“Come on now,” Jesse teases, thinking I’m just jealous.
“I can admit when someone has hit a home run. Stephanie is so brave for coming forward about what she went through when she was younger. She’s helping so many women find their voices. But that doesn’t give her a free pass to place unfair demands on our friendship. Rihanna attended one class and I didn’t feel comfortable emailing her out of the blue to push my castmate’s book on her. That’s a grimy move. I thought that as my friend, Stephanie would understand that. But that’s not how she saw it. She thinks my ego is out of control and that I’m holding out on her. That after everything she’s done for me, I owe her. Meanwhile, she was the one who insisted I move in with her. Both times. I’m obviously grateful”—I cradle my heart to prove how much her hospitality meant to me—“but I never asked. It’s like she only helped me so she gets to say I owe her.”
“It wouldn’t have been appropriate,” Kelly adds, coming to my defense with cool common sense. “We support Stephanie, but we are trying to cultivate a relationship between Rihanna’s team and SPOKE, and we don’t want to look like we’re taking advantage of her generosity. Class bookings went up two hundred percent the day after those pictures of her surfaced on People and any asks we make of her must be strategic.”
“And can I just add,” I say, raising a hand like all other points are moot due to this one, “that the book has come out and been a smash hit and Stephanie’s got the Oscar-Nominated Female Director attached to direct. She’s fine.”
“Have you reached out to congratulate her?” Jesse asks.
“Has she reached out to congratulate me on the expansion?”
“Good woman,” Jesse says. “Don’t do anything yet. Let’s get the first confrontation on camera.”
Hank appears, balancing a blond plank holding appetizers on the palm of his hand. He sets it in the center of the table and remains stooped to say into Kelly’s ear, privately but not quietly, “Your daughter is asking if you have a charger in your purse.”
Jesse pauses, a coin of sausage halfway to her mouth. “Your daughter?”
“Uh, yeah,” Kelly says, fumbling through the impossible-to-pronounce purse my girlfriend also lent her for this occasion. “My childcare fell through, unfortunately. I have her waiting in the car—she’s fine.”
“Are you not married?” Jesse asks, and Kelly uh-uhs like she just wants to move off the subject as quickly as possible.
And that’s when I notice it—the designing glint in Jesse’s eyes. I realize, feeling a little faint, Kelly didn’t just lose a point for having a kid out of wedlock. She gained one. I turn to my sister, looking at her through Jesse’s lens: single mom, hustling to support her daughter and make a name for herself. Articulate, camera-friendly. And that’s not even the best of it. The best of it is sitting in our junky car with a dead phone. Twenty feet—or however close the driveway is from the picnic table—is all that separates Kelly from getting the job. Because when Jesse sees that Layla is black, she will be smitten. That is a horrible thing to think, let alone be true. But for Jesse Barnes, nothing is more compelling than the tension between the conventional and the unconventional. Kelly, who looks like a woman who should have a big rock on her finger and a minivan full of budding athletes but instead chose to bring a mixed-race child into this world—independently—exemplifies that tension in a fresh and exciting way. I see that now. I just don’t know how I didn’t see that before.
“Alone?” Jesse frowns. “Why doesn’t she join us?”
I need to speak up. Say anything to keep Layla from Jesse. I don’t want my pure-hearted niece anywhere near this flaming Dumpster. Like parents who did drugs when they were younger but punish their kids when they find pot in their backpacks now, the show is only okay when I do it. “She’s got her phone.” I roll my eyes, good-naturedly, as if that’s all anyone needs to survive these days.
“Her dead phone,” Jesse reminds me. She looks at her watch. “It’s lunchtime. Is she hungry?”
“There are doughnuts in the car,” I say, too quickly.
Kelly turns to me, a curious expression on her face. Just minutes ago I was rubbing Layla’s existence in Jesse’s face, and now I want her to remain unseen and unheard. I know she’s wondering—why?
“Doughnuts are not lunch,” Jesse says.
“I can make her a grilled cheese,” Hank offers.
“She does love grilled cheese, doesn’t she, Brett?” Kelly smiles at me in a way I will slash her for later. She’s picked up on my anxiety—there must be a good reason I am fighting so hard to keep Layla from Jesse, a reason that may work in her favor. My sister’s main fault is that she knows me too well, I realize, as she gets up and heads for the car to release Layla on Jesse.
“Sorry about this,” I say to Jesse.
“Don’t be,” she says, “your sister is adorable. How old is she?”
I think on my feet. “She’ll be thirty-two in October.”
Jesse laughs at me. “That’s like six months from now.”
I hear Kelly and Layla approaching behind me, but I don’t turn. I stay and watch the delight bloom in Jesse’s face as her latest millennial disrupter actualizes.
“This is Layla,” Kelly says. “She’s very excited to meet you. She’s a big fan.”
“I admire all you do for women,” Layla tells Jesse, taking Jesse’s hand with the strong grip I taught her.
Jesse howls with laughter, making a performance out of clutching her hand after Layla lets go, as though Layla shook so hard she did damage to the bones.
Kelly is brightening, slowly, like one of those sunrise simulators designed to gently wake you in the morning. She throws up her hands, like this is what she has to deal with. Utter perfection for a child. “Layla is twelve going on twenty-five. Do you know she started an online shop to sell goods made by Imazighen women and children? She refuses to take a cut, but she figured out a way to earn money through sponsored posts.”
“You’re raising the next generation of Goal Diggers!” Jesse cries.
I can’t even speak.
Kelly sets her hand on her daughter’s head of curls, in case Jesse hasn’t noticed how beautiful they are. As though she is a Realtor, showing her around an exclusive new listing—you think the kitchen is something, wait until you see the master bathroom. “She’s pretty special.”
“And with such great style. Look at you and your Mansur Gavriel.” Jesse’s pronunciation is viciously French.
“Brett got this for me,” Layla says. She looks like a little off-duty model with the scuffed bag slouching next to her narrow hips.
And it’s true I did. And it’s also true Kelly tried to make her return it. It was a standoff that lasted nearly a week, with neither Layla nor I speaking much to Kelly, until finally, she spun on me when I asked her curiously why she was only wearing one earring that day. Because I’m fucking tired and sick of being ganged up on by the two of you. She can fucking keep the poorest-made fucking five-hundred-dollar bag I’ve ever seen in my life. It has fucking scratches everywhere!
It’s supposed to scratch and wear and look used and cool, but I thought better of telling her that in the moment. The only way to let Kelly calm down is to let her spin out.
“It’s going to look great on TV,” Jesse says.
My niece and my sister also lose the ability to speak as they turn over Jesse’s statement, to be sure they understand. “Wait?” Layla grins. She has a Lauren Hutton gap in her front teeth, just enough to give her angelic face some character. “You mean, like, I’d be on the show?”
“Would you like that?” Jesse asks.
Layla blinks at Jesse for a few seconds. Then she hoots so loudly a dog barks somewhere down the street.
Kelly shushes her, laughing. “But really, just like that?”