I shot him a look. “Rome, I don’t need?—”
“I didn’t ask what you need. I said get what you want.” His tone left no room for argument.
The associate, sensing a commission that would make her month, immediately went into action. I tried on dresses that cost more than my old rent. The fabrics so soft they felt like water against my skin. There was a champagne—colored number that hugged every curve, an peach cocktail dress with a plunging neckline and a white linen short set that made me rich and dainty.
“Come out here,” Romelo called from where he sat in a plush chair, looking every bit the king holding court.
I stepped out in the champagne dress, suddenly shy. His eyes traveled from my face down to my toes and back up again, slow and deliberate, taking me in.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice low and deep, as he licked his lips. “That’s the one. Get two of them.”
The associate’s eyes widened. “All of them?”
“You deaf or you just heard of hearing,” he grimaced, glancing her way momentarily.
Quick on her feet, the saleswoman turned beet red, as she hurried to the register to ring up the items after ringing up dresses she grabbed off the shelf.
The side bar chit chat, as we exited Valentino, he mentioned to me how his mama has a bag dealer. His father spoiled her with rich bags. Her taste was expensive, at her own right and she didn’t have to mention it to him if she wanted something. Her bag dealer knew what she liked.
Still moving store to store, Romelo held all the designer bags. I pulled out my phone and took a boomerang of him, walking slightly ahead of me and posted it in my close friends. I wanted to do a cute reveal and didn’t want the world knowing about us yet.
I was getting everything, per his request—a Cartier love bracelet that Romelo fastened around my wrist. Sunglasses andmore lip gloss from Dior, a beach bag from Goyard, lingerie from La Perla and a sets from Alo.
“Try this on,” he said, holding up a necklace that caught the light and threw rainbows across the wall as we stood in Tiffany’s
“Romelo, this is too much?—”
“Ain’t nothin’ too much for you.” He said it so matter-of-factly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Quit fuckin’ fightin’ me when it comes to shit like this. You told me your love language, now I’m showin’ you mine. I’ma trick.” He grabbed the cusp of chin, the sales associate witnessing everything.
I stopped fighting him and let him spoil me, let him drape me in luxury, let him show me what it felt like to be cherished. When the sun started to set, painting the sky in shades of orange, pink and purple. We walked along the beach, shopping bags dangling from my hands ow too. The steel drums echoed in the air again, the music floating heavy in the breeze. I was on cloud nine and I didn’t want to get off. It felt like a euphoric high and butterflies were fluttering around in my stomach.
“Thank you,” I said softly, as we walked on the cobblestone.
“For what, Juicy?”
“For this. For all of it. For making me feel like I matter.”
He looked on, his piercing eyes, glazing from the sun, then they landed on me. There was a hint of love in his eyes.
“You do. I’m just waiting on you to realize that.”
Everything felt so ethereal. This moment was ours and no one could take this away from me. I found the love of my life and I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t have to surface my problems. I could breathe with them on the back burner.
“I know shit is complicated. I know we got a mess waiting on us back home tomorrow, but right here, right now, this is real and what I feel for you is real.”
He stopped in his tracks. Then he craned his neck to kiss me hard as the sun continued to dip below the horizon and for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe that everything would be okay.
CHAPTER NINE
TRECEE JONES
12:00 P.M
The house was quiet. Too quiet. I could hear my mama snoring through the thin walls. She didn’t even speak when she saw me, aside from me telling her I needed something to help me sleep. She reached inside her purse and tossed me a pill bottle without a label, then her drunk ass walked past me, rolled her eyes, and went to her room. My little brother was asleep, passed out cold on the couch, coughing in his sleep. The air felt thick, pressing down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I’d been staring at the ceiling for hours, tracing the popcorn texture, counting stains and cracks.
My phone screen lit up my face in the darkness. I’d been scrolling past Instagram for the past hour, torturing myself. The bottle of Casamigos was half-empty. I found it in my mama’s stash. I took another swig, not even bothering with a cup. The burn felt good going down. At least I could feel something other than the hollow ache in my chest.
I clicked on Romelo’s profile. His story popped up—another video of Synthia. My heart sank. She wasn’t posing, just…serene. Calm. Pretty. My thumb hovered over his name, wanting to call, text, beg. But my pride wouldn’t let me.
