I almost laughed at how predictable she was.
"'Bout as serious as your tilted uterus," I shot back, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
Her face twisted in offense, and I could see her jaw clench. She hated when I brought up her medical issues—especially that one. The doctors had told her it might make it harder to get pregnant, and ever since, she'd been sensitive about it.
But I didn't give a fuck.
"Can we talk somewhere else?" she snapped, her voice low but venomous. "Away from earshot?"
She emphasized the last two words, glancing toward the kitchen where I could hear Synthia's voice talking softly to the kids, asking them what they wanted to eat.
Without answering, I pushed off the wall and walked toward my bedroom. I didn't wait to see if she'd follow—I knew she would. Trecee always followed when she wanted something.
The hardwood floors creaked under my weight as I made my way down the hallway. I could hear her footsteps behind me—quick, hurried, anxious.
When I reached my bedroom, I stepped inside and leaned against the bed, crossing my arms over my chest. The coverswere messy, flipped back on one side. Evidence that Trecee had been lingering in here earlier, probably going through my shit.
She entered behind me and closed the door with a soft click. Then she walked over, her heels tapping against the floor, and wrapped her arms around my waist from the side.
I didn't move. Didn't hug her back. Didn't even look at her.
I felt nothing.
Looking at her now—her perfectly done makeup, her expensive weave, her designer clothes that I'd paid for—it all felt like a disgrace. A lie I'd been living for too long.
"I don't know what we're doing," she muttered after a few heavy seconds of silence.
Her voice was soft, almost vulnerable. She was trying to appeal to whatever emotions she thought I still had for her.
But there were none.
Running my hand over my waves, I took a deep breath and licked my lips. The air in the room felt stifling, thick with unspoken truths.
"We're drifting apart," I said simply, my voice devoid of emotion. "Shit just ain't the same."
It was the most honest thing I'd said to her in months.
"You look at me like you hate me." Her voice cracked slightly, and I could hear the sadness creeping in.
Years ago—before everything went to shit—that tone would've broken me. I would've held her, kissed her forehead, told her everything was gonna be okay.
But now? Now it didn't do shit to me.
"Because I do, Trecee," I stated boldly, the malice in my voice impossible to miss.
She pulled back slightly and glanced up at me, her eyes searching mine for any hint of a lie. When her eyes began to water, pooling with unshed tears, I didn't feel bad.
Not even a little bit.
The fuck I look like lying about some shit when I ain't never been known to lie?
Trecee knew exactly what she was doing. She knew what she was trying to get out of me. Her birthday was coming up in a few days, and she wanted to parade me around like a trophy—post us on Instagram, make TikToks, show the world that we were this perfect, inseparable couple.
But it was all fake.
None of that shit meant anything to me.
But it meant the world to her. Her entire identity was wrapped up in being "Romelo's girl."
