Page 123 of IRL: In Real Life
One had the nerve to leave nothing but a fork-and-knife emoji and a smirk.
I stared at that comment longer than I needed to, feeling a little flicker of jealousy before I could dress it up as anything more mature. Then I sent Micah a screenshot with one face.
He responded less than a minute later.
Then:
Don’t worry about them, Tal. You know some women stay hungry.
I had rolled my eyes so hard I almost strained something, but I let it go because what else was there to do? The man was fine. Finer than most of Black Pittsburgh’s male population, if I was being honest. He made good money, owned his condo with views of the downtown skyline, moved through the world with that quiet confidence that made women look twice, and looked entirely too good behind the wheel of that sleek onyx black Benz.
Of course they wanted him.
I was not new to women wanting what looked good in public, but Micah never made me feel like I had to compete for what he had already placed in my hands. So I brushed it off. Mostly. Because the truth was simple, even if I had not said it to him quite like that yet.
He was mine.
All mine.
And more than that, he knew how to take care of what mattered. It showed up in small ways that kept catching me off guard. A text before a long meeting because he remembered I hated going into those cold. His hand at my lower back when we crossed a street. My favorite sparkling water in his refrigerator after I mentioned it once. A picture of his tie options on a Thursday morning because, apparently, he had decided I had opinions worth consulting before nine.
Little things.
Real things.
The kind of things my mother had taught me to notice even when I wanted to act like I was above being moved by them.
She sat across from me now, watching my face with the same quiet precision she used when she was testing a cake for doneness without opening the oven too soon.
I took another sip of coffee.
She waited.
I sighed. “What?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said plenty.”
“I said you’ve been smiling.”
“And I said that sounds made up.”
My mother leaned back in her chair, one hand around her mug, eyes warm and too knowing for my comfort.
“Mmhmm.”
I pointed at her. “Don’t start.”
“I haven’t started.”
“You’re absolutely starting.”
She smiled then, small and satisfied. “I’m just looking at my child.”
“That’s worse.”
“No, it isn’t.” Her voice softened. “You look happy.”
