The Probability of Us (Improbable Love #1)

Chapter 1

THREE FINES MEANS YOU’RE NOT FINE

JAHLANI

All things considered, Micah ending things with Jahlani on a random Tuesday afternoon over two bowls of mint chocolate chip ice cream is rather banal.

Just another blip in her day. It’s not a grandiose spectacle where she slaps him across the face, throws her melted green paste at him, and tells him to go to hell.

It’s a far cry from that.

Instead, as they sit opposite each other in their usual spot—the black booth towards the front of the parlor—she considers two possibilities.

The first is to confess the truth, which is that she despises mint chocolate ice cream.

Really, anything combining those flavors together is an insult to her taste buds.

The second thing plaguing her thoughts, as she swirls her spoon around the bowl, is how she allowed herself to end up here.

Here, across from a man who’s been made to feel that the world revolves around him. She knows it’s not his fault. Not really. If anything, it’s his parents’ doing. Always at his beck and call. Fixing his problems for him.

Jahlani’s life is a stark contrast. If she wants even the bare minimum, she has to work twice as hard as the next person.

And sometimes that still isn’t enough.

Some na?ve part of her thought that was what made her and Micah compatible. That he would wake up one day and recognize that you have to work hard for the things you want in life, that things don’t just get handed to you.

She believed they would evolve together.

But it’s here on this arbitrary Tuesday afternoon, where the sky is that restless murky gray—the shade that makes you want to hide from the banshee-like wails of thunder and streaks of lightning—that Micah starts his breakup speech.

At a certain point in time between “we’re not on the same page anymore” and “you’re always working,” she decides she’s had enough and can’t stomach this thing they call a flavor anymore.

Letting the metal spoon clatter, she digs her nails into her palm, her knee bouncing under the table.

And as he drones on, she isn’t sure why, after all these years, she’s felt the need to preserve his ego for something as simple as ice cream.

Jahlani averts her gaze to the large shop door as the bell overhead chimes.

A woman weighed down by shopping bags stumbles in with two little girls, leaving a trail of muddy footprints as they make their way to the counter.

Jahlani drops her head against the window, noticing the rivulets of water starting to build against the pane.

She takes in the cramped brick buildings with rusted fire escapes, dog walkers, business professionals, and students as they share the darkening sidewalk of Lower Manhattan. She’s suddenly envious of all of them.

They have intentions.

A destination.

Purpose.

And as her throat clogs, another devastating string of words falls past Micah’s lips, waking her from her hazy state of insensibility.

“What?” she says, unwinding her arms. The green strings of her knit cardigan drag through the sticky mess on the table as she grips the edge of the seat. Suddenly, the booth is too small. There’s not enough space for her to breathe.

Micah stares at her. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

She inhales deeply as she takes him in. “Uh, sorry. Repeat the last part?” She clears her throat, shifting against the leather.

She looks on, her heartbeat accelerating, as he pulls apart his napkin. His eyebrows furrow in concentration. He sighs, dropping the mangled scraps and presses the palms of his hands to his face.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about. It’s like you’re not even here. It’s like I’m talking to a wall, Jahlani.”

Her shoulders deflate, and she lowers her gaze.

“Oh,” she says, feeling rather stupid, but what else is there to say? “I just have a lot on my mind,” she says, rubbing her forehead. “Truthfully, I’ve been—”

“Jasmine thinks I need to be with a more present partner. Someone who listens to me,” he says, interrupting her. “Someone who talks to me. And I agree with her.”

At the mention of her name, Jahlani’s head lifts.

“Jasmine?” she asks, hating how small her voice sounds. How afraid.

Because she knows Jasmine. They met at a fundraising event that his company held.

Last year.

Micah’s eyes divert from hers, and it’s all the confirmation she needs.

Jahlani runs her tongue over her teeth, nodding as she takes in his tense shoulders.

“So, let me get this right,” she says. “You’re ending things with me because Jasmine told you I’m not a ‘present partner’?”

He sucks in air, scratching the back of his head. “Don’t make this about her. She has nothing to do with it.”

She rolls her eyes and folds her arms over her chest. “Spare me. She has everything to do with it.”

He shifts forward, his mouth poised for rebuttal, but Jahlani raises her hand, letting out a derisive laugh.

“So, when did you have this riveting conversation with her about our relationship? Before or after you slept with her?”

Micah’s shoulders fall from his ears, his eyes downcast like a scolded puppy. He lets out a heavy breath as he drags a hand through his hair.

“You weren’t around, and I got tired of waiting,” he says, his voice low. “Jasmine was there. She listened, and it was nice.”

Jasmine was there. She listened.

The words ricochet through her head, and she waits and waits for something.

For anything.

For the words to strike through her heart, for her stomach to tumble into an abyss, for the flood of hysteria to overwhelm her senses, but it never manifests.

Instead, Jahlani lets his words settle over her like a weighted blanket.

Heavy yet comforting because it’s here, as she watches him, with his shiny curls, broad shoulders, and freshly trimmed beard, that the realization dawns on her: Micah and her were never going to work.

And it’s here that she realizes that, despite him unraveling their relationship in a few seconds, a small part of her is relieved it’s over.

She’s free.

Turning in the direction of the crowded streets, she watches as the rain escapes from the clouds. People run, using newspapers, tailored jackets, and purses to protect themselves.

Exhaling, she unwinds her arms, turning back to face him. “Okay.”

And it must not have been the reaction he was expecting because his eyebrows raise. “Okay?”

“Okay,” she says again, lifting her shoulders.

Micah pauses, clearly in shock, before scooting closer, jerking the round marble table between them with a tap of his index finger against it. “I just ended our two-year relationship and admitted to cheating on you, and all you have to say is ‘okay’?”

He puts air quotes around the word, and the whole thing is quite comical.

At least to her.

Lifting her chin up, she straightens her posture. “What do you want me to say?”

Scoffing, he pushes his ice cream to the side. “I don’t believe this,” he grits out. He rakes his left hand through his hair, but the strands fall back against his forehead. He braces his elbows on the table, gathers the shredded napkins, and crushes them further.

Poor napkins.

“See, this is your problem. I give and I give and you’re like”—he pauses, eyes darting around the room—“you’re like a machine.”

At this, her eyebrow raises, as he continues.

“You don’t know how to relax and take a break. You make everyone around you think they’re not enough just because they don’t want to work themselves to death.”

Her eyes become smaller as she inches closer. “Not everyone has daddy and mommy’s money to fall back on—”

“See? This is what I’m talking about. I haven’t had to sweat for anything a day in my life, and you can’t stand it, right?”

She falls back, pressing her fingers to her temple, looking at him. “You don’t get it.”

He exhales a strangled sound, and for a few seconds, neither of them speaks. He turns to face the window as it rattles, a thunderous clap echoing outside that startles several customers in the store. The whir of blenders and clang of spoons halt when the lights flicker overhead.

The conversations around her still momentarily, before continuing in hushed tones. She watches a few people leave, gathering their belongings. She realizes she should do the same.

Before it gets worse.

“Do you love me?” he asks, turning to look at her.

Her heart stops for a moment, and her skin prickles. She knows the right thing is to say it, but instead she scoffs.

“What?”

He moves forward, eyes bouncing over her face. “Do you love me?”

“I—” she pauses, searching his face, his gaze that seems to be pleading with her. “Of course I love you. Loved you,” she says, correcting herself.

He shakes his head, running his tongue over his teeth. “Yeah, next time, try to say it without sounding like you’re being held at gunpoint.”

She clenches her fist, her skin tightening. “Oh, I’m sorry, was my affection not good enough for you? Did it not check all the boxes on your ‘How to Love Micah’ list?”

His lip curls upward. “Screw you, Jahlani.”

“No, screw you,” she says in a harsh whisper. “You cheated on me. You left me.”

“This is why,” he says in a hushed tone. “This is why.”

Her body trembles as she exhales. “Tell yourself whatever you need to sleep better at night, but you’re not the victim here, and I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

She shakes her head, her heart pounding in her ears as he rubs his jaw, settling back.

“You know what?” he says. “You’re intelligent, good at what you do, you’ve made it far for a woman, but this obsession you have with your career, your detachment …

it’s going to cause you to end up alone.

” He raises a finger, tapping it to his temple.

“Wake up and realize that because you lost a good man. I’d hate for you to lose another. ”

Jahlani’s lips part, her face flushing in bewilderment as she barks out a laugh.

“A good man?”

Drawing out a ragged breath, his shoulders slump. “I’m not trying to be mean. I’m just telling you the truth. If you worried less about that internship and spent more time on our relationship and me”—he waves his hand in the space between them—“we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

Cutting her eyes, Jahlani lets out a soft scoff, looking over his closed fists and drawn eyebrows.

So, this is who you really are.

Shifting closer, she sets a finger on the table.

“No. This situation wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t the type of man intimidated by a woman's intelligence. You’re the problem. Not me.”

Her inhale is long and drawn out, and she tries to control her chest rising and falling. She stares across the table as he wipes his hand down his mouth.

“Jahlani, I care about you, which is why I’m telling you this: you need to talk to someone. You need a therapist.”

At this, her skin flushes. She looks around, suddenly remembering that they’re in public. Lowering her head, she does everything to control her pitch from rising as more people walk in and out of the parlor, swallowing the acid in her throat.

“Fuck you, Micah,” she says. “You don’t get to cheat on me, blame me for this relationship falling apart, and give a half-assed attempt at psychoanalyzing me with some bullshit you probably read on WebMD. I don’t need you or anyone else.”

His jaw ticks. “Keep telling yourself that,” he says before letting out a humorless laugh. “I can’t do this anymore.”

He stands up from the booth so that he towers over her. “I’m going to stay with a friend for a few days. We can talk about the living arrangements once we’ve both had some space.”

She says nothing, her gaze fixed on the melted bowl of ice cream as he sighs, stepping past her and out the parlor door, the bell ringing above her.

She sinks back into the booth, biting her nail, her mind spiraling.

The saccharine scent of waffle cones being pressed drifts across the room as she inhales, then rises from her seat, throwing the remains of her food out.

As she steps out onto the damp pavement beneath the bleak New York skyline, the rain dampening her hair and clothes, she can’t help feeling like it’s crying for her.

With her.

At her.

Hastening to the subway, she forces herself through the crowded streets.

She squeezes past cigarette smokers and bypasses several food stalls, shaking her head as numerous people try to hand her damp flyers.

Her head remains tucked as she makes her way down the stairs to the platform, doing her best to avoid eye contact with other commuters because it feels like someone is running a fist the size of a gallbladder through her chest.

Jahlani steps onto the train, sinking into the first open seat she finds. The window is smudged with red lipstick that says ‘love conquers all’ and before she can process what she’s doing, she wipes it away with her sleeve. Her shoulders slump, and she buries her face in her hands.

A feeble older woman sits next to her, reading the newspaper. Suddenly, it folds down and into the large, teal alligator purse propped in between them. Jahlani wipes the moisture from her cheeks with the back of her palm. She’s not crying because she’s hurt about anything that he said.

She’s crying because—

“Honey, are you okay?”

What now?

Jahlani wipes her face with more urgency, mustering her best my life is not on fire smile she can as she turns to the woman.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Just got caught in a storm.”

For the past two years of my life.

As she settles in for the rest of the ride, she convinces herself that this is for the best. She repeats the words in her mind as a quiet comfort, but they do nothing to soothe the trepidation that lingers as the train doors slide closed.