But out loud, I didn’t say any of that. “You want me to start calling you ma’am? Address you like the First Daughter?” I joked.
Sienna rolled her eyes. “You’re so silly.”
She laughed, but it didn’t cover up what she had just admitted. I could tell she didn’t say what she had for no reason.
After we ate, she put the plates in the sink and told me to pick something on TV for us to watch.
Sienna curled up beside me on the couch like it was natural. She rested her head on my shoulder and sighed like she had been holding her breath all day and finally felt safe enough to let it out.
My eyes stayed on the screen, but my mind was somewhere else.
Because that wasn’t PR. That wasn’t strategy. That wasn’t her playing a role.
That was Sienna catching real feelings.
And I wasn’t ready for what came with that.
TEMPO JABBAR
I was at the dining table with my laptop open and papers spread out in front of me. One stack was a contract for a South Shore three-flat I was consulting on for a couple trying to buy their first investment property. Another stack was rent projections and repair estimates, with notes in the margins where I’d already caught two line items that didn’t make sense.
Though I’d stepped back from cartel decisions to keep peace between my brothers and my husband, I refused to be a kept wife. These deals and these numbers were mine. They were my independence. I’d been getting my own money since I was a teenager. A ring didn’t change that.
I was deep in a spreadsheet when I felt him before I saw him. Big A posted up in the doorway with his shoulder against the frame, watching me work like he didn’t want to interrupt but couldn’t help himself. I had my glasses on, hair pulled back, and I was talking to myself under my breath about a roof estimate that looked like somebody was trying to get over.
He tossed the Impala keys up and caught them. The soft jingle snapped me out of it.
“Shut that laptop,” he softly ordered. “Come take a ride with me.”
“I’m working, baby. I need to finish running comps for South Shore—”
“Tempo.” The way he said my name made me stop. He didn’t get loud, but I could hear in his tone that he wasn’t asking twice.
The old Tempo would’ve fought to finish every task first. Married Tempo was learning you could honor your grind and still let your man steal you for a few hours.
I exhaled, hit save, closed the laptop, and stacked my papers into neat piles. I still felt that hustler reflex trying to push me back into the work, but I chose him anyway.
Big A’s mouth curved into a smile when he saw me stand. “That’s my wife.”
I approached him, smirking. “Don’t get cocky.”
He smacked my ass and then led me to the garage.
In the garage, the ’67 cherry-red Impala gleamed under the light.
We climbed in and when he turned the key, the engine came alive.
“Where are we going?”
“It’s a nice day,” he said as we pulled out. “I just wanted to take a ride with my baby.”
We drove through the city, and I watched blocks I knew like I knew my own hands. I tracked vacant lots religiously. I’d just helped a client buy a building a few blocks over.
I couldn’t help slipping into shop talk. “I’m helping this couple buy a three-flat. They almost got scammed by a broker who kept trying to slide in extra fees.”
Big A glanced over. “You fixed that shit?”
“I did more than fix it. I made sure they don’t lose the building in a year because they trusted the wrong person.”
