“Pick a couple outfits. For every fit on your rack,Ichoose a scrap from the other rack.”
“Whatever,Big Country.” Zuri always snarled that name. Did I care?
Nah.
zuri
. . .
Iwas basically the Black Julia Roberts in aPretty Womanremake. Except for different skin and shape. More education. Less … experience. And Montana’s kiss on New Year’s Eve? Made me feel like all I’d ever done was elementary stuff. I was almost convinced that Darius’s birth was a miracle.
He’d kissed me so good. But still, my mind remembered the past.
I’ll teach you a few things,Edwin had said while I dug through tissue paper to grab a new textbook from the gift bag.
Except, lingerie now came with it.
Wait. What the hell are you doing, Zuri?Don’t you dare compare Edwin to Montana.
For every fit on the rack you like, I choose a scrap from the other rack.
His words echoed in my ears, but I refused to believe he was another Dr. Edwin Heine.
For starters, his interest lay in the real me. My surname. Then more … When I didn’t give him what he wanted, he got salty.You have a 3X wig, Zuri. A parachute head.Didn’t matter that my new human hair wig—Diana Redux—wasn’t made for mere mortals.XL, 2X, 3X? Nope. This wig had a kinder sizing chart. Still, that boy dissed with Kevin Hart’s skills and theheartof a fifth grader in love.
In love?
No.
Zuri, stop lying to yourself.
I never believed Edwin loved me. Maybe my intellect.Me? No.That psychotic parasite unearthed a part of me that could’ve stayed dead.
But Montana, his uninhibited laughter, and wide shoulders somehow made me feel safe instead of insignificant. He wanted my truth.
Did I wanna go too far with him? Pull a Julia Roberts and cross a line. Hell, he’d paid for more than this freak’em dress and had already given me a brick of cash for this evening. Fifty thousand. As well as another twenty-five thousand for the past week of medical care. That would put a dent in my medical school loans.
Ugh. I couldn’t focus. I shoved those thoughts aside as I sat in a French steakhouse in Beverly Hills. The server’s smile made me glance around to confirm this wasn’t a Colgate commercial.
Paparazzi cameras flashed outside the windows, and Montana leaned back—this was just another day. What did they think? He’d ghosted the limelight after shoving his father. A deadbeat so official he could’ve created a business card. The media didn’t even know Ezekiel existed. I figured any discussion of his father was like asking him to give himself heart surgery. Which was why he hadn’t played up thekids stabbed me while I saved somebody’s baby mommaangle.
But if I asked Montana why he didn’t campaign for sympathy cards from his diverse fans, who no doubt had a similar upbringing, he’d want one thing from me.
My last name.
And here I was, thinking of telling him about me again while the server brought us our main entrée. I hid a smirk behind achampagne flute. “This is my first time in Los Angeles, Montana. So, is that a normal portion size?”
Montana glared at three cubes of steak drizzled with sauce.
“I was thinking …” He picked up his fork and tapped a cube. “Should’ve brought Darius. Not sure if he’d eat it or try to stack ‘em like Legos.”
My heart ached, first missing Darius, then remembering how Edwin wasn’t thrilled when I first mentioned my pregnancy.
I’ll squeeze you in on the surgery schedule. This weekend we’ll go?—
Nope. No more Edwin. He could rot. I glanced at the Legos again, ahem, steak. One more look, and I was gone. My shoulders shook, tears falling from laughter as I imagined my son’s foolishness with this rich-people food.
Montana forked my salad. “What is this? Louisiana Bald Cypress got bigger leaves.”
