I locked up my house and took long but anxious strides across the street. When I rang the doorbell, I heard Que’s footsteps before the sound of the locks turning. She opened the door dressed in an oversized T-shirt, and the thought of her being naked underneath made my dick stiffen.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Can I come in?”
“Graham, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Please, baby. I don’t like the way we ended our date?—”
“It wasn’t a date, remember.”
“Right, but either way, I don’t like the way it ended.”
“Fine. I was sitting out back.”
As soon as I opened the screen door, Que was on me. I spent a few minutes showing him love before locking the front door and following him to the patio. He assumed his protective position at the end of the patio on the stairs.
Naryah was seated at the end of the couch, her feet tucked underneath her, and a light blanket covering her legs. I took the liberty of sitting on the other end, hoping she didn’t mind because there were other places for me to sit, but I wanted to be close to her.
“I wasn’t offended by what you said. I was more turned on than anything.”
“Is that how you act when you’re turned on?”
She smacked her lips. “Of course not.”
“Then why the silent treatment and mood change?”
“It’s my defense mechanism. I’m trying not to fall for you.”
“I don’t mean you no harm, baby. You can let your guard down with me.”
“It may not seem like it, but I have. You’ve gotten much farther than any man since I left my ex. I haven’t even had a full conversation with another man since then.”
“I feel honored.”
“I feel afraid.”
“Of me?”
“No . . . of my feelings and how I don’t seem to have control over them anymore.”
“C’mere.”
I lifted my arm, and she moved next to me, tucking herself underneath.
“I don’t like not having control over my feelings. When I was married, my ex would spend hours, sometimes days, saying horrible things to me, and I’d be so angry. As soon as I worked up enough courage to leave, he’d love bomb me so bad, and I’d stay. It was a vicious cycle. I knew I should still be angry and that he didn’t deserve my forgiveness, but I’d let the gifts, affection, and extra attention fool me. My emotions were all over the place, and I hated it.”
“I’m sorry you went through all that. Did your father ever beat his ass?”
“No. He walked out on us when I was thirteen.”
“Damn, baby. No wonder you don’t trust men.”
“In therapy, when I was going through my divorce, I realized it wasn’t men I didn’t trust. It’s my judgment.”
“Wow. How’d you come to that conclusion?”
“I had my father on a pedestal. I thought he was perfect and could do no wrong. When he left, he didn’t even say goodbye; he just never came home. For years, I questioned how I couldn’t see that he was a trash ass nigga. There were signs, but I ignored them.”
