The drive back to my place was quiet. Fontaine hadn’t even bothered to turn on the radio. Atlanta’s skyline flickered across the windshield as we cruised down the interstate. I occasionally glanced at him from my periphery—his expression was steely, one hand on the wheel, jaw set, staring straight ahead.
I kept taking deep breaths, but my heart kept beating like it was trying to punch through my ribs. Parker’s words and that smug look on her face replayed on an endless loop in my head. Yeah, I was definitely gonna kill that bitch.
When we pulled up to my building, Fontaine parked and cut the engine but didn’t move.
“You coming up?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
The elevator ride up was thick with silence.
I led the way to my condo, tossing my keys on the console by the door, not bothering to take off my coat. Fontaine stopped just inside the doorway, bracing himself like he didn’t know what was coming next.
“Nai—”
“I’m not ashamed,” I said, cutting him off.
He reared back a bit.
“I had the procedure done years ago. Nobody forced me.” I lifted my chin. “Women in my line of work can’t afford surprises. And nobody was going to use a child against me and I wasn’t bringing a child into the kind of dysfunction I grew up in. That cycle needed to end with me. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think we’d get here,” I said, my voice dropping. “But I don’t regret it.”
He crossed the room until he was standing in front of me.
“I wasn’t gonna ask you to explain,” he said. “I appreciate that you did, but she had no right to take the option to tell me away from you.”
“Do you still want to be with me?” I asked nervously.
“You think a stipulation for us to be together is a child?” he asked. “I’m with you because you’re it for me. I just want to create a life with you. Doesn’t matter if there’s a kid or not.”
“Fontaine…” I started, but he shook his head.
“I know what kind of woman you are,” he said. “You’ve done shit, seen shit, made choices that would break the average person. But that’s part of what I love about you. You look me in the face and own your choices.”
16 /FONTAINE JACKSON
“Mama,you know your son got a lil’ girlfriend now?” Drea said with a grin as she took a sip of her sweet tea.
We were at her house for Sunday brunch—something she insisted we do every week when we could. The table was a full spread of eggs, bacon, pancakes, grits, and plenty of fresh fruit.
Mama looked up from her plate, brows raised. “What’s this now?”
I side-eyed my sister. She knew I couldn’t cuss her ass out because Gunnar was with us, happily drowning his pancakes in syrup. “Yeah…something like that,” I muttered.
“When were you gonna say something?” Mama asked, wiping her mouth with her napkin. The look on her face said I was about to get the third degree. “Who is she?”
My mother, Maria Jackson, still turned heads at sixty-seven. She kept her silver hair pressed and curled, her tawny skin was smooth with only the slightest hint of wrinkles. She was the walking epitome ofBlack don’t crack—and she made sure we never forgot it.
“I was gon’ say something eventually,” I said. “We’re still figuring things out.”
Mama sucked her teeth. “This the problem with you youngpeople. Figuring things out.” She rolled her eyes. “Either you with somebody or you not. Ain’t no figuring.”
Drea bit into her bacon. “To be fair, Mama…they do have a little history.”
“Excuses,” Mama scoffed.
“Uncle ‘Taine got a girlfriend?” Gunnar perked up, syrup on his chin. “Is she pretty?”
I groaned. “Yeah, she’s pretty.”
