“That’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s not. It’s different now.”
“Different how?” I asked before I could stop myself—I didn’t even want to know. I knew the answer would reveal something I couldn’t unsee. Silence stretched. The faucet ran.
“Because I love you now.”
I felt it in my body before my brain could process it. I couldn’t describe what I felt, but I felt it. And I felt a lot. The smell of onions burned my eyes—at least that was what I told myself when the tears started. I looked down at the cutting board, at the bright red peppers, and realized I was trapped.
“Say something, Sky,” he said.
I wanted to tell him he was wrong, that he didn’t love me. I wanted to tell him he was just caught up in the mood or the month of February. I wanted to tell him to go back to being the man who just said “bye” and left at 3:00 AM. Because if Iaccepted this—if I let those four words settle into my flesh—then the Sky who didn’t need anyone would have to die.
And I wasn’t sure if I was ready to mourn her yet.
Chapter Two
February First — Zio
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Thank you?
I had said I love you, and she had said thank you. What the fuck was I supposed to do with thank you?
Before I could even process how much that stung, she was wiping tears from her face, backing away from me like I was infected. “I… I need a minute. I’m going to change.” She grabbed a bottle of Hennessy off the shelf and disappeared out of the kitchen.
I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but damn. She had hurt a nigga’s feelings with those two words. My dick deflated instantly. I’d been fighting all night not to notice her in that lace—now I was good. Feeling focused.
I turned back to the sink, gripping the edge until my knuckles ached. I took a breath. I needed to deal with those oxtails.
I thought about how we had met.
My sister had dragged me to her book signing. Said the author wrote women who “didn’t play about feelings.” I hadn’t cared. I only went because I hadn’t spent real time with my little sister in months.
Sky had been sitting behind a folding table when we walked in—pretty as fuck, thick as fuck in the places I liked. She had her own hair and pretty, clean brown skin. My sister asked for a picture. Sky smiled and posed. I asked for her number.
She had smiled bigger and given it to me.
I hadn’t been looking for a relationship. I just wanted to get lost in her for a few hours. I wanted to fuck. Plain and simple. And I did.
Then the hooks had set in.
Somewhere in the middle of those four years, the sun started catching us still entangled. At first, she had hated it—joked about me overstaying my welcome, pretended she needed her space. Then one night, she hadn’t kicked me out and hadn’t run her mouth about it. Another night, she had handed me a toothbrush.
That was the shift. I realized then she wasn't just a fuck buddy; she was my woman. A woman with a soft heart she’d spent a lifetime trying to encase in stone for no reason. Too sweet for how hard she pretended to be. That was why I didn't let the "thank you" break me. I knew she loved me. I heard it in the way her voice caught when I was deep in her. She could play tough all she wanted.
I finished cooking. I plated the food slow and careful—creamy grits, oxtails falling off the bone, gravy dark and rich. I could cook. I was ready to open my own spot; I had a loan, and my boy Brent had given me what I couldn’t borrow. I wanted to talk to Sky about it, but first I needed to get us to February fourteenth without her disappearing on me.
I carried the plates into the living room.
She was curled up on the sofa, knees to her chest. The Hennessy bottle was already a third gone. Olivia Dean played softly in the background. I hated her songs then—Sky played them to death. I didn’t want to fuck to that woman’s voice.
I set her plate down. She looked up at me. I didn’t sit. I stood there, my own plate in my hand.
“I told my momma about you,” I said.
Her eyes went wide. The bottle almost slipped from her fingers. In a Black family like mine, telling your mother about a woman was damn near an engagement.
