“Not at all.”
“Can you explain?” Porsche asks. There’s a hint of humor in her voice, and it grates on my nerves a little.
“Because he made a huge choice for me without consulting me. He leased it for a year.”
“Didn’t you make that list though?”
“Nowhere on the list was a studio.”
“But you said you needed help with Lit with Lily.”
“I did need help. I do need help. But he didn’t ask what kind. He just decided.”
Porsche gets quiet for a second.
That’s how I know she’s starting to understand.
“He’s solving the problem he decided I had,” I say, pacing my living room. “And that’s what keeps messing me up. The space was beautiful, P. It really was. The light was good, there was storage, and he even had a place cleaned up for my paint water. He listened. That’s what makes this worse.”
“How does him listening make it worse?”
“Because he listened just long enough to build his own idea.”
Porsche exhales. “Oh.”
I stop near the window and look out at nothing. He has called twice and texted three times, and I can’t answer him yet. I know if I hear his voice, I’ll either soften too fast or say something I can’t take back.
Neither one helps me.
“It felt good for half a second,” I admit. “When I walked in, I wanted to be happy. I wanted to be the kind of woman who could just accept this beautiful, expensive thing and cry and fall into his arms.”
“But you’re not that woman.”
“No.” I swallow. “And I don’t think he knows that yet.”
Porsche hums. “I think he knows parts of you. The soft parts. The creative parts. The parts that light up when he gives you something pretty. But maybe he still hasn’t figured out the part of you that needs to be asked.”
That’s so true.
I sit on the arm of the couch and press my fingers against my forehead.
“I don’t want to sound ungrateful.”
“You’re allowed to not want a year-long lease you didn’t agree to.”
“I know.”
“And you’re allowed to be mad that he did a nice thing in the wrong way.”
I close my eyes.
That’s it. He did a nice thing in the wrong way, and that’s why I feel so twisted up about it. If he had done something cruel, this would be easier. If he had dismissed me or embarrassed me or acted like the old Javonte in some obvious way, I could put my hurt in the right box and leave it there.
But he looked so proud and hopeful, like he had finally figured out how to love me out loud, and I still had to leave.
Porsche’s voice softens. “Have you talked to him?”
“No.”
