Honey Girl

by Morgan Rogers

  The crowd laughs, and Mom reaches out to grab her hand. Grace blinks and squeezes back.

  “I have learned that she is capable of many mistakes and is not without flaws. My mother is not perfect,” she says, voice trembling. “But she is also capable of great love and understanding.”

  Grace glances over to Ximena and Agnes, her anchors. Focus on one thing, and she focuses on a piece of her family, her chosen family, that settles her and makes the spinning stop.

  “I have learned that she is a part of a wonderful community. It is full of people who want to help, and do good, and feed others, as is their path in life. They grow so they can feed. They wake up at sunrise, so they can pick the fruits of their labor, and deliver them with gentle hands to those who need it most.”

  Mom ducks her head, and Kelly gives Grace another smile. She thought she would have regrets, standing up here, but she feels hopeful. For love, for their future.

  She looks out at the crowd again. There are familiar faces everywhere. Grace squints into the sun, toward the back of the tent, and her breath catches at the person looking back at her. She would recognize that uniform anywhere. Colonel raises his eyebrows and tilts his head. Well, he seems to say. Are you going to let this trip you up?

  It won’t. She is a Porter, and she said she would officiate this wedding. She said she would marry Mom and Kelly, so she will.

  “We are gathered here today,” she says, voice loud and clear, “to unite two people who have found love in our strange, chaotic world. Kelly,” she says, turning toward the man who will soon officially be her stepdad, “you are kind and patient and wise. Most importantly, you always cook so much food, and it’s seasoned. Incredible.”

  There is warm laughter, and he looks pleased. Grace sobers and grips her paper tightly, even though she has given up on reading from it. “Thank you for taking care of Mom,” she says softly. “If I have to respect and live with a white man, I couldn’t imagine a better one than you.”

  He does laugh then, loud and long. He pulls Grace into a tight hug. She doesn’t feel uncomfortable like she did the first time she saw him, approaching her at the airport. She feels familiarity and comfort—he’s someone who will look out for her. He lets go, and she has to wipe her eyes quickly before she continues.

  “Mom,” she says. Mom grips her hand so tight it hurts. Grace doesn’t let go. “You are trying, and I am trying. I am so grateful to share this day with you, and I am so glad you found someone to make you happy.”

  Mom pulls Grace in, too. It’s a different hug than the one shared with Kelly. This hug says, I’m sorry. This hug says, I am here. This hug says, I am trying and you are trying. This hug says, Nobody will be left behind.

  “No one makes me as happy as you, kid,” she whispers fiercely. “No one could ever compare to you.” Grace closes her eyes, and for a moment focuses on this one thing: the smell of Mom’s perfume and her trembling arms and the way she holds on like a promise. I will not let go again. Grace focuses on that one thing, and her brain is quiet. Mom and Kelly share vows that are sincere and genuine and intimate, and her brain is quiet.

  She clears her throat when it is her turn to make this official. “Let’s get you married.” She raises her voice. “Mom,” she says. “Do you take this man to be your husband?”

  Mom turns to face Kelly, glowing like the sun. “I do.”

  “And, Kelly?” she asks. “Do you take this woman to be your wife?”

  His eyes are only for Mom. For him, it is just the two of them. “I do,” he says, sure as anything.

  The I dos echo like a memory, a memory of the same words uttered in a church in the desert. She doesn’t try to push it away. She just lets it be.

  “Melodie Martin,” she says. “Kelly Nichols. I now pronounce you husband and wife.” She lets out a relieved exhale. “You may kiss the bride.”

  The crowd stands and applauds as Mom and Kelly kiss. She looks out, and Ximena meets her eyes. “I love you,” Grace whispers, “so much it hurts.” She feels good seeing all the people from their community brought together for this day. She looks toward the back, and there is Colonel. He catches her eyes. Grace stares back, and she smiles. He doesn’t return it, but his parade rest relaxes just a little bit.

  She’ll take it.

  Miss Darla starts the piano again, and Grace takes in the music. She takes in the happiness. She takes in the fact that she is here with most of her family. She is here, and not lost, spinning between stars and galaxies. Mom and Kelly start to walk down the aisle, and Mom looks back to make sure Grace is following.

  “I’m here,” she says quietly.

  The piano plays the start of another song. It’s about new beginnings. It is honest, and it is love, and it is real. She commits it to memory.

  * * *

  Grace feels like herself again at the reception.

  It’s in a different tent. The ceiling of this one is entwined with gold lights that illuminate the oncoming night. She walks through to see all the people engulfed in gold, to see Mom and Kelly engulfed in gold, and she relaxes. It’s over. She did it.

  She collapses in relief next to Ximena and Agnes seated at a table by the back. Agnes leans on Ximena’s shoulders as she downs a glass of champagne. They sway a little to the music.

  “Hey,” she says. “Hi, I’m so happy to see you.”

  “Hey, hi,” Agnes says. “I’m getting drunk.” Next to her, Ximena nurses what is probably ice water. “Tell her to get drunk with me.”

  “She won’t,” Grace says at the same time Ximena says, “I won’t.”

  They catch eyes, and Ximena glares. Grace grins. “She likes taking care of you too much, Agnes,” she says brightly. “Weird kink, but whatever.” She ducks from the shoe that tries to swat her. “Not la chancleta!”

  “Don’t get comfortable,” Ximena snipes when Grace sits down. “Someone is looking for you.” She gestures toward the other side of the tent, and Grace’s stomach flips before she turns around.

  Colonel, standing stiffly and proudly, watches her.

  “Shit,” she mumbles. “Did you know he was coming?”

  “Yeah,” Ximena says. “He texted me all his flight details, and we even shared a drink at the airport bar. No, of course I didn’t know he was coming.”

  “Maybe he didn’t see me.” Grace stays stock-still. “Is he still looking?”

  “Yep,” Agnes says, starting on Ximena’s glass of champagne. “It’s almost like he recognizes his own daughter. Strange.”

  “Okay.” Grace glowers at the two of them. “I’m going to go talk to Colonel because that is actually better than sitting here being mocked. How do you feel about that?”

  “He’s still looking,” Ximena says. She inspects one of her painted, jeweled nails. Grace stomps off.

  The walk from their corner to where Colonel has planted himself feels like miles. There are a million questions swarming through her head. Mom never mentioned inviting him. Colonel never mentioned coming. Granted, Grace only answers about half his calls, but it’s the principle of the thing. She tries to get ahead and figure out his angle, but he has always been unreadable and two steps ahead.

  She comes to a stop a few steps in front of him and resigns herself to the fact that he has the upper hand.

  “Colonel,” she says, straightening. She meets his eyes, chin tilted up. “I didn’t know you would be here.”

  “Yes,” he says evenly. “I asked your mother to keep it a surprise.”

  “Why?” Grace blurts out, frustrated. “Did you want to trip me up? Were you trying to disarm me or something? I’m not coming back to Portland, not yet,” she says, surprised by her own decisiveness.

  She has seen Colonel in many moods. She has seen him angry and disappointed. She has seen him in pain, near out of his mind lying in a hospital bed. She has seen him scared, convinced the g
hosts of his past would burst through his own front door in the middle of the night.

  She has never seen him surprised. The expression is unfamiliar on his face.

  “Porter,” he says, eyebrows furrowed. “Is it really that far-fetched that I just wanted to see my own daughter and maybe wish an old—” His lips twist, unsure. “Maybe just wish your mother the best?”

  “Maybe,” Grace responds, but she knows, deep in the pit of her belly, it’s unfair. Some days, her brain reshapes Colonel into a villain of her past. Sometimes, it’s easy to believe. It is much harder to believe the person she looked up to as God for so many years is just a man. He is just her father. “I didn’t mean that,” she says. “I’m just a little taken aback.”

  He holds his hand out. She eyes it warily. She cannot think one move ahead, let alone two. She takes it, out of options, and is amazed to be led onto the dance floor.

  “We’re dancing?” she asks, as he positions her arms around his tall, broad shoulders. His arms rest on the side of her waist. It is the closest thing to a hug Grace can remember ever getting from him. “Okay, we’re dancing.”

  “An astute observation,” he murmurs, taking the lead. “Glad to see all your education has paid off.”

  She tenses. She hasn’t told him about her plans for her career, and she certainly won’t do it while he’s looking at her. When she broaches the subject, she would rather not have to see the reaction on his face.

  “Relax,” he says, voice almost, almost apologetic. “I’m not going to ask you about it. Tonight is a night for celebration. It’s a wedding.”

  Her shoulders relax minutely. “But tomorrow is fair game?” she guesses, and one of his eyebrows flicks in answer. “Where are you staying?”

  “Your mother offered me a room in the main house, since they’ll be away on their honeymoon, but I—” He glances at Grace, and for a moment, just a blink, he looks like the man who needed so desperately to leave this place. “I declined,” he finishes, composed once more. They make another turn to the beat, and his voice is low when he says, “Some memories don’t need to be revisited.”

  Grace has been trying on some bravery lately. “My therapist would probably disagree with you,” she uses it to say.

  Colonel shrugs. “Well, it’s a good thing she’s not mine,” and she is struck speechless.

  The song starts to wind down, and she and Colonel slow their dancing. As the next song starts, something faster and upbeat, she pulls away and wraps her arms around herself. “Well.”

  “Let’s have lunch tomorrow,” he says abruptly. “There’s an acceptable place near my hotel. I’ll text you the address. I suspect there are some things you and I should discuss.”

  She swallows hard. “Yes, sir,” she murmurs, staring at the spot over his shoulder so she won’t have to meet his eyes. “I’ll be there.”

  He nods at her, as if unsure how to make his leave. She will make it easy for him.

  “I’ll just—”

  “Grace—”

  She freezes. She holds her breath and watches her father struggle to find words. He always has words, whether they are short and succinct or weighted and heavy. Now, though, he flounders. Grace watches, entranced.

  “You did well today,” he says finally. He’s never been prone to fidgeting, not like Grace, but he rolls his shoulders and clears his throat. “I watched you stand in front of all those people, and in front of your family, and you were every inch the Porter I always knew you were. I was—proud.”

  She lets out a stumbling, disbelieving laugh. “Thank you,” she manages. “I—”

  “Yes,” he says quickly, cutting her off. He clears his throat again and takes a step back. “I’ll greet the newlyweds and then take my leave. Give my regards to Ximena and Agnes, yes? I’ll see you for lunch tomorrow. Be on time.”

  “Yes, sir,” she says, arms clenched around her waist like she’s trying to hold everything in. “I’ll be there.”

  He inclines his head, and then he is gone.

  Grace doesn’t remember the walk back to the table. Ximena and Agnes move so she can take the space between them. They flank her on both sides.

  “That bad?” Ximena murmurs. She holds up a glass of champagne and a small water bottle. “How are we feeling?”

  “Water, please,” Grace says. “It wasn’t that bad, actually. Maybe that wasn’t Colonel at all. It was probably a clone.” She closes her eyes. “Well, mystery solved.”

  Agnes snorts and leans on her. “Great job, Nancy Drew,” she says.

  “I’m Bess,” Ximena says immediately. “You’re George.”

  Agnes shrugs. The champagne has made her languid and agreeable. “I always knew George was gay. The many Carolyn Keenes can’t fool me. And don’t get me started on The Baby-Sitters Club.”

  “Don’t get started on The Baby-Sitters Club,” Grace and Ximena both plead. Agnes sticks her tongue out and slouches back down. Grace takes her hand in consolation, and it’s a testament to how peaceful Agnes is feeling that she doesn’t pull away.

  Grace lets the world spin around her. She can see Mom and Kelly holding court at the elaborate sweetheart table set up for them. Mom is smiling and glowing, bright and gleaming. Kelly watches like the sun rises and sets on her command.

  The buffet smells like Caribbean food. Old Maria and her sister cooked for almost a week leading up to this. Grace’s stomach grumbles at the smell of curry and brown stew and the buttery scent of roti.

  People are dancing and laughing and the room fills with love. There is so much love spilling out from this tent. Grace feels it on both sides of her, between her two closest friends, who press close and do not let her go. There is a small, hollow ache, somewhere deep inside her, but she is learning that she is made up of many small, hollow aches. She will continue the process of exploring them, one by one.

  Ximena’s phone lights up and she makes a choked, surprised noise. “Shit,” she says. “I forgot your mom asked me to bring in the other case of champagne ten minutes ago.”

  Grace tilts her head. “Did you set an alarm for it?” she asks, leaning over her shoulder. “You’re turning into me.”

  “I like to be prepared,” Ximena says primly, getting up. “I’ll be right back.”

  Grace shakes her head. “No, I’ll get it,” she says quietly. “I could use some air anyway. All this carefree happiness is more than I can bear. Where is it?”

  Ximena glances at her phone. “On the front deck. Tucked in the corner closest to that cherry blossom tree.”

  Grace nods and starts to untangle herself. “Got it, boss. I’ll be right back.”

  “I can go,” Agnes says. She fluffs up her hair under her pink beret. “It’ll give me a chance to show off my outfit.”

  Ximena stares at her. “Porter is going,” she says carefully.

  Agnes crosses her arms and tilts her head like a challenge. “Porter had a long day,” she says. “I think she should stay here.”

  “Believe me,” Ximena mutters fiercely, “you’ve made it quite clear what you think.”

  “Then maybe you should—”

  “Okay,” Grace cuts in. “I’m going to go get the champagne, so you two can have this—is this a lovers’ spat? Is this foreplay? I’m flattered that you would involve me, but—” she leans down to kiss Agnes’s cheek, then Ximena’s “—maybe another night. Be right back.”

  She feels their eyes on her as she disappears into the crowd.

  Outside the tent, the world becomes quieter. She shivers as a night breeze rolls in and blows through the grove trees. Hello again, Grace Porter, the crinkle of the leaves says.

  “Hello,” she whispers back.

  She makes her way through the dimly lit path toward the main house. The porch lights are on, and the same gold string lights from the tents are twined down the railings. She stops to
admire them. Everything looks gold kissed. If there is any truth to the story of the sun favoring her at birth, tonight she could believe it.

  On the porch, there’s the box of champagne, already loaded on a cart ready to be wheeled out. She grunts with the weight and starts the annoying job of getting it down the steps.

  She turns around, trying to decipher the probability of dropping the whole thing, when she realizes there is a light coming from the groves. A flashlight or something. There is someone out there.

  “Shit,” she says. She sighs and stares up at the sky. “I am way too Black for this.”

  She waits and watches, but the light does not dim. “Okay,” she says. She opens the case of champagne and pulls out a bottle. “We’re going to ‘white girl in a horror movie’ this shit.” She carries the bottle out like a baseball bat for protection.

  With the bottle in hand, she moves quietly through the trees. These paths are familiar to her. Whoever is out there does not know these groves like she does. Grace gets close to the mysterious light and holds her bottle out. Whoever this is doesn’t stand a chance.

  “Who the hell—” She stops, the bottle coming just shy of the person in front of her. “Yuki?”

  Yuki turns around. Her black hair gleams in the light. Her half-moon silver piercings glint. Flowers bloom, her very own cherry blossoms, from the exposed parts of her skin. “Are you going to kill me with that, or can we open it?” she asks.

  Grace tries to recover from her shaking adrenaline. “What are you doing here?”

  Yuki shrugs. She looks very small out here. “I don’t know,” she admits. “I heard there was a lonely creature lurking in these orange groves. I wanted to see for myself.” She looks intently at Grace. “And I heard from some friends of yours that there was a wedding.”