Page 40 of The Wright Man

Not the version Gavin tolerated. The one Maleek always saw.

Even when no one else did.

Even before the braces came off.

I glanced back at my phone.

Gavin: PS: Wear the black dress.

Not a request. Not a compliment. A command.

I didn't text back. I scoffed and reached for the green one.

I stepped into the olive green dress. It slid over my curves like a glove. Wrapped around my waist like a whisper. Dipped just low enough at the neckline to say I knew exactly what I was working with.

The fabric clung to my hips, skimmed over my stomach, and made my ass look so damn good I almost blushed. Almost.

I added my thickest gold hoops. Layered my favorite necklaces. Slipped on the bangles that jingled like celebration.

One last look before I headed to the salon.

I looked good. Soft and thick in places that didn't used to be, sure—but good. At least... that was the goal.

I wondered what Maleek would think when he saw me.

What if he didn't see her anymore?

What if the girl he used to love wasn't in here at all—just the shell of her?

But then again...

What if he looked at me the way he used to—like nothing about me had ever needed to change?

And God help me... what if I still wanted him to?

* * *

The second I opened the door to Dana's Chair, the warmth hit me like a hug.

Not just the literal warmth—though the space heaters humming by the shampoo bowls didn't hurt—but the heat of laughter, music, Black women talking loud and fast over the hum of blow dryers and the snatch of synthetic hair being braided into scalps. Tank's voice floated through the speakers, begging somebody not to go, and I smiled. Every R&B playlist in here sounded like a grown man begging a Black woman for another chance. We wouldn't have it any other way.

"Boss Lady in the building!"

"Okay, BAWDY! Who you tryna see today?"

"That dress is doing God's work!"

I laughed, cheeks instantly warming. "Y'all are way too loud this early. I'm just here to grab a gift and dip."

"Mmhm," clucked Miss Reesie from behind the front desk, where she'd sat like a cross between a gatekeeper and a gossip oracle for the last three years. She didn't even look up from her Sudoku. "Just like you said you was 'just swinging by' last week and ended up doing two heads and giving Bianca that no-closure sew-in."

"I said what I said," I muttered, ducking past her with a grin.

The shop smelled like product and people and purpose—shea butter and pressing oil, edge control and pink lotion, and that crisp, burnt scent of somebody getting the back of their neck touched up. The noise didn't drain me like everything else had lately. It filled me. Lit something in my chest.

Behind me, Alicia—my ride-or-die from beauty school—was double-tasking like a magician, one hand holding a box braid while the other passed her client a mirror. "Tell your daddy we said happy birthday, Angelica! And if he don't want that decanter, I got shelf space!"

I laughed again, more softly this time. "Thanks, Lish. I think he'll love it."