Saroya’s eyes flicked to the screen. Then back to me.
“Who keeps texting you?” she asked.
I picked up the phone and read the message.How are you feeling?
“Amai,” I said, typing back a quick response.
Saroya leaned forward, grinning. “Amai? The baby daddy Amai?”
“He’s not the baby daddy. He’s—” I stopped. “It’s complicated.”
“Mm-hmm.” She was watching me now, her expression knowing. “He got you smiling like that.”
I looked up. “Like what?”
“Like you’re happy to hear from him.”
I opened my mouth to argue. Then closed it. Because she was right. Iwashappy to hear from him. I looked forward to the texts. To the simple check-ins that saidI’m thinking about youwithout actually saying it.
“It’s not like that,” I finally said.
“Sure, it’s not.” Saroya reached for a beignet. “Just don’t catch feelings for a man who’s paying you to carry his baby. That’s messy as hell.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I didn’t answer.
Because the truth was, I didn’t know. I didn’t know what this was or what it was becoming. I just knew that Amai Landry had become part of my daily life in a way I hadn’t expected. And I didn’t know how to stop it.
The weeks passed in a strange, suspended rhythm. I day traded in the mornings and made small gains that added up over time. I drove my Honda to the grocery store, to Saroya’s house, to Honor’s place in the Ninth Ward. I cooked dinner with Mama and sat on the porch in the evenings, watching the neighborhood move around us.
And every few days, my phone would buzz.
How are you feeling?
You eating enough?
You need anything?
I started responding faster. Started looking forward to the texts. Started wondering what he was doing when he sent them—if he was at his jewelry shop, or in his car, or sitting in that big house in the Garden District thinking about me the way I was thinking about him.
I told myself it didn’t mean anything.
Told myself it was just him being responsible. Making sure his investment was protected.
But late at night, when I couldn’t sleep, I’d scroll back through the messages and wonder if maybe—just maybe—it meant something more.
My phone rang while I was folding laundry in my room.
Dr. Beaumont’s name flashed on the screen.
I answered on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Truth.” Her voice was warm, professional. “How are you feeling?”
“Good,” I said. “Really good, actually.”
