Damaged Petals.

[Soapy]

Season 11, Episode 3
The bowl was still wet.

Serena picked it up from the drying rack, turned it over, and ran her thumb along the rim. A smear of oatmeal stuck to the inside, dried and flaking. She set it back in the sink and turned on the hot water.

The kitchen was quiet. Brice’s protein shaker sat on the counter next to the blender, the lid half-screwed on, a ring of chalky residue around the mouth. She unscrewed it, rinsed it, scrubbed it with the sponge, and set it upside down on the rack. The bowl went next. She wiped down the counter where he’d left a trail of granola crumbs, swept them into her palm, and dropped them in the trash.

She pulled the eggs from the fridge, the bacon from the drawer, the bread from the bag on top of the microwave. The toaster clicked twice before the bread dropped. She cracked two eggs into the pan and watched the whites spread, then pulled the bacon from the package and laid three strips in the other pan. The grease popped. She stepped back.

The toast came up. She buttered it, set it on the plate, flipped the eggs, flipped the bacon, and pulled both pans off the heat. She ate standing at the counter, one hand on her hip, the other working the fork. The yolk ran. She sopped it up with the last piece of toast.

She washed the pan, the plate, the fork. Dried them. Put them away.

The freezer door stuck when she pulled it. She yanked it again and the seal broke with a pop. The chicken breasts were in the back, wrapped in butcher paper, three of them. She set them on the counter to thaw and closed the freezer.

The laptop was on the couch where she’d left it last night. She carried it to the table and opened it. The blinds were still drawn from the evening before. She pulled the cord and they rattled up. The view was the backyard, the fence, the neighbor’s roof, a sliver of sky. Not the beach. She couldn’t see the beach from here. She walked to the window over the sink and cracked it open an inch. The air came in cool and beneath it, faint, the sound of waves.

She sat down at the table. Rolled her neck left, then right. She opened the browser and clicked the Canvas bookmark.

The page loaded. The little wheel spun. She looked at the time in the corner of the screen. 6:57.

Three videos. Engineering Economics. Each one about forty-five minutes. She’d been putting off the second one since Monday. The quiz in Ethics was due Friday. The mock proposal, ten days. She still hadn’t picked a project for the capstone seminar. The list of options sat in her bookmarks, unopened.

She leaned back in the chair. Work until noon. Break. Walk. Two more hours. Then the beach. Maybe Target. Home by five to start dinner.

She took a breath. Clicked play.

…

Tom sat with his legs stretched into the aisle, his phone balanced on his knee, thumb scrolling through emails he’d already read. The folding chair was too small for him. His knees pressed against the back of the seat in front of him, which was empty. The row was mostly empty. It was still early.

Liz sat two seats to his left. She had her phone in her lap, screen dark, her thumb resting on the case. She was watching the stage. The current team was wrapping up their opening statements.

Tom closed his email and opened his calendar. Thursday. Friday. Saturday. He scrolled back to Monday, then forward again. He closed the calendar and opened his texts. Nothing new. He locked the phone and set it on his thigh.

"That’s Dickinson, right?"

Liz glanced at him and nodded.

She turned back to the stage. The boys were finishing. The moderator, a woman in a gray blazer, held up a hand.

Tom picked up his phone again. Opened it. Closed it.

“How’s work?” he asked.

“It’s alright."

The moderator called for the rebuttal period. The other team stood, two girls, both in navy, both calm. They arranged their notecards on the podium.

“Sophie’s up after this one,” Liz said.

Tom nodded. He crossed his arms, then uncrossed them. The folding chair creaked.

“How’s Britney?” Liz asked.

Tom kept his eyes on the stage.

“She’s in Indy until Thursday.”

“Mm.”

The girl at the podium was speaking clearly, her voice carrying to the back row. Tom watched her for a moment, then looked at the program on his knee.

"Spoke to Brice?"

She nodded.

“How’s he doing? We keep missing each other with the time zone and stuff."

“He’s fine.”

“Good.”

The girl finished her rebuttal. Her partner stepped forward. Tom shifted in his seat. The metal frame dug into his back.

“So, I was thinking."

She turned her head toward him, not fully, just enough.

“I’d like to take James up to the lake. Make a weekend out of it."

She looked at him. Her mouth did something, not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. A small sound came out, quiet, almost a laugh but not quite that either. She turned back to the stage.

The second girl was still talking. The moderator was checking her watch. Tom sat with the silence. It sat with him too.

He picked up his phone. Opened it. Closed it. Set it back on his thigh.

…

Serena pulled the cart from the stack and pushed it past the registers, past the Starbucks. The wheels caught on a tile seam and she jerked it free.

She stopped in the grocery aisle and looked at the shelves. She picked up a bag of jasmine rice, turned it over, set it back. She picked up a bag of red potatoes, set it back.

She pushed the cart further down the aisle. Pasta. Quinoa. She picked up a box of couscous, read the back, put it down. Some kind of grain salad, maybe. She could do a grain salad. She kept walking.

Another section opened up on her left. Pastel colors, soft lighting, a display of onesies arranged by size. She glanced at it and kept pushing the cart. Then she glanced again.

She turned the cart left.

The aisle was wide and quiet. A woman was at the far end with a stroller, talking on her phone. Serena stopped in front of a rack of sleepers. She pulled one off the hanger. It was pale yellow, size 1T, with little ducks printed across the chest. She held it up, turned it over, checked the seams, looked at the tag. She hung it back on the rack.

She moved to the next rack. Bodysuits. She picked up a white one with tiny blue stars. She held it against her forearm, feeling the cotton. She set it back.

The next one was gray, with a small bear embroidered on the chest. She turned it in her hands. She folded it and set it in the cart.

She moved to the next display. A table of bibs. She picked up a green one with a dinosaur pattern. She set it back. She picked up a striped one, held it, set it back. She picked up a plain white one and put it in the cart.

The next aisle was blankets. She stopped and ran her hand over a stack of blankets. She picked up the top one, a light blue, and unfolded it. It was thin, almost gauzy. She refolded it and set it back. She picked up a thicker one, cream-colored. She folded it and set it in the cart.

She was at the back of the section now, near the diapers. She turned around and walked back the way she’d come, slower this time, looking at the things she’d already passed. She stopped at a rack of footed pajamas. She pulled one down. It was striped, green and white, size 2T. She held it up, checked the zipper, checked the snaps at the ankles. She put it in the cart.

The woman with the stroller was gone. The aisle was empty.

…

James was in her lap, his face filling the screen, his mouth open in a wide, wet smile. He babbled something, a string of sounds that weren’t words, and reached for the phone. His fingers pressed against the camera and the image went blurry.

“Hey, buddy,” Brice said. He leaned back in the chair and let his shoulders drop.

James pulled his hand away and the image cleared.

“He just woke up from his nap,” Liz said. Her voice came through the speaker, steady and warm. “He was a little cranky until I told him it was Dadda time."

Brice smiled.

“How’s your day going?” she asked.

"It’s alright," Brice cleared his throat, "Done with throwing, got about an hour of film left and then I’m heading home. You?"

James babbled again, louder this time, and slapped the table. Something clattered off-screen.

“Easy,” Liz said, and her hand appeared, steadying a cup. She looked back at the camera. “All good here. How’s the shoulder?”

“It’s fine.”

"We need better than fine, Brice. No point in beating yourself up to get ready for these workouts if you’re going to be hurt in them. You need to be fresh."

"There’s like literal scientists behind this, Mom," Brice laughed, "They know what they’re doing."

She held his gaze through the screen for a beat. Then she nodded.

“How was Sophie’s thing?” he asked.

“She did well. Third place.”

“Wow, I wish I was graded on that curve."

"Brice."

"Kidding, kidding. That’s dope. How she’s liking it?"

"You know Soph," Liz shrugged, "It’ll look good on her college application. Beyond that, I don’t know."

James grabbed the phone again. The screen went dark, then light, then dark. Brice could hear Liz laughing, could hear James making his sounds, the high-pitched babble that didn’t mean anything and meant everything.

“James, give me the phone. James. Give it.”

The image steadied. Liz had the phone again. James was squirming in her lap, reaching.

"I wonder who he got that from," Liz said.

Brice laughed.

The door behind him opened. Brice heard it, the creak of the hinge, the sound of footsteps on the concrete floor. He glanced over his shoulder. Slade was walking back in, still chewing on whatever he was eating. He didn’t look at Brice. He walked to his chair and sat down, still chewing, and pulled the iPad onto his lap.

“I gotta go,” Brice said. He turned back to the screen. “I’ll call you tonight."

“Alright.”

“Love you, buddy.” He held the phone closer to his face. James was looking at something off-screen, distracted now. “James. Hey. Love you.”

James looked back at the camera. His mouth opened. “Da.”

“Love you, Mom.”

“Love you, Brice.”

He ended the call. The screen went black, then to his home screen. He set the phone face-down on the arm of the chair and turned toward Slade.

Slade had the film pulled up. The same frame. Third-and-eight. Michigan State. The safety creeping.

Brice leaned forward. His elbows went to his knees. His eyes found the screen.

Slade pressed play.

[Caesar]

Serena picked it up from the drying rack, turned it over, and ran her thumb along the rim. A smear of oatmeal stuck to the inside, dried and flaking. She set it back in the sink and turned on the hot water.

The kitchen was quiet. Brice’s protein shaker sat on the counter next to the blender, the lid half-screwed on, a ring of chalky residue around the mouth. She unscrewed it, rinsed it, scrubbed it with the sponge, and set it upside down on the rack. The bowl went next. She wiped down the counter where he’d left a trail of granola crumbs, swept them into her palm, and dropped them in the trash.

Home by five to start dinner.

Serena gonna be played by Viola Davis in the biopic at this rate.

Tom doesn't know what's going on with Brice but he's calling Liz multiple times a day? Color me surprised that this weirdo would pick mommy over pops. Oedipus pointing at this from the afterlife.

[Captain Canada]

What is Serena's ambition at this point? She really just waiting for that ring and to get her clubs shot up at this point

[redsox907]

The freezer door stuck when she pulled it. She yanked it again and the seal broke with a pop. The chicken breasts were in the back, wrapped in butcher paper, three of them. She set them on the counter to thaw and closed the freezer.

bihh gonna kill errybody. You can't leave chicken on the counter to thaw

Tom doesn't know what's going on with Brice but he's calling Liz multiple times a day? Color me surprised that this weirdo would pick mommy over pops. Oedipus pointing at this from the afterlife.

Liz always been the one he talked to, because him and Tom don't talk about anything except football. And Liz has the baby lol

Tom sounds to me like a guy who thought he wanted freedom until he got freedom and now wishes he didn't have freedom, naw mean

[Soapy]

Serena picked it up from the drying rack, turned it over, and ran her thumb along the rim. A smear of oatmeal stuck to the inside, dried and flaking. She set it back in the sink and turned on the hot water.

The kitchen was quiet. Brice’s protein shaker sat on the counter next to the blender, the lid half-screwed on, a ring of chalky residue around the mouth. She unscrewed it, rinsed it, scrubbed it with the sponge, and set it upside down on the rack. The bowl went next. She wiped down the counter where he’d left a trail of granola crumbs, swept them into her palm, and dropped them in the trash.

Home by five to start dinner.

Serena gonna be played by Viola Davis in the biopic at this rate.

Tom doesn't know what's going on with Brice but he's calling Liz multiple times a day? Color me surprised that this weirdo would pick mommy over pops. Oedipus pointing at this from the afterlife.

She doing what a partner in that situation supposed to do

Like Redsox said, Liz has the baby so by default, he's going to be calling her more

What is Serena's ambition at this point? She really just waiting for that ring and to get her clubs shot up at this point

https://www.spotrac.com/nfl/player/_/id ... ck-mahomes

https://www.spotrac.com/nfl/player/_/id ... josh-allen

https://www.spotrac.com/nfl/player/_/id ... joe-burrow

The freezer door stuck when she pulled it. She yanked it again and the seal broke with a pop. The chicken breasts were in the back, wrapped in butcher paper, three of them. She set them on the counter to thaw and closed the freezer.

bihh gonna kill errybody. You can't leave chicken on the counter to thaw

Tom doesn't know what's going on with Brice but he's calling Liz multiple times a day? Color me surprised that this weirdo would pick mommy over pops. Oedipus pointing at this from the afterlife.

Liz always been the one he talked to, because him and Tom don't talk about anything except football. And Liz has the baby lol

Tom sounds to me like a guy who thought he wanted freedom until he got freedom and now wishes he didn't have freedom, naw mean

We thaw our chicken outside the fridge, cuh. Two Americas

[Soapy]

Season 11, Episode 4
The parking spot was three rows from the entrance.

Liz scrolled.

The phone was warm against her palm. She’d been holding it too long. She shifted it to her left hand and flexed her right, the joints stiff from the cold, and went back to scrolling. An automated email from the school district. A text from Sophie. She tapped the like reaction button and kept going.

She glanced up.

The windshield was clear. The defroster had been running since she pulled in, and the glass had gone from fogged to dry in the time it took her to park. She could see the entrance now, the sliding doors, the people going in and out. A woman with a cart. A man in a ball cap. A teenager on his phone, not looking where he was walking.

She glanced back.

James was in the rear-facing seat behind her, the tablet propped on the tray attachment, the screen showing some animated thing with bright colors and a repetitive jingle she could hear faintly through the speakers. His hands were on the tray, his fingers tapping the surface in no particular rhythm. He was quiet. He’d been quiet since they left the house.

She scrolled.

Another email. The mortgage statement. She opened it, scanned the numbers, closed it. A notification from the pharmacy about a refill. She tapped it, confirmed, set the phone in her lap.

She glanced up.

The doors slid open. A woman came out pushing a stroller, a toddler in the seat, a grocery bag hanging from the handle. The woman walked toward a silver SUV two rows over. Liz watched her load the bag into the back, then lift the toddler out of the stroller and into a car seat. The woman folded the stroller one-handed, the way you learn to do, and slid it into the trunk.

Liz looked back at her phone.

A text from Tom. She left it unanswered.

She looked through the windshield.

The doors slid open. A couple was walking in. The man was pushing the cart, the woman walking beside him. They were both wearing coats, both moving slowly.

Liz set the phone down and opened the door.

The cold hit her face. She grabbed the phone from the passenger seat, slipped it into her coat pocket, and stepped out. The door closed behind her with a solid click. She walked around to the back of the car and opened the trunk. The stroller was folded against the side, the frame cold under her fingers. She pulled it out, set it on the ground, and pressed the release. It snapped open. She locked the wheels.

She opened the rear door.

James looked up from the tablet.

“Hey, buddy,” she said. She reached in and unbuckled the chest clip, then the waist buckle. The straps fell loose. She lifted him out, one hand under his bottom, the other supporting his back, and he settled against her chest, warm and solid. She grabbed the tablet from the tray and tucked it under her arm.

She closed the door.

She set James in the stroller and strapped him in. He looked up at her, his hands already reaching for the tablet. She handed it to him and he held it against his chest, the screen still playing, the jingle still going.

She locked the car.

She pushed the stroller toward the entrance, the wheels rolling smoothly over the asphalt, and the automatic doors slid open as she approached. The warm air from inside hit her face. She pushed through.

The doors closed behind her.

…

Brice sat in the armchair by the window, the one that faced the stadium. The building sat across the street, its roof a dull gray under the mid-morning sky, the windows along the facade reflecting nothing. He could see the flags on the poles out front, the parking lot, the steady stream of cars moving along Capitol Avenue. A bus passed. Then a truck.

The room behind him had been rearranged. The coffee table was pushed against the wall, covered with binders and laptops and a stack of printed schedules. A whiteboard leaned against the far wall, propped on the baseboard, with names and times written in blue marker.

Ilyssa was at the table, her laptop open, her phone face-up next to it. She was typing something, her fingers moving fast, then stopping, then moving again. She wore a blazer over a white shirt, her hair pulled back, the same way she always wore it.

Tommy was next to her, standing, holding a printed sheet. He was reading it, his lips moving slightly, and Sarah was beside him, looking at the same sheet over his shoulder.

Langston was by the door. He had his arms crossed and he was looking at his phone. Stellan was on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, scrolling through something on an iPad. Brice still didn’t know what they did. They’d been in the room since he walked in. They were always in the room.

Rowan stood in front of the whiteboard with a marker in his hand. He’d drawn a line down the middle and written TEAM on the left and TIME on the right. The list was long.

“Alright,” Rowan said. He capped the marker and set it on the whiteboard’s ledge. He turned to face the room. “

Brice kept his eyes on the stadium.

“I think we all know what today is about.” Rowan picked up a binder from the folding table and opened it. “I’ve arranged it like a sandwich.”

Brice turned his head.

“Bread on the outside,” Rowan said. He held up two fingers on his left hand. “Washington, first pick. They’ve got their guy. They’re not taking a quarterback.” He held up two fingers on his right hand. “Arizona and the Giants to wrap up the morning. They’re doing their due diligence, checking boxes but likely not a spot for us. This is a good opportunity for us to warm up, get comfortable, get the rhythm going with these interviews in a low pressure environment."

He set the binder down and picked up the schedule.

“The meat is in the middle.” He tapped the paper. “Jets. Third pick. Chiefs, twelfth. Colts, twenty-third. This is what today is all about."

Brice nodded.

"We know the Jets are interested. Chiefs need a quarterback. Colts, we know what that situation is. This isn’t the end all be all but it is the first impression. You know what they say about those."

Brice kept nodding.

"We’ll get more face time with these teams at the Pro Day, they’re almost guaranteed to schedule a top 30 with us so today is all about making the right impression, answering the questions they’ve got and leave them wanting more. They’ve only got fifteen minutes so they’re going to try to elicit a reaction out of you within those fifteen minutes."

Brice nodded again.

“Steelers and Dolphins wrap it up. Again, likely not options for us. You’ll be tired of talking anyway but we still want to put a good step forward, you never know. The GM of one of these teams might end up being the one that makes you an extremely rich man on your second contract."

Rowan set the schedule down and looked at Brice.

“Questions?”

Brice shook his head.

“Good.” Rowan picked up a folder from the table and handed it to Ilyssa, who took it without looking up from her laptop. “You ready to be the first quarterback off the board?”

…

Liz pushed the stroller past the bananas, past the avocados, past the display of citrus stacked in pyramids. James had the tablet tilted on his lap, the volume low enough that she could hear the wheels of the stroller on the tile.

She stopped at the tomatoes. She picked one up, turned it in her hand, set it back. She moved to the next display. The peppers were arranged by color. She looked at them and kept walking.

The dairy aisle was cold. She pushed through it without stopping, past the milk, past the yogurt, past the butter. The wheels of the stroller caught on a tile seam and she corrected without breaking stride. James made a sound and she glanced down. He was still watching the tablet. She kept going.

The cereal aisle opened up on her left. She turned in. The shelves were tall and full, boxes stacked on boxes, colors everywhere. She stopped in front of the granola section and looked at the labels. Oats, honey, almonds. She picked up a box, read the back, set it back. She picked up another. Set it back. She pushed the stroller further down the aisle.

The pasta section. She didn’t pick anything up. She kept moving.

The baking aisle. Flour, sugar, chocolate chips. She walked through it.

The canned goods. She turned the corner and stopped.

Greg and Diane Hayes were at the end of the aisle, Greg pushing the cart, Diane walking beside him. They were moving slowly, looking at the shelves, not talking to each other.

Liz’s hand tightened on the stroller handle. She pushed forward.

“Oh, wow,” she said. She smiled. “Nice to see you guys.”

They both looked up. Greg’s hand paused on the cart. Diane’s mouth twitched just a bit. Her eyes moved from Liz to the stroller, to James, then back to Liz.

“Liz,” Diane said.

Greg nodded. “Hey.”

Liz stepped forward and opened her arms. Diane stepped into the hug, her body stiff, her arms going around Liz’s shoulders for a beat before pulling back. Greg leaned in next, one arm, a quick pat on the back.

“How are you?” Liz asked. She kept her voice bright. “It’s been a while.”

“We’re good,” Diane said. She adjusted her purse strap.

“Good,” Liz said. She looked down at the stroller. James was looking up at the adults, his mouth slightly open, the tablet forgotten in his lap. “James, say hi to Grandma and Grandpa Hayes.”

James looked at them. He didn’t say anything.

Diane looked at James for a moment, then away.

Liz cleared her throat, "You know, you guys should come over. Whenever you’re free. James is going to be in town for the next couple of weeks while Brice is traveling all over for the draft stuff. We’d love to have you guys."

Diane’s mouth tightened. She glanced at Greg.

“He’s actually in Indy right now,” Liz said. “For the Combine. The NFL Combine."

Greg nodded. He looked at the shelf behind Liz, at the canned tomatoes, then back at the cart.

“Good for him,” Diane said. She pulled her coat tighter. “We should get going."

“Of course,” Liz said. She kept the smile on her face. “Just let me know. The door’s always open.”

Diane nodded. Greg put his hand back on the cart.

“Take care,” Diane said.

“You too.”

…

Connie stood at the shared computer on the first floor, her backpack hanging off one shoulder, her coat still on. She’d come in through the side entrance, past the circulation desk, past the rows of study carrels where students were hunched over laptops with their headphones in. She hadn’t bothered to sit down.

The screen showed her paper. Twelve pages. Legal Writing and Research, Professor Callahan. The cursor blinked at the end of the last sentence. She scrolled up.

She read the first paragraph quickly. The second. The third. Her eyes moved down the page, catching phrases, checking transitions, making sure the citations were in the right format. She scrolled to the middle. Read a few lines. Scrolled to the end. Read the conclusion. It held.

She moved the cursor to the submit button.

She clicked.

The page loaded. A green checkmark appeared. Submission successful.

She closed the browser, logged out and stepped back from the computer. Her shoulders dropped half an inch. She pulled her phone from her coat pocket and checked the time.

Fifteen minutes.

She turned and walked toward the exit, her backpack bouncing against her hip. The cold hit her face as she pushed through the doors, and she pulled her coat tighter, tucking her chin into the collar. The quad was gray and empty, the trees bare, the sky flat. She crossed the path toward the student center, her boots quick on the concrete.

Au Bon Pain was on the first floor, past the bookstore, past the coffee stand. She could see the line from the entrance. Five people.

She stopped. She could grab something from the vending machine outside her next class. A granola bar. A bag of chips. Or she could eat after, grab something on the way home,

She looked at the line again.

The clerk behind the counter looked up. He was mocha skin, maybe five-ten, skinny, his curly hair catching the overhead light.

He caught her eye and smiled.

She smiled back.

She stepped into line.

…

Serena set her fork down and reached for her water glass. The turkey neck was good. She hadn’t had it in a while.

“So,” Daphne said between bites. “How’s California treating you?”

Serena took a sip of water. “I love it. I’m lowkey kind of jealous that none of the LA teams are in the picture because I could definitely get used to it.”

“Really?” Devin looked up from his plate, "California always seemed a little…off to me."

"I get that," Serena nodded, "But the weather is amazing. Especially right now. And the beach is like ten minutes from our place. I can literally walk there."

“That sounds nice,” Daphne said.

“It is. It’s laid back out there. Like, even more laid back than Lafayette, which I didn’t think was possible. People aren’t in a rush. Nobody’s stressed about anything. It’s just... easy.”

Devin set his fork down. “And school? How’s that going?"

Serena picked up her fork again. She speared a piece of asparagus. “It’s good. I kind of wish I had done online classes before. I can go at my own pace. If I’m feeling it, I can knock out a whole week’s worth of videos in one day. Make my own schedule."

“That’s good,” Daphne said. She was nodding, but her eyes stayed on Serena a beat longer.

Devin picked up his fork again. He ate the piece of turkey he’d been holding. He chewed. He didn’t say anything.

The silence sat there for a moment. Serena took another bite of rice.

Daphne set her fork down. She wiped her mouth with her napkin and folded it in her lap. She looked at Serena.

“What is it you want in life, Rena? With this boy, with school, with everything?”

Serena laughed. It came out quick, a short sound. She shook her head and reached for her water glass again.

“Mom.”

“I know, I know, I’m just asking. This is a big moment in your life, baby.”

Serena set the glass down. She looked at her plate. The meat was almost gone. The remaining asparagus were arranged in a neat row along the edge. She pushed one of the pieces with her fork.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I think we’re just taking it day by day, going with the flow. It just works with us. I know it doesn’t sound like in the movies or what you guys might have wanted or even what I might have wanted at one point, and lord knows we haven’t always been perfect for each other, but it works.”

Daphne nodded. “He seems like a good kid. All things considered.”

Devin was quiet. He was cutting into another piece of turkey neck, his knife scraping against the plate. He didn’t look up.

Serena looked at her father. She waited. He kept cutting.

“I do want to finish my degree,” she said. She turned back to her mother. “Obviously. I’ve got the capstone project in the fall and that’s in person. But I want to be there for Brice right now. This is a pivotal time for him."

Daphne reached across the table and put her hand on Serena’s. Her fingers were warm.

“Just don’t lose yourself in the process of helping him reach his dreams.”

“I won’t,” Serena said.

Daphne squeezed her hand once and let go. She picked up her fork.

Devin set his knife down. He looked at Serena.

“You’re smart, Rena. You’ve always been smart. Smarter than most of the people in any room you walk into.” He paused. “Don’t forget that.”

“I know, Dad.”

He nodded. He picked up his fork and went back to eating.

[Caesar]

Chiefs need a QB? What happened to Patty? So they gonna flip from Black-white couple to white-Black couple under center, eh? Quarterback's gonna be MAGA instead of his wife (recognizing that MAGA is likely over by this point).

The Hayes need to put something hot in Li—

Serena en route to ending up a statistic. FBI - Table 43A, Column 2, Row 1, Row 4 and/or Row 20