Giovanni made gagging noises in the background. Rolani flipped him off without looking.
“Is my man hungry?”
“He something. I miss you.”
“We saw each other at work.” Her laugh floated through the phone, but it sounded lighter than before. Freer.
“Yeah, as professionals. I’m tryna link on some other shit. The kind where you’re wearing that gown with the pockets and nothing else.”
“You are such a mess.” The ease in her voice when she agreed made his pulse kick. “Meet me at my house. My code is the last four digits of my phone number, in case you beat me there.”
The trust in that simple gesture settled over him. She was letting him in—literally and figuratively. No more running. No more walls.
“I’ll see you in a little bit, baby.”
When he disconnected, the biggest smile spread across his face. She made him feel like the first time a boy spots the pretty girl in class and knows she's out of his league, but still decides to shoot his shot.
“See? Look at you,” Giovanni said after he hung up. “Grinning like a kid on Christmas.”
“She called that shit bashful, nigga.” He laughed before brushing his hand down his face. “But real shit, her calling made my whole day.” Rolani couldn’t even front.
“That’s what love is supposed to feel like, my boy. Easy. Natural. Like breathing.”
He was quiet for a second. “I need her to stay, G. That’s all I need from her.”
Giovanni didn’t clown him for it. Just nodded. “She’s staying, bruh.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t sound convinced yet. “I hope. I’ll get up with you.” Rolani was already heading for the door.
“Handle your business.”
He wasted no time getting in the whip and floating to her spot, music low, windows down, feeling lighter than he had in months.
Her car wasn’t in the driveway yet so that meant he’d beat her home. He punched in the code and stepped inside. The apartment looked more settled than before. She had unpacked more boxes, arranged books on the shelves, and hung a few pictures. But the curtain rods were still leaning against the wall in their packaging, and he spotted unopened boxes stacked near the couch.
“That’s my baby,” he muttered.
That Marc Jacobs perfume hit him. The scent was bright and floral. Sometimes at work, he caught it on his collar and completely lost his train of thought.
He walked back to his truck and pulled his toolbox from the bed. He had been carrying tools since Mr. Dowlen first handed him a wrench at fourteen. A man who couldn’t fix things was not much of a man at all, he’d say. That lesson stuck. He learned to fix cars, fix problems, fix whatever was broken.
When he returned, he tossed his hoodie and pistol on the couch and got to work. The bedroom curtains went up first. Her window faced the street directly. He was not about to have her living somewhere any random person could see straight into her space. In the living room, he hung up the SMARD Art set he’d got as a gift for doing good on her diabetes test.
“These are dope as fuck,” he murmured. Three panels of pink roses. Bold and beautiful. He stepped back to check if they were level and studied the colors for a second. The deep pinks bled into softer shades. The petals were so detailed that you could almost feel them.
By the time he heard the code beeping, he was finishing the last box labeled living room. His tools were spread across the coffee table in organized rows, sweat on his brow. He was glad to have finished before she made it in.
She walked in holding grocery bags. Her hair was thrown up in a messy bun. She wore red yoga shorts and an off-the-shoulder t-shirt. She looked pretty as hell with her little belly poking.
“How’d you beat me here?” she asked, shuffling inside. As soon as she saw the curtains up and the pictures hung, her whole face changed. The sight stopped her dead in her tracks. She set down the bags and stared at the curtains, then at him, then at his toolbox.
She smiled. She’d never had a man like this before. Rolani saw what needed to be done and just did it. No fanfare, no waiting to be asked, no making her feel small for needing support.
He was in a wife-beater and low-slung sweats, a hammer hanging from his pocket, his brown skin gleaming. He looked like every good girl’s bad decision, and she was ready to make it twice. She was happy to see him, and the tingle between her thighs and lip between her teeth gave her away.
“Imma handle dat, don’t even trip, doll baby.”
It had started the day she came back. Small things, consistent. A flower arrangement on her desk Monday morning. Her car was detailed without her asking. Her coffee order was waiting when she was running late. Two weeks in, and she was already getting used to it.
