Page 151 of The Sweetest Return

“I believe you.”

“That don't fix it.”

“No.”

Simple.

Merciless.

True.

Pops leaned against the railing. “You remember how you used to run through the house when you were little?”

I frowned. “What?”

“Three, four years old. Big head. Fast feet. No sense. You'd tear down the hallway shoulder-first and knock into laundry baskets, tables, your sister, whatever was there. Your mama would yell, ‘Andre, slow down,’ and you'd say, ‘I ain't hurting nothing.’”

I almost smiled.

“You were hurting everything.”

“Damn.”

“You weren't trying to. That was the point. You thought because your heart wasn't bad, the damage wasn't yours.”

That one landed.

“I cared about Aubrey.”

“I know.”

“Just not the way she needed.”

“That part matters.”

“So what was I supposed to do? Leave sooner?”

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

I laughed once. “All right.”

“You asked.”

Pops looked toward the yard again. “Caring about a woman ain't the same as choosing her. You can bring flowers, take trips, show up, be kind. All that can be real. But if she wants the whole seat beside you and some part of it already belongs somewhere else, then she don't even know why she keeps sitting halfway out.”

My throat worked.

“That don't make you evil,” he said. “It makes you irresponsible.”

I let that sit.

“What about Imani?”

“What about her?”

“She left this morning. Saw the pictures, I think. I called. She ain't answering.”