Now That I've Found You - Kristina Forest Page 0,13

front of me. The table is covered with fried chicken (explains the smell), baked macaroni and cheese, collard greens, and corn pudding. It looks delicious, but this isn’t the kind of food that Gigi usually eats. She’s been a clean-eating vegan my whole life.

“I made everything except for the mac and cheese,” she says proudly. “You can thank Milo for that.”

“All I did was follow directions from your recipe,” he says. “I really can’t take credit.”

Gigi frowns at him. “What have I told you about taking credit when it’s due?”

He laughs and nods. “Okay, okay. You’re right.”

It sounds childish and unreasonable, but now that I know Milo made the mac and cheese, I don’t want to eat it.

“I thought you didn’t like this kind of stuff,” I say to Gigi, while Milo rubs his hands together and licks his lips.

She shrugs, piling food onto her plate. “Life’s too short, baby. We might as well eat whatever makes us happy.” She pauses and then adds, “Within reason, of course.”

Gigi says a prayer, and then she and Milo begin eating. He stuffs his face like a barbarian. Apparently, over the course of their friendship, Gigi’s never made him sit through her infamous etiquette classes like I had to.

Gigi passes the salt to Milo, and he hands her the hot sauce. She compliments him on the mac and cheese. He tells her that her collard greens have just the right amount of kick. All the while, Otis Redding continues to croon softly in the background. It’s clear that this is a routine for them. A regular dinner on a Wednesday night. Gigi is visibly more relaxed than I’ve seen in years, and I should feel more relaxed too, happy even. But I can’t seem to pick up my fork and join in on this meal.

My confusion morphs into agitation. I came here to see Gigi and talk to her about the ceremony, to tell her about the decision I’ve made. It’s too important not to discuss. I wish Milo would beat it.

Instinctively, I glance up at the clock above the stove to check the time. But this clock is new … and it’s bright red.

“When did you buy that?” I ask, nodding at the clock.

Gigi stops chewing and uses a napkin to dab her mouth. “Oh, Milo bought it when my old one stopped working.”

“But it’s red,” I state, almost accusingly. Gigi hasn’t decorated her house with anything but shades of cream for as long as I’ve been alive.

“I know.” She smiles. “It’s so bright. I like it.”

When I glance over at Milo, he’s staring at me with a wary look on his face, a mouse waiting for the cat to pounce. Good. He should be wary.

“So you’re in a band?” I ask him, raising an eyebrow. “What kind of band?”

“It’s a funk and R&B mash-up,” he says. “Like Bruno and his band, the Hooligans … just not as good.”

“Oh, I think you could be better than that Bruno fellow,” Gigi says. “Don’t sell yourself short.” To me, she adds, “They practice all the time. One of their videos even went virtual.”

“You mean viral, Ms. C,” he says, laughing.

Ms. C?

Gigi waves her hand and says, “Yes, yes, viral.” Smiling, she turns back to me. “Milo is a very talented musician, Evie Marie.”

This interaction is strangely similar to the way Gigi used to talk to her friends about me. I feel a tightening sensation deep in my gut. He has to want something from her. An industry connection? Money? Both?

But it’s not just my skepticism that makes me feel this way. From the outside looking in, you’d think he was her grandchild and I was the guest.

“Your mother told me things were going well in Botswana,” Gigi says. “I’m glad they decided to come home for a little while, though. I never liked the idea of you being there by yourself so much.”

“I wasn’t alone,” I say, thinking of Simone. Which then makes me remember her huge Beautiful You ad in Times Square, which then makes me upset all over again.

“When I was in middle school, we watched your parents’ documentary on global warming,” Milo says. “It was really good, eye-opening. Do you know what they’ll do after Botswana?”

“No.” I try my best not to glare at him. Why won’t he just go away?

Maybe the best tactic is to broach the subject little by little until he eventually leaves.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to wear to the ceremony on Sunday?” I ask