“And right,” I said. “Both can be true.”
She asked what I did beyond the pool, and I told her about the community center, kids hungry for something they couldn’t name, how water gave them their edges back. I told her I’d applied for the high school posting because I needed something solid, something that matched what I gave. I told her about my sisters, Reagan and Reece—fifteen and full. Reagan arguing with eyelashes and grace, Reece writing poems that made silencestand up and clap. She asked about their birthday and nodded like she was saving them in her spirit.
“Are they home now?” she asked, curious but cautious, someone who knew kids were a soft subject.
“Yeah. I told them about you. They did way too much.”
She laughed, covering her smile with her knuckles. “What’d they say?”
“When can we meet her?” I mimicked, my voice higher. “I told them to chill before I make them meet algebra again.”
Her grin reached her eyes this time, and the screen warmed. “You really told your sisters about me already?”
“I really saved you asFuture Wifeyalready,” I said, unblinking. “Transparency’s my baseline, beautiful.”
Her throat moved, the smallest swallow. “You don’t get nervous being that direct?”
“I get more nervous when I don’t tell the truth, but if you want me softer, I can do gentle. I can do patient. I can do slow if that’s what keeps your peace safe.”
I watched her face for flinches, doubt, or relief. She didn’t rush; she sat with it, studying me quietly and thoughtfully. I let her. It wasn’t a performance, but an offering. And it told me everything. She listened with her whole self and didn’t hand out access carelessly. I respected that.
“What’s your favorite thing to teach?” I asked, pivoting before the moment got too heavy for a first call.
Her whole face changed. She lit up, sitting forward, eyes bright like she loved her work even when it wore her out. “Syntax and tone. It’s like music. How a sentence feels changes what it means.”
“Facts. Say ‘come here’ three ways, and I’ll meet you three different places.”
“Oh?” She folded her arms, amused. “Show me.”
I leaned back and looked at the camera like it was her.
“Come here,” I said, even and warm—open, inviting. “Come here,” I added, sharper—a command you’d feel in your spine. No cruelty, just certainty. Then I lowered it, let a smile tug. “Come here,” I murmured like a promise.
Her inhale was a tell she couldn’t hide. I didn’t grin. I let the electricity cool into comfort because I wasn’t here to overwhelm her. I was here to build.
“You play too much,” she whispered, cheeks glowing.
“I don’t play with people,” I said. “I engage. Big difference.”
She shook her head. “Hood intellectual.”
“Guilty.”
She told me about her grandmother—Nana Nan of The Pour House. I laughed.
“She’s sweet, but she looks like she’ll cut folks with side-eyes for crowding the pastry case.”
“She definitely will,” Solé said fondly. “But she’s soft on the inside.”
“She got good taste,” I said. “Raised you.”
We talked about dreams, the ones you don’t say aloud too often because they feel fragile. She told me more about wanting to build a quiet empire for kids—tutoring centers, scholarships, summer writing camps where they would write essays for fun. I told her I wanted a record board at a high school pool with my kids’ names on it for a decade straight. I told her I wanted my sisters to leave this city with choices, not bruises.
“And you?” she asked, voice gentler. “What do you want that doesn’t include taking care of everybody else?”
I could’ve offered jokes. I didn’t. “I want a home that exhales when I walk in,” I said. “Warm food, soft laughter, and a woman whose peace I protect with my whole life and who trusts me enough to rest.”
She didn’t speak right away. When she did, it was soft. “You talk scary honest.”
