I needed to compartmentalize Truth Renois back into what she was supposed to be: a surrogate. A professional arrangement. Nothing more.
I pulled out my phone.
Scrolled to Alexis St. John’s number.
Stared at it.
Alexis was safe.
Alexis was respectable.
Alexis was a professor at Loyola, went to church with my mother, had a master’s degree and a retirement plan and probably never set foot in the Seventh Ward in her life.
Alexis was everything Truth wasn’t.
Alexis was the logical choice.
The smart choice.
The choice that didn’t risk everything I’d built.
I hit call before I could talk myself out of it.
She answered on the second ring.
“Amai?” Her voice was warm, surprised. “Hi.”
“Alexis.” I kept my tone easy, charming. The version of myself I used at the jewelry shop. “I hope I’m not calling too late.”
“Not at all. I was just grading papers. What’s up?”
“I wanted to take you up on that gallery opening,” I said. “If the offer’s still on the table.”
“Of course it is.” I could hear the smile in her voice. “I’d love that.”
“Good.” I paused. “Actually, I was thinking—what if I picked you up at five-thirty instead of seven? We could grab dinner first. Make a night of it.”
“Oh.” She sounded delighted. “That sounds even better.”
“Perfect. I’ll text you the details.”
“I’m looking forward to it, Amai.”
“Me too.”
I hung up.
Stood there in the silence.
Told myself I’d just made the right decision.
Told myself this was me taking control back.
Told myself Alexis was the answer—the boundary I needed between my professional arrangement with Truth and my personal life.
Told myself I could do this.
I could take Alexis to dinner. I could take her to the gallery. I could be charming and attentive and normal. I could pursue something safe and respectable and appropriate.
