Now he’s acting like I’m the offender. Like he wasn’t the first man to break my heart by never bothering to even see it.
The waffle iron beeps, yanking me back to the kitchen. I grab a plate and make space for it around the flour dust, batter streaks, and eggshells.
“Please don’t let me wake up to this disaster,” Rayne groans, rising to rinse her mug at the sink.
“When have I ever done that?” I ask, sliding the golden waffle onto the plate.
“Two nights ago.”
“Girl, that was clean. You were using a magnifying glass to find crumbs.”
“And I found them, didn’t I?”
“Ssskt. You need some dick to occupy your mind. Out here hunting crumbs for entertainment.”
“You’re not wrong,” she admits with a grin. Her job as Director of Bayside Tourism and head of the Waterfront Committee keeps her busy. “I do need me some good dick. But if I’m going to run for mayor against Diablo, I have to be discreet. You know how it is for women. Everything, including my sex life, will be under scrutiny.”
“Fucking double standards.”
“So true.” She sighs. “That’s why I want a seat at the table.Mayor, then governor, senator. And who knows, maybe the first Black woman president.”
“If anyone can make it happen, it’s you.” I admire Rayne. She’s beauty and brains. Stands ten toes down on business. Doesn’t let anything, including vitiligo, hold her back. When the discoloration on her hands and face started spreading in her teens, she went through it but came out fighting on the other side.
“Thanks, boo.” She hugs me.
My body stiffens, the way it always does when touch sneaks up on me. I grew up with affection. Mom is warm. It’s just not my thing.
I pat her back and count to five before letting go. Any longer and I feel smothered. Any shorter and I look rude. That guessing game—what’s the magic number—has been my whole life. Gauging what’s acceptable.
I like control. Hugs feel like the opposite, like I’ve ceded the steering wheel of my body to someone else.
But Rayne gets me and doesn’t take offense. “Night.” She waves. “Lock up.”
“I will.”
Left alone, I sit with my waffles drenched in butter and syrup. Maurice’s knee surgery went well, but he’ll be down for a few weeks. As great as it’s been spending time with Mom and Rayne, I miss New York. My studio apartment. The buzz of the city, the creativity. I’m an artist. Graffiti and urban designs are my jam. I also run an online T-shirt shop full of snark.
If you can read this, back the fuck upandEat Me! I’m Vagitarianare my best sellers.
If only my father trusted Dice, I wouldn’t even be here. But Maurice judges him by his past and his player lifestyle.
The honeys have no complaints about me in this shirt. Or out of it.
Damn him for saying that. For making me picture him shirtless—all tatted and muscled.
I shove a forkful of waffle into my mouth, chewing hard. I’ve had five years to get over him. Five years of no contact. Dice is like vaping.Addictive. Dangerous. One hit and I’ll be hooked again. I quit both. I’m not going back.
I load the dishwasher and clean the kitchen spotless. No way Rayne finds fault this time. When I’m done, I double-check the back door. I forgot to lock it a few nights ago after putting out the trash, and she pitched a fit, like Bayside Harbor was some crime capital.
“Meow.”
The faint sound pulls my gaze to the porch. A charcoal-gray cat with huge evergreen eyes sits on the mat, staring up at me.
“Go home,” I mutter, shooing it away through the glass.
“Meow.”
“Go.” I flip off the light and head to the guest bedroom.
