“Yeah, I could see how all those arms and all those legs and all that body of his would be helpful to you,” Charisse says.
I shake my head. “No, not like that. Really, he just makes the process faster.”
“If fast is what you want,” Charisse says.
“Oh my God, stop.”
“I’m just saying.”
“It’s not anything, okay? He’s just being nice to me.”
“Why?” Porsche asks. “Why does he need to be nice to you? Why does he need to be anything to you? You could hire some high school kids to move your stuff. You could get volunteers. Why him?”
I don’t have an answer for that.
“He showed up.”
“Don’t let him play in your face again, Lily,” Porsche says. “He took you for granted once. Don’t be the fool twice.”
“She was never a fool, Porsche,” Charisse says. “And helping is not a crime. If he wants to earn his way back into your good graces, there’s nothing wrong with a little physical labor.”
She pauses, then tilts her head. “But you do have to think... what does he want in return?”
I look between them.
Does he want something in return?
“I don’t know if it’s like that,” I say.
They both give me a look.
I laugh and throw my hands up. I mean, maybe it is, but I’m in control, right?
Charisse raises an eyebrow. Porsche just shakes her head like she’s disappointed in me.
“Tell us how it goes tomorrow. From his bed,” Porsche says.
Wow.
“Girl, quit! But do tell us how it goes,” Charisse adds, winking. “And make sure you look really good.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Okay, y’all. I miss you. Bye.”
They say bye, and we hang up.
I stay in my office, staring into the distance again.
Not as sad.
Not warm either.
The rest of the day drags on, but once I’m back home, I’m filled with anxiety. Usually, thinking about my outfit for a pop-up poses no issue, but Charisse telling me to wear something cute rings in my ears. I’m overthinking whether or not each outfit I pick feels like I’m trying.
Nerves never factor into these events, but now, with Javonte coming because I asked him to, I’m on edge.
I finally throw something on and leave the house without looking in the mirror again.
Our few interactions keep running through my head as I drive. The portrait he painted of me sits on my dresser in my bedroom. I see it every morning when I wake up, and it affects me the same way each time.
