He cocked his head. “What’s wrong with yo’ house? You got a ramp.”
“Yeah, a broken one,” I shot back, annoyed with his lack of attention to detail. “Accessibility means more than just a ramp.”
Shawn blinked like he didn’t get it. He, like most people, thought accessibility started and ended at a wheelchair ramp and a few damn handrails. They didn’t understand the full need of being confined to a damn chair, and I didn’t have the energy to give a full TED Talk about it.
“I’m just saying. It was fine when I was here.”
I let out a dry laugh. That was easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one getting stuck in the doorways.
“Exactly.” I huffed. Shawn was so self-centered; it wasn’t even worth my breath. His face balled up, but I didn’t care. I had things to do, and the more he talked, the more I realized my heart just didn’t beat for him anymore.
We’d done this dance long enough. I was over him popping up with takeout and charm, pretending it was care and love. We both knew it was anything but. I stared at Shawn like I wasfinally seeing him through clean glass. Everything about what we had been doing felt beneath me.
“What movie do you want to watch?” Shawn asked, and I shook my head. He said movie, but I knew what he really meant—what he wanted from me. “You ready?” he asked.
“I’m busy painting right now.” I didn’t even look up from my food.
He laughed, sharp and sarcastic. “Oh, now you too busy for me, huh?”
“I didn’t say that. I said I’m working.”
“Working?” he repeated loudly, like I’d just offended him. “Man, stop playing with me?—”
“Yo,” Quade called, making us both turn to look at him standing in the doorway. “Lower your tone, my guy.”
Shawn turned, eyebrows raised. “Excuse you, nigga? Don’t tell me how to talk to my girl.”
“I’m not your girl.” I didn’t hesitate to correct him. “And I don’t know who you think you’re talking to like that, but it damn sure ain’t me.”
“If you got somethin’ to say to her, say it like a man, not a child having a tantrum.” Quade took a few steps into the kitchen, and the room went quiet. Shawn took a step back, looking between us, like he had just figured out morse code.
“Why this nigga speaking up for you? You fucking him or something?”
I rolled back from the table, exhausted—not just physically, but mentally and emotionally.
“Shawn, I’m painting. Thank you for bringing me lunch.” I motioned toward the easel behind me. “I’m in a creative headspace right now. I don’t have time for this.”
“What do you mean, you don’t have time?” He blinked like he didn’t understand the words coming out of my mouth. “You… putting me out?”
Before I could answer, Quade did.
“That’s what I heard.” He looked him dead in the eye, fists balled. My heart sped up in my chest, scared that this might escalate. Shawn’s lip curled, and he pushed back from the table.
“Shawn, it’s time to go,” he confirmed, and Shawn looked at me like I’d betrayed him, like I was the reason for our love turning sour.
“You putting me out, Noa? Bet. You fronting in front of this nigga. Okay.” He stood from the table, walking to the door and mumbling along the way. Quade watched him all the way out. When the door finally shut, Quade locked it and turned to me.
“You good?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yeah. I’m just glad he’s gone.” I exhaled the breath I’d been holding.
“You want me to move that to the dry rack?” he asked, pointing toward my painting as if nothing had just occurred, and I appreciated the quick return to the way things were before our day was rudely interrupted.
“Please, if you don’t mind.”
He stepped past me to grab the canvas, and when he lifted it, the back of his arm brushed mine. It was just a second. We barely touched, but my breath hitched anyway. He moved the piece with the same care he always did.
“Just so we clear, you don’t ever gotta explain why somebody ain’t got access to you no more. If they fumble you, that’s their loss. Simple. Don’t show these niggas no kindness that they don’t show you.”
