“How are your parents?” I asked.
“They’re okay,” he said, dropping his napkin on the empty plate and pushing it away. “I don’t think my mom and Micah will stay down there much longer. It ain’t easy being black in Atlanta.”
“You want me to list the reasons alphabetically? Or chronologically? We can begin with slavery if that’d help.” He shook his head, but he was grinning.
I felt stupid. “How will it be having them all in the same town? I mean, with your dad and . . . ” I fell silent.
“Angela,” Chris said. “Should be fine. They’ve all pretty much got their own lives. Mom and Micah will more than likely get a town house, too small for me to live in, so Joel and I might get a place.”
“Really? Joel?” I pushed the handle on the coffee mug, turning it in circles on the table. “Last night he seemed kind of uncool with . . . well, I mean, he’s always hated us smoking weed.” I stopped talking, not sure, really, how to talk about New Year’s and the dos and the don’ts and the division we’d all become too comfortable with.
“Yeah, it’s still a thing,” Chris admitted. “But we’ll get past it.”
“What about Tabby?”
Chris shrugged. “Looks like she’ll be another year in Pittsburgh. If Joel gets funding, he’ll get an office. Until then he’s working from wherever he can.”
“For his business.”
“Joel has a business?”
Chris laughed at me. “You don’t listen for shit, man, do you?”
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish