“Don’t encourage her,” I muttered.
“I’m not. I just—Theory, baby, this is a lot.”
That almost made me cry, which pissed me off immediately. I blinked hard and reached for my new shot glass.
“Itisa lot,” Emory agreed. “A marriage under pressure, secrets, violence, the attack, finding out you tied to a Bratva family? Baby, Hollywood on the way for this one.”
Akeira nodded. “Definitely too much for one day. And nobody can tell you it isn't.”
Epiphany, who had been quiet too long, swirled her drink and looked at me over the rim. “But I like him.”
I turned to stare at my sister. “Pip.”
“What?” she asked, shrugging. “I do. I’m not saying he’s not… a lot. He is. He’s dangerous and sounds controlling and entirely too arrogant.”
I looked at her, waiting for the “but”; otherwise, shit sounded terrible. She sipped so slowly that I moved to smack the drink out of her hand. She moved quick then, raggedy heffa.
“Them shooters didn't fuck you up, but I will, big sis. I was gon' say 'but he loves you.’”
Hyacinth kissed her teeth. “That ain’t enough. A lot of niggas love you and still be ruining your life.”
“True, But that’s not what I feel from him,” Pip countered.
I sighed and rubbed my forehead. “Well, what do you feel, or do I need to get the crystal ball?”
Her mouth twisted. “First of all, you trying it. Second, I feel like that man would set himself on fire if it kept you warm.”
A little silence fell over us.
Even Hyacinth didn’t joke right away.
See, that was the problem. Not whether Targen loved me. I knew somehow, despite our short time together and long absence apart, there was a good chance that he did. Maybe not the healthiest, most normal way on earth, but hey, a little toxic went a long way with me. But yeah, the love... I had felt it in his hands, in his mouth, in the room he’d built for me, in the fact that when I was panicking on the side of that road, my dangerous husband looked at me like I was the one thing in the world he was most scared of losing. Ugh! He made this keeping-my-distance-til-I figured-shit-out thing hard. I sighed.
“I care about him. Too much, probably,” I admitted quietly.
Emory leaned toward me. “He's your husband. That’s not a bad thing.”
“It feels like one. He disappeared on me–”
“The man said he didn't want to,” Pip interrupted.
“It could happen again. Who knows how the Bratva works? He not about to pop twenty-three kids in me then go missing five years cuz the organization needs it,’” I argued.
Another silence, heavy because my family knew–
"Twenty-three? Five? Is this what we call 'hyperbole?' I feel like it is. The teacher in me is almost sure it is,” Hyacinth's annoying ass teased, easing the moment.
I wrinkled my nose at her. “Anyway, we also gotta consider that he said fuck what I want and made me marry him,” I continued.
“Okay, that's a big one. But cousin?” Emory began.
“Huh?”
“You don't seem particularly distraught.'”
I flipped her off, tossed back my second... no, third shot, signaled for another, and pressed on.
“Also, he lied. Or omitted the truth. Or whatever cute mafia word we wanna use. He let me marry him without telling me who he really was. Nobody wanna be married to a lying ass nigga.”
