Soon after our call ends, the front door opens, creaking at the hinges. Dice walks in. Damp shirt clinging to his chest, sweat beading along his brow. His eyes are still shadowed, but when he sees me, he smiles.
My heart sighs. And I know that’s the kind of soft love I want.
With him.
No distance could ever be far enough to keep me from this man.
The next morning moves with an undercurrent of anticipation as we get ready. Dice is usually the one to see about me and Queenie. He tries to, but I assure him I’ve got this. Today is about taking care of him.
I make coffee, and when he says he’s not hungry, I still urge him to eat a piece of toast. Something to coat his stomach for the drive.
Queenie follows me like a little shadow, tail twitching, eyes sharp. She knows something’s up. Always does. I pop open her favorite food pouch and replicate Dice’s scrambled eggs as topping. She meows, weaving between my ankles, impatient and chatty.
While she eats, I grab her water bowl, Spider-Man, and a clean litter pan and carry everything into the bathroom. We’ll be gone too long to leave her crated. This is the only room with a door, and one where she’ll be safe and cause the least amount of havoc. No wires to chew, no couch to shred, or shoes to maul. In time, with training, I hope to leave her to roam freely. But we’re not there yet.
I lay down her bed where she loves to nap and toss in a couple of toys. Then call her in with the sound of the treat bag. She struts in, cool as ever. I give her a chicken pellet, kiss her head, and feel a pang in my chest as I close the door behind me.
“Queenie okay?” Dice asks, sitting on the edge of the bed in dark jeans and a Temple hoodie, pulling on his socks.
“She’s occupied for now, but I’ve never left her alone this long. Hope I won’t come back to an eviction notice,” I say, half joking.
“I’d understand if you need to stay.”
“I’m going, Dice. Queenie will be fine. I’ll give her lots of love when I get back. Right now, my focus is on you.” I run a hand over his shoulder, feeling the bunched muscles. “You still want to do this?”
“No. But I need to. Let’s just get it over with.”
We pick up the rental car. It’s a compact sedan. I offer to drive, but Dice says he’d prefer to take the wheel. Grabbing control where he can, since he’s about to walk into something there’s no playbook for.
I adjust the seat and buckle in. There’s a bagel in my hand, but I’m not really eating it. My stomach isn’t on board today. I’m worried for him. Can’t imagine the anxiety he must be feeling.
By nine, we’re on the highway, heading to Philly. The ride is mostly music, interspersed with the sound of tires on asphalt and the occasional check-in from the GPS woman who has no idea the emotional heft that’s riding in this car. I glance at Dice every so often. He’s concentrating on the road, jaw tight, sunglasses hiding whatever’s happening behind them. His hands stay at ten and two the whole way.
I don’t press him or offer small talk. Dice and I both prefer silence over meaningless chatter. He knows I’m here. Walking the path beside him and watching out for the cracks.
Nearing West Philly, traffic thickens. We wind through narrow streets around the campus, the buzz of student life spilling onto the sidewalks. Dice finds a parking spot, tight but manageable, outside the coffee shop Damon picked.
We get there ten minutes early. It’s one of those off-campus joints where the staff are students, and tats and piercings are as plentiful as the drink options. Chalkboard menus. Worn couches.
Dice’s eyes scan the room before we’re even fully inside, alreadyon edge. Thinking he doesn’t need more caffeine, I order him a black decaf and me a mint tea. Something warm we probably won’t finish. Then find a table toward the back, tucked away for privacy.
He doesn’t say much. Just sips and watches the door.
What if Damon doesn’t show? What if this is some cruel prank? I swallow those terrible thoughts without speaking them aloud.
But at eleven thirty sharp, he walks in.
I recognize him immediately. Dice’s face, but different. More boyish, less angles. He’s taller. Lanky. Curly top afro with shaved sides. No facial hair, which makes him appear even younger. Nervous energy ripples off him in waves I can feel across the room. His eyes sweep the café… land on Dice. He stops. Their gazes lock.
It’s a moment when time skips a breath and just holds.
I reach for Dice’s hand and squeeze, bracing for whatever comes next.
Chapter Forty-Four
Dice
They got the same smile—guess I have it too.
