“I understand your position here, but make sure you handle your business… you have a job to do.”
“He’ll win the election.”
“He should.”
I breathed in his confidence. The fix was needed. Ishmael was rearranging so many things. In all the best ways, but the discomfort was presence, nonetheless. So was the confusion and uncertainty.
“Royce!”
I released him, pushing him in the process. He didn’t budge. Not until I was back inside, bags in tow. I appreciated his consideration. I hated to see him leave, so he never forced me to.
Nor Roaman.
Nor Range.
Nor Roulette.
Nor Rugger.
Nor Rather.
And, never Rome.
I reentered the home in better spirits. As I lifted my cell from the counter, heading up the stairs, it vibrated in my hand.
Black hearts lit up the screen. An image of Ishmael and I covered the background. I hadn’t saved the contact and neither had I saved the image.
Oh, Mr. Grayson.
“Yes?”
I pressed the phone against my ear as I leaned against the counter. Everything quieted around me, including the lawnmowers outside. All I could hear was him and the beat of my heart.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
“I miss you,” he rushed out, “I couldn’t let another second pass without you knowing that.”
I gnawed on my bottom lip. On the heel of my right foot, I turned and placed my elbows on the counter.
“I’ve missed you.”
“I hope you chose the black bag.”
“Hm?”
“The black Chanel bag. It’s never looked better on an arm.”
“Are you stalking me?”
“No, but the women of Berkeley are. And, their obsession is growing quicker than mine.”
“Was I on television again?”
