I run my hand over my face and take a deep breath as I look out from my porch at the backyard I’ve landscaped beautifully.
It’s like a jungle out here. So peaceful.
This conversation is making me anxious.
I fake a yawn. “I had a long day tomorrow, y’all, so I gotta go. Talk to you guys another time. Love you.”
I quickly click out of the call and set my phone down.
I wasn’t ready for that conversation.
I wasn’t ready to see him today.
In my bed, I can’t resist the urge to pull up the pictures I have of him. I type his name into my Google Photos, and every picture I took of him, that we took together, pops up.
I didn’t post any of these on social media.
They were private. Moments I captured to hold close to my heart.
I look through almost every moment and remember how it felt to be with him. To have his focus. To be his number one.
It gave me everything, but it doesn’t feel real anymore.
It stopped feeling real when he dismissed me, and I won’t let myself forget that.
Do I want to talk to him?
I look at the last picture in my feed of him and us. We’re at that party, and the look on my face tells me I never wanted to be there in the first place, that I just went because he wanted me to.
I’mnot longer in the business of doing things because people want me to.
No, I don’t want to talk to him.
Chapter 3 Javonte
I’ve been sitting in my car for the past ten minutes, trying to decide if I need to go in early so as not to surprise her too much, or if I should just go in like a regular customer.
I shouldn’t be going in there at all, although I did pay my money like a paying customer should.
Am I coming on too strong?
I’m just here to paint. I’m just here to paint and see her. How is that strong? It’s open to the public.
Your boy is public.
It starts in five minutes, so I get out of my car and make my way into the botanical garden.
It’s gonna be hot today, so I’m glad she has it at 7:00 a.m. Nobody wants to be out here painting in the garden and sweating, but I figure she knows what she’s doing.
I don’t know how she manages the schedule, though. I know she still works in HR at that firm, and she does this just about every day.
There’s a line of women signing in to the event. I don’t even know what we’re painting or how long this is going to be. I just signed up.
“What’s your name?” she asks with her head down.
“It’s down under J,” I tell her.
She looks up, and her eyes meet mine, but her expression is unreadable.
