Alexis wouldn’t make me send my personal physician to the Seventh Ward at midnight.
Alexis wouldn’t make me feel like I was losing control of everything I’d spent years building.
But as I stood there, water pounding against my shoulders, all I could think about was Truth.
The way she’d looked at me in the car after I picked her up from the bus stop—humiliated, covered in Fanta, but still defiant.
The way she’d fought beside me in the street without hesitation.
The way her voice had shaken on the phone last night when she thought she’d done something wrong.
The way she’d signed the contract without flinching, even though she had to know what kind of man I was.
I turned the water off.
Dried off.
Got dressed in silence.
My phone was still face-down on the dresser.
Still silent.
I picked it up.
Stared at Truth’s message again.
Then I opened my closet and started pulling out clothes for tonight.
A suit. Expensive but not flashy. The kind of thing you wore to impress a woman like Alexis St. John.
I laid it out on the bed.
Told myself this was the right move.
Told myself I was choosing logic over feeling.
Told myself I could compartmentalize Truth back into her role and move forward with someone appropriate.
But deep down—in the part of me I didn’t want to acknowledge—I knew the truth.
I was lying to myself.
And this decision was going to cost me something I wasn’t ready to lose.
I pulled up to Alexis’s house at exactly 5:30.
Punctuality mattered. It showed respect, intention, and that you valued someone’s time.
Her place was in Gentilly—a renovated shotgun double with fresh paint and a small front garden that looked like someone actually cared for it. Not wealthy, but comfortable. Respectable. The kind of house a Loyola professor could afford on her salary.
I got out of the car and walked up the steps.
Before I could knock, the door opened.
And Alexis stepped out.
She was stunning.
