“Curiosity,” I admit.
Silence stretches.
“You’re allowed to set conditions,” she says. “You don’t have to accept deadnaming. You don’t have to accept disrespect.”
“So what,” I mutter. “I text back and say, ‘Try again?’”
“If you choose to respond,” she says gently, “you can make it clear that you will only engage as Zaria. Not Zaire. Not the ghost of who they want.”
I breathe slowly. “And if they don’t respect that?”
“Then you have your answer.”
I nod. I’ve been avoiding the conversation because part of me still hopes they’ll magically show up correctly. Fully affirming. Fully apologetic. But the messages don’t suggest that.
“They didn’t come to my graduation,” I say quietly.
Dr. Manning nods. “But they’re calling now.”
“Yes.”
“And that stirs something.”
“I don’t know if I want them back in my life,” I whisper. “But I also don’t know if I want to carry this unfinished business forever.”
She smiles faintly. “Those feelings are natural. Wanting the people who hurt you to own their inflicted pain is not wrong.”
I look up at her.
“Whatever you choose,” she says, “make sure it’s about protecting your peace and not punishing your pain.”
I sit back slowly. I’ve been telling myself for years I didn’t them and maybe I don’t. But I do need them to know that if they come back into my life, it will be on Zaria’s terms. Not as someone they’re still mourning. This version of Zaria is strong enough to enforce this boundary especially knowing I have Calil next to me.
It’s been three days since therapy. Three days since I promised myself I wouldn’t keep fighting alone. Three days of almost telling Calil about my family. The gala is tonight. Winston Hills Memorial Hospital is hosting it in Lena’s honor. Her name printed in gold script across the program. Her picture framed near the entrance.
My nerves are doing gymnastics as I stand in Lena’s old bedroom watching Calil get dressed. He doesn’t know I’m staring. He’s standing in nothing but black Calvin Klein boxer briefs, rubbing amber body butter slowly over his shoulders and chest. The scent fills the room—warm, rich, faintly sweet.
His skin glows under the soft lamp light. The muscles in his back shift as his hands glide over his torso. His waves are freshly brushed, catching the light every time he tilts his head.
He looks like both sin and salvation wrapped in six feet plus of sex appeal. Obviously, the scales are tipped more toward him being my salvation. My body reacts instantly and I cross the room without thinking. Step behind him. Press my chest to his back—feeling the heat radiate off his back.
“Can I help?” I whisper against his shoulder.
His body shivers. A slow exhale leaves him as my lips brush just beneath his ear.
“Yes,” he says with the deep timber in his voice that drives me wild.
No hesitation. I slide my hands over his shoulders while taking the jar from his hand. I let my palms move slowly across his chest. Over his sternum. Down the ridges of his abdomen.
He closes his eyes.
“You trying to make me late?” he murmurs.
“I miss your touch,” he hums.
“I miss touching you. I miss you,” I confess as my hands travel to his length that’s growing harder by the second in his boxers.
“Just let me in baby, I won’t let you fall. I’ll catch you every time.”
