“Better. Still a little stiff, but nothing I can’t manage.”
“Good.” He stepped further into the room, balancing the tray in his hands. “I got up and made you breakfast.”
My eyebrows raised, and another smile crept up on my face. “You stayed?”
“Of course. I told you I wasn’t leaving.” He came over, carefully lowering the tray onto my lap. “Hope you don’t mindme giving my sister your address. I had her drop me off some clothes this morning for work.”
“No, that’s fine,” I said as my eyes glanced over the tray. He’d made grits, eggs, and bacon. He’d even included a bowl of fresh fruit. This man must have enjoyed seeing me cry because nobody other than Teagan had ever brought me breakfast in bed.
“You made this?” I looked up at him as he walked over to my dresser and retrieved something.
“Yeah, everything good? I hope it’s not too heavy.” He removed a beautiful bouquet I didn’t recognize from behind his back.
“You brought me flowers again?” I asked, surprised.
“I’ll buy them every day if you want ’em.”
“Don’t tease me with a good time.” I laughed.
“I’m not teasing,” he replied slowly, making me take a deep breath to steady myself. This man made it hard for even me to come up with comebacks.
“How’d you know grits were my favorite?” I shifted up in bed slowly, fighting through the stiffness in my side while he adjusted the tray in my lap. “You stalking me, Mr. JaQuade?”
“Nah,” he said, smirking. “I’m just observant.” He sat on the edge of the bed next to me and retrieved a plate of food from the nightstand that he must have brought in for himself. “Eat up. You need fuel for recovery,” he said, and we ate quietly next to each other, like waking up to each other and sharing breakfast in bed was our normal.
“You randomly rap like that all the time?” I blurted out of nowhere as we ate.
He raised a brow. “What you mean?”
“I mean,… you spit a few bars for me last night. You do that often?”
He looked down at his plate, like he was suddenly shy, and I nudged his leg with mine.
“You ever think about doing it again? Getting in the studio, recording an album?”
He shrugged. “Truth? I never stopped writing. Not even when I was away. Rhymes,… bars they always hit me. It don’t matter what I’m doing or the time of day. In the shower, in traffic, in the middle of laying drywall. It don’t matter, but every time I think about picking up a pen,… I’m just not feeling it.”
I stared at him listening to his truth, honored that he would even share it with me.
“Shit just feel pointless. The world moved on. My label moved on. My fans have moved on. Ain’t nobody waiting on no new Quae Lo records to drop.”
I gazed at him, feeling the need to say something. We had similar stories when it came to our crafts.
“I used to feel like that about painting. After I got sick, when walking got hard,… I felt like art didn’t want me anymore. I just had to remember why I create.” I looked him in the eyes, hoping my words could help. “You just gotta figure out if you’re rapping for them or you.”
His eyes stayed on mine a little longer than necessary. And then he looked down at the tray.
“You gon’ open that?” he asked, and I looked down at the little envelope tucked in the flowers that I hadn’t noticed before. I set my fork down and picked it up. My eyes gazed over the words. The handwriting was messy, all capital letters, like he was nervous writing it.
Will you be my girlfriend?
Yes. No. Circle one.
I know it’s corny, but you got me doing corny shit.
A laugh slipped out of my mouth, and I looked up at him with glossy eyes.
“Flowers… breakfast in bed… love notes,” I said, dragging it out. “This pussy that good?” I grinned.
