The rawness in his voice made my chest ache. “It is, but it doesn’t mean I can abandon my plans, my independence. I spent years running away, Langston. I need to know I’m staying for the right reasons,” I admitted, clutching the sheet to my chest like armor.
“And I’m not the right reason?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
I slid out of bed, gathering my scattered clothes from the floor, suddenly very aware of how wrinkled my dress was, how obvious it would be to anyone who saw me doing the walk of shame.
“The interview is at eleven,” I said, stepping into my panties. “It doesn’t mean I’m taking the job.”
Langston went into the bathroom.
“Do whatever you want, Aven. You always have.”
The door closing softly behind him somehow hurt more than if he’d slammed it. I finished dressing in silence, my mind racing between the lingering pleasure of last night and the anxiety about what came next.
I’d managed to make myself look somewhat presentable. “I should go,” I said, gathering my purse. “I need to shower and change before the interview.”
The silence between us had calcified into something brittle and sharp. “I’ll be at the office later if you want to talk,” he finally replied.
“I’ll call you after,” I promised instead.
Suppose I didn’t take Torres’s job if I chose Langston over a fresh start. I didn’t need him to fix me. I just needed him not to break me more.
I hesitated at the door, wanting to go back to him, kiss him, to erase the blankness from his expression. Still, something held me back, the weight of Raina’s text and his mother’s disapproval pressing down on whatever fragile thing we’d started to build.
As I left his home, my mind circled back to the way he’d looked at me last night, like I was something precious he’d thought he’d lost forever. The memory made my steps falter as I reached my car.
Was I really going to risk losing that again for a job with a man Langston clearly despised? The alternative, letting my world narrow to Langston, just us, in this town I’d been so desperate to escape terrified me in ways I couldn’t articulate even to myself.
I started my car, the decision still unsettled in my chest with anxiety about what came next. Whatever happened at this interview, one thing was clear, nothing between Langston and me would ever be simple.
At home, everyone was gone. Good. That would make getting ready easier. I jumped in the shower, praying the water would wash away my tension. When I found the right man, his power wouldn’t remove mine.
An hour later, I entered the Savoy, which made me immediately second-guess my outfit choice — a navy interview suit, the only decent one I’d managed to salvage from my pre-South America life.
Suddenly, I felt like I was in a child’s dress-up clothes compared to the sleek clientele sipping twenty-dollar cocktails at the bar. The hostess’ assessing gaze slid over me, lingering long enough on my scuffed heels to make me stand straighter, chin lifting in the silent “try me” stance I’d perfected growing up on the Southside. Her smile tightened as she led me to a corner booth.
“Ms. Torres will be with you shortly,” the hostess said, placing a leather-bound menu in front of me before melting away.
I slid into the booth, taking in the polished wood tables and soft lighting, which probably made the most sleep-deprived executive look well rested. Around me, business deals were being closed over four-course meals.
My phone buzzed with another text.
Raina:Girl, what are you doing? Call me.
I silenced it, slipping it into my purse as a tall Black woman in an impeccably tailored cream suit approached the table. It was Jasmine Torres, Adam Torres’s daughter and Sentinel Security’s VP of Operations. Her hair was cut in a super cute pixie cut, which emphasized her sharp cheekbones. Her only jewelry was a pair of expensive diamond studs.
“Aven Compton, it’s been a minute,” she said, extending a perfectly manicured hand.
I took her hand, memory clicking into place. “Jasmine, we had AP Lit together, right?”
She slid into the booth across from me, signaling a waiter without looking. “Senior year. You were always arguing with Mr. Peters about why Toni Morrison deserved more than a week on the syllabus. I’ve followed your career. The piece you did on women entrepreneurs in Bolivia was particularly impressive.”
The compliment should have warmed me, but all I felt was hollow. The article had been published before my writing career stalled, before Leo, before I’d retreated home with my tail between my legs.
I forced a smile. “Thank you. And congratulations on all you’ve done with Sentinel. Your father must be proud.”
