”
“Brian,” Jamila says. “We broke up. It was nothing, just a silly teenage crush.”
“Ah, Brian. He made a point to greet every single aunt and uncle every time he came over. I liked that about him.”
“Has Jamila ever brought anyone else home?” I ask, unable to help myself. Jamila hasn’t dated much since I’ve known her, and she keeps her romances close to her chest.