Page 92 of IRL: In Real Life
Nicole smiled, but not in a messy way.
More like relief.
“Yeah,” she said. “I know.”
I picked my bag up a few minutes later and kissed both sleepy children goodnight, promising Nia I would come back with more pink things and promising Noah something with wheels because his standards were simpler and more respectable.
At the door, Nicole hugged me longer than usual.
“Don’t disappear into it,” she murmured near my ear. “Just enjoy it.”
I held her a second tighter before pulling back. “That’s the plan.”
“Mmhmmmmn.”
I gave her a look.
She laughed and shut the door behind me.
By the time I got to the car, my phone was already in my hand.
Me: I survived Nicole, the twins, and Monday. Barely.
I stared at it for exactly one second.
Then sent it.
The reply came before I pulled out of the driveway.
Micah: That sounds like you need a drink and my full attention.
The city lights were just starting to come on as I backed into the street, and somewhere low in me that warm little wanting shifted again, deeper now, more confident in itself than before.
fourteen
. . .
By eight-forty Tuesday morning,I had already accepted two things.
I had not slept enough, and Talia Vaughn had gotten all the way into my day before I even put a shirt on.
That part showed up while I stood in my kitchen in gray sweats, coffee in one hand and my phone in the other, looking at the LinkUP post she had made for Burton Creative’s event coming up. One hundred and fifty a ticket.
Worth it.
The comments under it told their own little story. A few women said they were sharing it. A couple more said the room already looked beautiful. Then the men came through talkingabout pulling up, coming to support, sliding by, and I knew exactly what half of that meant.
Niggas loved to act like a flyer had changed their life the second a fine woman posted it.
Talia had liked a few of the comments. Women’s, men’s. Professional. Warm. Exactly how she was supposed to move in a space like that. Still, I stood there longer than I needed to, thumb resting against the side of my phone, reading the thread like it had personally offended me.
Seeing other men flirt under her post did something possessive in me, quiet enough not to embarrass me and honest enough that I could not lie about it. It was not insecurity. I knew what I looked like. Knew what I brought to a room. But something about men getting comfortable under her comments made me want to ask every last one of them what exactly they thought was available there.
Unreasonable.
Still true.
So I did what I did.
