"Normally I don't, but lately it's become hard to talk to you."
"When it comes to you, Gi, I'm easy like Sunday morning," I joked, wanting to lighten the mood for whatever she had to say.
"Easy is the last word I'd use to describe you, but to each their own." She shrugged, laughing a little.
I faked hurt, holding my chest like I was about to bleed out. "That one might've taken me out, Gi."
"Boy, stop. It'll take a million men to take you out."
"Glad you know. Wassup, tho?"
"Are you always going to walk in here and look around when you know you'll never find someone waiting to hurt you?"
I chuckled, leaning back in the chair, arms spread wide on either side. Wherever this conversation was headed, it had nothing to do with my actions in her home.
"If I told you I had OCD, you wouldn't blink twice 'bout the shit I do."
Gigi slowly stirred her tea, her spoon tapping against the cup in a soft rhythm. "Of course not. OCD is a medical condition. You searching my house is because of a lack of trust."
"I trust you, Gigi," I told her honestly, meeting her stare.
She tilted her head, lips curving in that patient, knowing way of hers. "You trust me to an extent. You trust all of us to some extent, but who do you trust fully? Who is that person you can show all your scars and trust that they won't flinch but heal you back to innocence?"
I let out a low laugh and rubbed the back of my neck. The way she saidinnocencemade a nigga's chest tighten. The young boy she was trying to appeal to was gone. That nigga shattered the moment he saw the muscle tissue under his momma's skin. The tiniest piece I had left, I gave to Navy. There was no going back. I was who the fuck I was 'til the day I die.
"Innocence? Gigi, I'ma grown ass man in my thirties. Fuck I look like searching for innocence?"
"A grown ass man trying to heal," she fired back.
"Nah, I'm good. Healing is for soft niggas that can't compartmentalize."
"Oh, so your brother is soft?" Her brow hiked as she brought the cup to her lips.
"Is that what you wanted me to come over for? To talk about Cortez's bitch ass?"
"You might be grown, Honor Gravehart, but you will respect my house. All that damn cursing like I won't put belt to ass!" she scoffed, causing me to laugh.
"Man, Gi, my bad, but I'm not trying to talk about him."
"It's not him we need to talk about. It's you."
"What about me? I'm good."
"Are you?" she quizzed.
Silence swarmed us. The question was loaded with more than words. Doubt and accusation were both loaded in Gi's clip, but that was how she gave it up. Gigi had a special way of making a nigga always feel like the villain in his own muthafuckin' story.
"I'm good, Gi. That shit with Crown is nothing. I'll give him space and then go see about him."
"What if space isn't enough?"
"Ight, enough with the questions. I don't wanna disrespect your home, Gigi, but the way you're coming at me is starting to piss me off." My fingers drummed against the table as a distraction. The steady tap of my fingers was the only thing keeping my anger from flooding the room.
"I appreciate that, but why does it have to get to that when we're just having a conversation. The things in your past?—"
"Gigi, this doesn't have shit to do with my past."
"Then what is it because I'm not understanding."
