Page 170 of The Wright Man

He smirked, and it made something settle in me. We were okay. We were here.

He opened the door and let me step in first, and the scent of him—warm spices, sandalwood, soap—hit me like a hug I didn't know I needed. The house hadn't lost its soul. It had just... evolved.

The floor plan was the same. So were the bones. But there were pieces now that spoke to who he'd become. Small changes in decor, lighting. There was strength in every corner of the space, but also softness. It was curated but lived-in. Structured but loving.

It was him.

And it still felt like us.

I stepped over the threshold, and it felt like my childhood and my future collided. I could hear Dana humming in the kitchen. Tina and Kareem arguing over snacks. Bella cackling at whatever anime episode was playing on the TV. I could hear the echo of Maleek's voice behind me saying "Angel, you comin' or what?"

I turned to him. He was watching me, something reverent in his eyes. Like he was afraid one wrong word would send me running again.

I smiled at him. Not wide. Not sure. But real. Honest.

His lips curved, and the way he looked at me in that moment made me feel like everything broken inside me wasn't beyond repair.

And then I remembered. The puke. The tears. The mascara I didn't even wear. The possible pit stains in my hoodie.

I cringed internally and took a tiny step back.

"Can I... can I wash up?" I asked, sheepish. "I feel disgusting. And I kinda threw up after I saw Gavin."

His brows furrowed in concern, no judgment in sight. "That bad?"

"Worse," I muttered.

He nodded. Calm. Understanding. Never pushing.

"I'll get you a towel and washcloth," he said. "There's a spare toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. And I'll grab you one of my shirts, if you don't want to sleep in that hoodie."

"That would be perfect," I said quietly.

He disappeared down the hall, and I took the chance to really look around.

Photos lined the hallway. New ones. Old ones.

One of him and Kareem passed out on the couch, Kareem's afro matted on one side, Maleek's mouth hanging open. One of Ms. Dana and her boys in red Christmas sweaters, the joy on her face so bright it made my heart ache. And then...

Oh.

One of me, Tina, and Ms. Dana—back when I was about twelve—wearing clownishly bad makeup during one of her early lessons. I looked like I'd lost a fight with a Crayola marker. Tina looked like she'd auditioned for The Muppets. But we were all laughing, wide-mouthed, carefree.

I hadn't seen that photo in years.

Maleek walked up behind me. His voice was low, nostalgic. "I remember y'all were about to wipe your faces, and Mama said 'not until I get a picture of my baby clowns.' She laughed so hard, she had to sit down."

My throat tightened. "She said I looked like I was Ronald McDonald’s daughter."

He chuckled. "Tina said you looked like a Bratz doll with Parkinson's."

We laughed softly. Quietly. Letting it echo into the silence like a benediction.

He held up a towel, a folded shirt, and a washcloth. "These are for you. Toothbrush is in the—"

"Medicine cabinet," I finished, smiling. "I remember."

I reached out to take them from him. My hands trembled, just slightly. He didn't say anything. Just let me go.