Open Invitation
"She's hosted him for dinners since high school. Now he's back from college and she's newly divorced. The guest room has never felt so charged."
Mrs. Patterson's house always smelled like cinnamon.
That's what I remember from high school—showing up at Danny's place after practice, and his mom would be in the kitchen baking something. Snickerdoodles. Apple pie. Cinnamon rolls on Saturday mornings when I'd stayed over.
"Jamal, baby, you hungry?" she'd ask, even though she already knew the answer.
I was always hungry. She always fed me.
That was eight years ago. Danny moved to Seattle after graduation. His parents divorced last year. And me—I'm back in town for the summer, subletting an apartment while I figure out my life.
I shouldn't be here.
But when I drove past the house and saw her garden, something pulled me to stop.
She answers the door in a flowing caftan, silver streaking through her natural hair, and for a moment I forget how to speak.
Mrs. Patterson—Carol, she insists now—has always been a big woman. But time has settled into her like wine into oak. She's softer now, rounder, her curves more pronounced beneath the thin fabric. Her face has new lines, but they only make her more beautiful.
"Jamal?" Her eyes go wide. "Jamal Thompson?"
"Hey, Mrs. P."
"Boy, get in here." She pulls me into a hug, and I'm enveloped in softness and warmth and that same cinnamon scent. "Let me look at you."
She holds me at arm's length, inspecting. I'm not the skinny kid who used to raid her refrigerator. Four years of college basketball filled me out.
"Look at you," she says softly. "All grown up."
"You look good too, Mrs. P."
"Carol," she corrects. "And you're a liar, but a sweet one." She pulls me toward the kitchen. "Have you eaten? I was just about to make lunch."
Some things never change.
The kitchen is the same, but different. The walls are a new color. The photos on the fridge are fewer—Danny alone now, no more family portraits. The absence of Mr. Patterson hangs unspoken in the air.
"So," she says, sliding a sandwich across the counter. "Tell me everything. Where have you been? What are you doing? Danny said you finished your master's?"
I tell her about grad school, about the job market, about moving back home to save money while I figure out my next step. She listens like she always did—fully present, asking questions, remembering details.
"And you?" I ask eventually. "How are you doing? With everything?"
Her smile flickers. "Oh, you know. One day at a time." She busies herself wiping a counter that's already clean. "The divorce was... necessary. Twenty-three years is a long time to pretend."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I'm not." She looks at me, something honest in her eyes. "I'm learning who I am again. It's terrifying and wonderful all at once."
I stay for three hours. We talk about everything—Danny's life in Seattle, her job at the community center, my uncertainty about the future, her rediscovered love of gardening.
At the door, she hugs me again.
"Don't be a stranger, okay? The guest room is always open if you need it. The invitation never expired."
"I might take you up on that."
"I hope you do."
Driving home, I can't stop thinking about the way she looked at me when she said it.
Two Weeks Later
My sublease falls through.
The landlord had some issue with paperwork, and suddenly I'm facing a month without housing. I could go home to my parents, but my mother's new husband and I don't mix well.
I think about Carol's offer for three days before I call.
"Jamal, of course. Get over here." No hesitation. "The guest room is already made up."
I pack a bag and drive over, telling myself it's just temporary. Just until I figure something else out.
The guest room is the same one Danny and I used to crash in after late nights gaming. Same blue walls. Same plaid comforter. But now it feels different.
Everything feels different.
Carol makes dinner that first night—her famous pot roast, the one I used to dream about in my dorm room. We eat at the kitchen table like I'm sixteen again, except I'm not.
I'm twenty-three. She's forty-five.
And I can't stop noticing things.
The way her caftan slips off one shoulder when she reaches for the salt. The deep cleavage visible when she leans forward. The way she laughs, full and real, making her whole body shake.
"What?" she asks, catching me staring.
"Nothing. Just—it's nice. Being here."
She smiles, soft and warm. "It's nice having you here."
Week One
We fall into a routine.
Mornings, she's up before me, coffee already brewing. We drink it together on the back porch, watching the garden wake up. Evenings, we take turns cooking, trading recipes like secrets.
She tells me about her marriage—how Richard became distant, then cold, then gone. How she'd spent two decades shrinking herself to fit his expectations. How the divorce had been death and rebirth all at once.
"I don't even know what I like anymore," she admits one night, curled up on the couch with a glass of wine. "Spend long enough being someone's wife, you forget how to be yourself."
"What are you finding out?"
She thinks about it. "I like gardening. I like cooking for people who appreciate it. I like staying up late and sleeping in. I like..." She pauses, looks at me. "I like having you here."
"I like being here."
The moment stretches. Neither of us looks away.
She clears her throat first. "More wine?"
Week Two
I'm helping her in the garden when it happens.
She's bent over a tomato plant, explaining something about pruning, and her sundress rides up the back of her thighs. Full, thick thighs, soft and brown, and I have to look away before she notices.
But I'm not fast enough.
"Jamal." Her voice is different. Careful.
"Sorry. I—"
"It's okay." She stands, brushing dirt from her knees. "I'm not blind, you know. I've seen you looking."
My face burns. "Mrs. P—Carol—I didn't mean to—"
"I said it's okay." She steps closer. Close enough that I can see the sweat beading on her collarbone. "The question is what we're going to do about it."
"What do you want to do about it?"
She studies me for a long moment. "I want to pretend I didn't notice. Go back inside, have lunch, act like this conversation never happened."
"Is that what you want?"
"It's what I should want." She's close enough now that I can smell her—earth and sweat and something floral underneath. "You're Danny's friend. You're young enough to be my son. There's a hundred reasons this is a terrible idea."
"And?"
"And I've spent my whole life doing what I should." Her voice drops. "I'm tired of should."
I close the distance between us.
Her mouth tastes like the lemonade we'd been drinking. Her body against mine is everything I'd imagined and more—soft, yielding, warm even in the summer heat. She makes a sound against my lips, something between surprise and relief, and her arms wrap around my neck.
We kiss until we're breathless, until the sun beats down on our backs, until my hands are full of her hips and her fingers are twisted in my shirt.
"Inside," she breathes. "Now."
Her bedroom is cool and dark, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. She starts to pull off her dress, but I stop her.
"Let me."
She watches as I undress her slowly, revealing her body inch by inch. The heavy fall of her breasts when her bra drops. The soft curve of her belly, marked with stretch marks like silver rivers. The generous swell of her hips, the thickness of her thighs.
"You're staring again," she says, but there's a tremor in her voice.
"You're beautiful."
"I'm forty-five and overweight."
"You're beautiful." I kiss her shoulder. Her collarbone. The top of her breast. "Let me show you."
I worship her.
There's no other word for it. I trace every curve with my mouth, learn every soft place with my hands. I discover that she shivers when I kiss behind her ear, moans when I palm her breasts, gasps when I drag my tongue across her stomach.
When I finally settle between her thighs, she's trembling.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
I take my time. She's been married for twenty-three years, but I can tell from the way she reacts that this—this—was rare. She's sensitive, responsive, and when I find the right rhythm she cries out like she's surprised by her own pleasure.
She comes twice before she pulls me up, hands fumbling with my clothes.
"Inside me," she says. "Please. I need—"
I give her what she needs.
After, we lie tangled together, her head on my chest, my hand tracing lazy patterns on her back.
"That was..." She trails off.
"Yeah."
"We shouldn't have done that."
"Probably not."
She props herself up to look at me. "But I don't regret it."
"Neither do I."
"What does this mean? For us?"
I think about it—the complications, the age difference, the fact that I'm staying in her guest room like some kind of strange arrangement. None of it matters as much as the way she's looking at me right now.
"It means we figure it out as we go."
"And Danny?"
"Danny moved across the country. He doesn't get to have opinions about his mother's happiness."
She laughs, surprised and genuine. "When did you get so wise?"
"Right around the time I realized I've been in love with you since I was sixteen."
She stares at me. "You—what?"
"You heard me." I tuck a strand of silver hair behind her ear. "Every girlfriend I've had, I compared to you. The way you cook. The way you listen. The way you make everyone feel welcome. I never stood a chance."
"Jamal..."
"You don't have to say it back. I just wanted you to know—this isn't casual for me. It never was."
She's quiet for a long moment. Then she leans down and kisses me, soft and deep, and when she pulls back there are tears in her eyes.
"I don't know what this is yet," she admits. "But I know I don't want it to end."
"Then it won't."
Week Three and Beyond
The guest room stays empty.
I sleep in her bed now, wake up to her body warm against mine. We cook together, garden together, build something that looks suspiciously like a life.
My sublease situation resolves itself, but I don't leave. She doesn't ask me to.
Danny calls once, checking in on his mom. I listen to her half of the conversation, watch her smile, feel something warm spread through my chest when she laughs at whatever he says.
After she hangs up, she catches me looking.
"What?"
"Nothing. Just thinking about how lucky I am."
"The invitation was always open, Jamal." She crosses to me, wraps her arms around my waist. "You just had to accept it."
I kiss the top of her head, breathe in cinnamon and flowers.
"Best decision I ever made."