Page 40 of The Sweetest Return

Then Dre turned.

His eyes landed on me.

And every nervous thought I had entertained since Sunday lost its job.

CHAPTER FOUR

From across the room, I could pretend I was prepared.

Standing in front of Imani Bennett killed that shit quick.

Before I opened my mouth, my head ran the whole path that had put me there. Maybe because memory was safer than starting with her face. Maybe because pride liked to act useful when a man’s heartbeat got too loud.

I had walked into Royal House less than an hour earlier wondering if she was already inside.

That was irritating. Mostly because I had spent the ride over pretending I wasn’t wondering shit.

Malcolm’s text had been sitting in my head since the plane landed.

Heard Bennett might be at Crown.

Might.

A small word doing entirely too much work.

My barber had squeezed me in that morning because trying to get a Crown Weekend appointment after Thursday was an act of faith.

I had showered, shaved, put on a charcoal suit that fit the way it was supposed to fit, slid my watch on, checked the mirror once, and told myself this was just another alumni reception. Show my face. Shake hands. Let AWU feel appreciated. Let the donors see I still knew how to be gracious.

Then get back to my suite at The Nocturne, the historic Black hotel that had been putting AWU alumni up and hosting Crown Weekend events longer than I'd been alive, before the night started asking for more than I felt like giving.

The front steps were full when I arrived. Laughter spilled through the open doors, and somebody inside had enough sense to keep the music where it belonged, low enough for conversation and strong enough to make the room feel good. Royal House looked exactly how Crown Weekend was supposed to look. Black people dressed like life had been good to them and, in several cases, like they needed witnesses. Good fabric. Better jewelry. Old stories. New money. Alumni hugging hard enough to wrinkle suits they had spent too much on.

I made it ten feet before the first person called my name.

“Dre!”

“Jones.”

“Man, look at you.”

“Mmm, you still a fine muthafucka, Dre.”

That one came from an older alum with a short silver cut, red lipstick, and a husband standing beside her who looked amused instead of threatened.

I laughed, kissed her cheek when she offered it, and kept moving.

A couple handshakes. Two shoulder clasps. One older brother with donor money, a smooth bald head, a fraternity pin on his lapel, and church shoes so shiny I could see myself in them wanted to ask me about a mixed-use project in East Liberty like we weren’t standing in a room with an open bar and women dressed like temptation in jewel tones.

I handled it.

That was part of coming back here and doing well. Folks knew your face. Knew your people. Knew what you were building. Pittsburgh could get intimate like that. AWU alumni were worse. Everybody in that room either knew you, knew of you, or knew somebody who swore they remembered exactly what kind of trouble you used to be on campus.

A waiter came by with bourbon, and I waved it off. Another tray came through with cranberry tonic, and I took that instead.

Football had given me a lot, including a deep respect for not getting sloppy in public. Too many cameras. Too many people waiting on a man to get a little loose so they could build a story out of it. I liked a drink same as anybody, but not enough to give half a room full of alumni, donors, and people with phones a version of me I hadn’t approved first.

“Boy.”