Before I Let Go

Chapter One

Yasmen

You rarely see good things in the rearview mirror.

A lesson I should have learned by now, but I flick a glance to the back seat anyway, watching my daughter break the rules. Her brother in the passenger seat beside me is just as bad.

“Guys, you know it’s not screen time.” I split my attention between the interstate and the two of them. “Put your phones away, please.”

“Mom, seriously?” My daughter Deja’s sigh is heavy with a thirteen-year-old’s exasperation. “I just finished school and dance lessons. Gimme a break.”

“Sorry, Mom,” Kassim says, lowering his phone to his lap.

Deja expels another breath, like she’s not sure who irritates her more, me for making the rules or her brother for following them.

“Brownnose,” she mutters, gaze still fixed to her screen.

“Deja,” I say. “That phone is mine if you don’t put it away.”

Her eyes, dark and gold-flecked, clash with mine in the mirror before she sets the phone aside. It’s like staring back at myself. We’re so much alike. Skin as smooth and brown as polished walnut. Her hair, like mine, prone to coil and curl, always contracting at the slightest bit of moisture in the air. Same stubborn chin hinting at a will to match.

“She’s just like you,” my mother used to say when as a toddler Deja barreled into mishaps despite my warnings to take care. When she’d pull herself up to run off again with fresh scrapes and bruises. “Serves you right. Now you’ll see what I had to put up with raising you.”

I always thought it would be a blessing, mother and daughter, two peas in the proverbial pod. And for a long time, it was…until thirteen. God, I hate this age. I can’t seem to get anything right with her anymore.

“So how was your day?”

I ask because I want to make good use of all this time we have in the car commuting. They’ve only been back in school for two weeks, and I should start this year as I mean to go on.

“Jamal brought his lizard to school,” Kassim says, his amused eyes meeting mine in a brief sidelong glance. “And it crawled out of his backpack in class.”

“Oh, my God.” I laugh. “Did he catch it?”

“Yeah, but it took like twenty minutes. He’s fast. The lizard, I mean.” Kassim twists a button on the crisp white shirt of his school uniform. “Some of the girls started screaming. Mrs. Halstead stood on her chair, like it was a snake or something.”

“I might have freaked out too,” I admit.

“This one was harmless. It wasn’t like a Gila monster or a Mexican beaded lizard,” Kassim says. “Those are two of the poisonous types found in North America.”

I catch Deja staring at the back of her brother’s head like he sprang from Dr. Who’s TARDIS. With Kassim’s constant stream of factoids and fascination with…well, everything…it probably sometimes seems like he did.

“Never a dull moment with Jamal,” I say with a chuckle. “What about you, Deja?”

“Huh?” she asks, her voice disinterested, distracted.

When I check the mirror again, I only see her profile. She’s studying I-85 through her window. The six o’clock traffic is basically a parking lot, a fleet of Atlantan commuters inching forward and negotiating tight spaces in a game of vehicular Tetris.

“I was asking how your day went,” I try again.

“It was all right,” Deja says, eyes fixed on the traffic beyond her window. “Dad’s at the restaurant?”

So much for connecting.

“Uh, yeah.” I tap the brakes when a Prius cuts in front of me. “You guys can eat dinner there and your dad’ll take you home once you’re done.”

“Why?” Kassim asks.

“Why what?” I wait for the Prius to decide what he wants to do.

“I mean where will you be?” Kassim presses.

“It’s Soledad’s birthday,” I tell him, carefully switching lanes. “We’re taking her out to dinner. Make sure you get your homework done. I don’t want you to fall behind.”

“God, Mom,” Deja sighs. “We’re barely back from summer and you’re already up our asses.”

I ping a sharp glance from Kassim in the front seat to Deja in the back.

“Day, don’t cuss.”

She mumbles something under her breath.

“What was that?” I flash a look at her in the mirror as I pull off the exit. “You got something to say?”

“I said it.” Defiant, resentful eyes snap to meet mine.

“I didn’t hear it.”

“Is that my problem?”

“Yeah, it is. If you’re big and bad enough to say it, say it loud enough for me to hear it.”

“Mom, geez.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Why are you so…ugh.”

I have a thousand replies to that, but all of them would only worsen the tension between us. If I had spoken to my mama that way, she would have pulled over to the shoulder and popped me in the mouth. God knows I love my mother, but I don’t want that. I draw a calming breath and try to remember all the ways I promised myself I would do things differently with my kids, landing somewhere between gentle parenting…and my mama.

I stop at a red light, turning to glance over my shoulder, meeting Deja’s hard stare. It always feels like she’s fortifying a wall between us, piling up the bricks before I can touch her on the other side. I miss the girl who loved our pillow fights, s’mores over the backyard firepit, and Saturday morning mommy-daughter manis. Is it all part of growing up, or are we just growing apart? Or both?

“Your dad and I expect you to set a better example for your brother,” I tell her.

“Well, Daddy’s not around as much anymore.” She turns her head, shifts her eyes away from me, and stares back out the window. “Is he?”

Even though Josiah doesn’t live with us, he’s only two streets over and they see him every day. Still, my heart clenches with a guilt-tinged ache because as much as I’d like to believe it’s only the big one-three that eroded things between Deja and me, I can’t lie to myself. The trouble started with the divorce. Those eyes, before never far from sparkling with laughter, now seem too old for the rest of her face, and not just from seeing one more year pass, but from witnessing the dissolution of her parents’ marriage over the last few.

“It’s green, Mom,” Kassim says.

Before anyone can honk, I accelerate with the cars around me, driving past the blue-and-white sign heralding that we’re entering Skyland, one of Atlanta’s most vibrant in-town neighborhoods. My shoulder muscles relax as we shift from the tension of the interstate to the more sedate pace and thinner traffic of Skyland’s narrow roads. It pairs the charm and intimacy of a smaller community with proximity to the explosive energy and limitless options of a world-class city. We drive down Main Street, bordered by cobblestone walkways, boutiques, and cloth-draped tables spilling from the cafés onto the sidewalks. I exit the roundabout encircling the fountain in the center of Sky Square and keep driving until our restaurant, Grits, comes into view.

Downtown Skyland is a perfect blend of preservation and progress. The zoning gatekeepers have preserved many of the historic homes by repurposing them for business. Our soul fusion restaurant, Grits, is a shining example. The two-story Victorian with its wraparound porch stole my heart as soon as I laid eyes on it. The house had fallen into disrepair, but we had a loan from the bank, more ideas than we knew what to do with, and a stack of family recipes. Josiah had the business degree, but I brought the vision for an upscale, “down-home” restaurant that specialized in reinventing old Southern favorites. It took us awhile to get to “upscale.” For a long time we were more “mom-and-pop,” our entire operation squeezed into a small retail space on the south side of Atlanta. So much has changed, been lost, gained.

Besides the two humans in this car, Grits is what I’m proudest of. It’s our baby too. Even when things fell apart between Josiah and me, we still had our three babies. Deja, Kassim, and this place, Grits. When we realized those were the only things holding us together, we knew it would be better to dissolve our marriage than to go on as what we had become.

Well, I knew.

When we arrive at Grits, I pull into a reserved parking space right up front and kill the engine. Kassim opens the door and is out and up the steps to Grits’s entrance without another word. Deja gets out, too, and closes the door. Coltish, all skinny arms and giraffe legs in her plaid school uniform skirt and pink high-top Converse, she pauses to type, already glued to her phone again, before entering the restaurant.

I don’t even have the patience to remind her about screen time. Let Josiah worry about it for the next couple of hours. I grab my suit bag from the trunk, start for the steps, and pull open the heavy front door emblazoned with our logo. As soon as I cross the threshold, a sense of accomplishment rises in me as thick and real as the smell of fried chicken and savory vegetables permeating the tastefully decorated dining room. It’s a full house tonight, though lately every night is a full house. What a difference a year makes.

Across the dining room I spot Deja and Kassim standing with a man I don’t recognize. He’s of middle age and average height, and standing next to a petite woman dressed in a white chef’s coat and slim-fitting pants. Vashti Burns’s reputation and culinary expertise helped pull us back from the edge of ruin. Her dark brown skin is a gorgeous contrast to the auburn-colored natural hair she wears cropped close. Having less hair gives her high cheekbones room to show off. Her full lips spread, flashing straight, white teeth in a smile up at the tall man beside her.

Josiah.

My ex-husband is one of those guys. A man who captures your attention with the breadth of his shoulders and a purposeful stride, long legs devouring each step like he needs to get someplace but won’t be rushed. I was a restaurant hostess when we first met. Josiah, waiting for a table with a group of friends, seduced my ears before I even laid eyes on him, that rich laugh of his unfurling like black silk ribbon and making heads turn. Turned my head. Not that he’s had much to laugh about the last few years. Hell, none of us have, but he’s laughing now, with our pretty new chef.

A group of laughing women spill through the front door, the perfume-scented clique of stilettos and body-con dresses crowding around the hostess podium. At Grits, your jeans are just as at home as your Sunday best. Or your in da club best in their case. Offering them a smile as the hostess checks them in, I walk toward Josiah and the kids. When I’m just a few feet away, Josiah glances up and his smile does that thing where it freezes at the sight of me and then melts completely into a neutral line. It stings a little, that the ease we used to share is gone. It’s one of the things we never recovered from the most painful season of our lives. That ease came with love, with passion, with partnership. At least we’re still partners, even if only in business and raising these kids.

“Hey,” Josiah murmurs when I join their little group, his voice a low, deep, familiar rumble. “I didn’t realize you were here. Thought you’d dropped them off.”

“Uh, no.” I pat the suit bag and angle a polite smile to Vashti and the stranger. “Just need to change before I go.”

“Let me introduce you,” he says. “Yasmen, this is William Granders, a food critic for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. William, Yasmen Wade, my business partner.”

A food critic. So that’s why he’s at Soigné, our best table.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Granders,” I say, extending a hand to him. He returns the handshake with a smile before taking a sip of his Bordeaux.

“Good to see you again, Yasmen,” Vashti says, her voice well-modulated and pleasant.

“You too.”

Even though Vashti’s been here for about a year, we don’t know each other that well. I was still on hiatus when Josiah hired her after a string of replacements failed following Aunt Byrd’s passing. Vashti has the culinary training and that something-something Byrd used to say the most gifted cooks are born with. She’s been a lifesaver, but something I can’t put my finger on has kept the two of us from becoming friends. The customers and staff love her. My kids love her. Josiah…rests one big hand on her shoulder. The touch is innocuous. Platonic, but something about it…niggles.

“Hey, kids, let’s grab a table so you can eat and get started on homework,” I say, offering Mr. Granders a smile. “Hope you enjoy your meal.”

“How could I not?” He shoots Vashti an admiring look. “You’ve got yourself a rare gem here. Haven’t had chicken and dumplings like this since…well, ever.”

“We’re very lucky,” I agree with a smile.

“There’s a booth at the back near the kitchen,” Josiah says, dropping a quick kiss on Deja’s hair. “I’ll check on you guys in a bit. Decide what you want.”

“Ribs,” Kassim pipes up, licking his lips.

“Boy, you’re gonna turn into a rib.” Vashti laughs. “You get them every time. When you gonna try my chicken-fried steak?”

“Next time?” Kassim shrugs, his smile sheepish. If Deja’s my mini-me, Kassim is Josiah’s.

“Kids, let’s go so Mr. Ganders can finish his meal,” I say, looking back to the critic. “It was nice meeting you.”

Once we reach the booth Josiah reserved, I grab two menus from the table and hand them to the kids.

“Figure out what you want,” I say. “Your dad will come over to get your orders.”

“I’m starving.” Kassim opens the menu, eyes wide and scanning all the options.

“Eat. Home. Homework,” I remind them, looking from one to the other. “In that order. Got it?”

“Got it,” Deja says, her face obscured by the open menu.

“All right.” I shift the suit bag over my shoulder. “I need to change.”

I pick my way through the tables and smile at a few regular customers, but don’t stop. The phone vibrates in my purse, and I know it’s my friend Hendrix wondering where I am. I reach for my cell to reassure her I’m coming, but my steps falter midstride and I stand paralyzed in the empty corridor. To anyone else, it’s just a stretch of hardwood flooring, the wide planks dark and polished, but my mind’s eye superimposes an old stain spreading beneath my Nikes. And even though the floor has long since been scrubbed clean, I still see my sorrow embedded in the woodgrain. For months I couldn’t walk through this place without my breath growing short and my head spinning. My pain was plastered in these walls. My ghosts and grief gathered around these tables. A knot of anxiety burgeons in my belly, and panic strangles me so tightly I can barely breathe, but I do what my therapist taught me.

Deep breath in, slow breath out.

Deep breath in, slow breath out.

At first I can only manage tiny sips of air and my head spins, but each breath deepens, lengthens, deploys life-giving calm to my tingling extremities. Repeating that cycle a few times slows my heartbeat and loosens the band manacling my throat. I’ve exorcized a lot of my demons. Not all, but enough to at least walk into Grits without running right back out. I’m ready to reclaim the space that loss and shit luck tried to take from me.

When I open my eyes, it’s just a floor, polished to a high shine. There was a time I would have fallen over that cliff, breath-deprived and panicked, and let my demons chase me from this place I love so much. A tiny smile crooks the corner of my mouth and I take one step and then another.

So this is what getting better feels like.

Headed for the office, I pass the clamor of the kitchen. The clang of pots, the tantalizing scents, the raucous laughter and raised voices drift from the space that had always been Byrd’s domain. I offer a quick wave to the crew as I stride toward the office.

“Private” is discreetly sketched into the gold plate on the office door. I walk in, closing the door behind me. Josiah is a man of order and discipline, and the office reflects that. When we shared this space, it was never this orderly. My side of our bedroom always looked like a natural disaster, while his side looked like…well, like this. Even though I’m getting back into the swing of things here at the restaurant, I haven’t been using the office. And it shows.

The desk is clear, except for a few papers sorted into neat piles, edges lined up just so. Not a speck of dust would dare reside on any of the shiny surfaces. Josiah would be pulling his hair out if he saw our bedroom right now. I’m not one of those people who make the bed every morning. I mean, no one’s in my room all day and I’m just climbing right back in at night. I like my bed waiting for me all rumpled like it was when I crawled out of it. Josiah? Sheets tucked tight like a can of sardines, corners sharp as a Swiss Army knife. He’s one of those people who actually knows how to fold a fitted sheet into a tiny square.

Freak.

I walk into the en suite bathroom, shut the door, flop onto the closed seat of the toilet.

And sit.

Life comes at us fast. Responsibilities, kids, opportunities—it all rushes at us with projectile force. With all the things flying my way, I’ve learned to stop and check for dents and bruises. I’ve been the walking wounded before with disastrous results. Now I always pause just one damn minute to make sure I’m actually okay. Sometimes I gotta have a seat on a toilet, hoarding breaths, surviving between seconds. For mere moments, insulated by thin walls and a closed door.

After a few restoring seconds of silence, I stand to peel off the day along with my jeans and T-shirt. I search under the sink, praying I’ll see the emergency deodorant I used to stash there.

“Yes!”

With a little sashay of my hips I apply the deodorant. My face is bare, so I pull out my “glam in minutes” kit and at least apply some coverage, color, and lashes. I washed my hair this morning, and the leave-in conditioner still tames my natural hair into a mostly curly, not-yet-frizzy, Afro-halo.

I may be winging it with my hair and makeup, but at least I know this dress is classy with a dash of freakum. Pink hibiscus flowers bloom across the emerald-green skirt and the bodice cups and molds my breasts like a lover. Not that I’ve had one of those since my divorce. I lift my arms, squinting into the bathroom mirror.

“Can you tell I didn’t shave?” I ask the woman looking back at me. Eyes shining. Curls popping. That matte pink lippie is on point. Brows, fleek-ish. And yoga has done her body good. I’ll never be the size I was before I had kids, and I’m fine with that. My health isn’t a number on the scale or on a tag in my jeans. I feel good about my body because it gets me through this life. I want to be around as long as possible to see my kids grow up, so I take care of it. I can’t remember when I last felt like this. I feel like…

“Myself.” I give the woman in the mirror a grin. “I feel like myself.”

My purse vibrates.

“Dammit.” I grab the phone and sure enough. “Hendrix, hey.”

“Where are you?” My friend’s husky voice holds an edge, but it always does. Her high-powered job and warp-speed life usually make her sound like she’s poised to pounce on anyone she’s talking to.

“Leaving Grits now. If I can ever get this dress zipped.” I press the phone between my ear and my shoulder and stretch to reach my back. “You already at Sky-Hi?”

“Yeah. Walking in now.”

“It’s just up the street. Be there in less than ten.”

“Okay. Bye.”

I turn my focus back to the zipper, which stubbornly stays put at the middle of my back.

Screw it.

I’ll ask the hostess to zip me up. I grab my stuff and leave the bathroom just as the outer office door opens and Josiah walks in. His glance skitters over me, starting with my curly hair and sliding to my bare toes.

“Sorry. I didn’t realize you were in here.” He strides over to the desk, opens a drawer, and retrieves a small stack of cards. “Granders wanted a business card.”

“People still actually use those?”

The powerful shoulders shrug in the confines of his well-tailored suit.

“Apparently he does. I’ll carve my name into a stone tablet if it means he’ll write us a good review. We could use the visibility.”

“Are things…”