Chapter 3
Monica
A Date? In This Economy?
I woke up the next morning mad at my phone.
Not because it did anything wrong.
Because it had Eric in it.
That was enough.
My alarm went off at 7:15, and before I could even wipe the sleep out of my eyes, I was reaching for my phone like some lovesick teenager with a diary and a gel pen.
Disgusting.
Absolutely shameful.
I unlocked the screen and saw the last message from last night.
ERIC: Goodnight for real, Monica.
That was it.
Nothing poetic. Nothing nasty. Nothing with too many emojis.
Just simple. Direct. Grown.
Which was exactly the problem.
I didn’t know what to do with simple, direct, and grown.
I knew how to handle men who texted “wyd” at 11:43 p.m. like they were allergic to vowels.
I knew how to handle men who called every woman “beautiful” because they couldn’t remember names.
I knew how to handle a man who said, “I’m not ready for a relationship,” then got engaged to a woman with a waist trainer business and three Facebook pages.
I had survival skills.
But Eric?
Eric felt like a pop quiz from God.
I rolled over on my back and stared at the ceiling.
“A date,” I whispered.
Then immediately sat up.
“A date? In this economy?”
My apartment was quiet except for the air conditioner rattling in the window and somebody downstairs dragging a chair across the salon floor like they were moving furniture for the apocalypse.
Morning sunlight slipped through my curtains, touching the gold mirror above my dresser, the stack of event boxes by the wall, and the pile of clean laundry I had been spiritually avoiding for three days.
My place was cute. Small, but cute.
Cream couch. Gold pillows. Fake plant in the corner that had more stability than my love life. A framed print over the TV that said Protect Your Peace, which was funny because peace had not paid rent here since 2021.
I got up and wrapped my robe around me, then walked to the kitchen to make coffee.
My phone buzzed.
I froze.
It was probably a client.
Or Tameka.
Or my bank letting me know I had swiped my card like somebody’s rich auntie again.
I picked it up.
ERIC: Morning.
I stared.
That was all he said.
Morning.
One word.
Why did it feel like he had put a hand on my lower back in a crowded room?
I set the phone down.
“Nope.”
It buzzed again.
ERIC: You sleep good?
I picked it up again because apparently I was weak.
ME: I slept like somebody who had to get up and work today.
ERIC: That’s not an answer.
ME: That’s all you get before coffee.
ERIC: Drink your coffee then. I’ll wait.
I blinked.
I’ll wait?
Who told him to be patient in writing?
I put the phone face down and made my coffee aggressively.
By the time I got dressed and went downstairs, Tameka was already waiting at the front desk like a detective with lip liner. She had on a hot pink tracksuit, gold bamboo earrings, and suspicion all over her face.
“Good morning, woman who got walked to her car last night.”
I stopped on the bottom step. “Who told you that?”
“Mrs. Pearl.”
Mrs. Pearl popped her head from behind the shampoo station. “I didn’t tell. I reported.”
I pointed at her. “You weren’t even there.”
“Baby, I got eyes on 23rd Block.”
“You know that sounds illegal?”
“It’s called community.”
Tameka leaned forward. “So who is Eric?”
I tried to walk past her.
She slid in front of me.
“Tameka.”
“Monica.”
“I have clients.”
“And I have questions.”
Mrs. Pearl came closer, holding her coffee mug with both hands. “Was he tall?”
I sighed. “Yes.”
“Beard?”
“Yes.”
“Tattoos?”
“Unfortunately.”
Tameka gasped. “Unfortunately means you liked them.”
“I did not say that.”
“You didn’t have to. Your face got soft around the word tattoos.”
I touched my cheeks. “My face is normal.”
“Your face is lying.”
I kept walking to my lash room. Tameka followed me, of course, because boundaries were something she believed other families had.
“Did he ask for your number?” she asked.
I started setting up my station. “Maybe.”
“Maybe is yes with a wig on.”
Mrs. Pearl stood in the doorway. “Did he text?”
“Yes.”
Both of them screamed like I had announced twins.
“Please stop,” I said. “It is too early for this much choir rehearsal.”
Tameka grabbed my wrist. “Let me see his picture.”
“I don’t have one.”
“You gave your number to a man and didn’t search his socials?”
“I was tired.”
“You was thirsty.”
“I was hungry.”
“You still hungry this morning?”
“Don’t be nasty.”
“I’m being spiritual.”
Mrs. Pearl nodded. “The body knows.”
“Both of you are going to hell.”
“Not before we find out if that man got benefits,” Tameka said.
I rolled my eyes. “He owns that new lounge on 23rd. Loyalty.”
Tameka’s eyebrows shot up. “Eazy Miller?”
I paused. “You know him?”
“I know of him.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he fine, respected, and women have embarrassed themselves over him in public.”
My stomach tightened a little.
Mrs. Pearl sipped her coffee. “Women embarrass themselves over rent money too. Don’t mean the landlord wrong.”
I looked at Tameka. “What else?”
“He used to be out there a little bit when he was younger, but not messy. More like hood-adjacent with a business plan. He owns King’s Auto Spa too.”
“King’s Auto Spa?” I asked.
“The detail shop on Mason.”
I knew the place. Always busy. Nice cars lined up outside. Men with towels over their shoulders moving like they actually had jobs and not just opinions.
“Okay,” I said slowly.
Tameka narrowed her eyes. “Why you asking like you care?”
“I don’t.”
“You asked follow-up questions.”
“Because I have ears.”
“You have interest.”
“I have caution.”
“You have butterflies.”
“I have gas from lemon pepper wings.”
Mrs. Pearl laughed so hard she had to lean on the doorframe.
My phone buzzed in my back pocket.
Everybody went quiet.
Tameka pointed. “Is that him?”
“How would you know?”
“Because your booty jumped.”
“My booty did not jump.”
“It flinched.”
I pulled the phone out and turned away.
ERIC: What time you done today?
I tried to keep my face still.
Failed.
Tameka slapped Mrs. Pearl’s arm. “Look at her cheeks!”
“Monica blushing like somebody’s niece,” Mrs. Pearl said.
“I am not blushing.”
“You glowing.”
“I’m hot.”
“Mm-hmm,” Tameka said. “Hot and bothered.”
I typed back.
ME: Depends on if people respect appointment times today.
ERIC: What time should I plan for?
I chewed my lip.
Plan.
That word again.
Men did not understand how sexy planning was to a woman who had spent years being asked what she wanted to eat by somebody who had already decided he wanted wings.
ME: 7.
ERIC: I’ll pick you up at 7.
Pick me up.
Lord.
I looked around my lash room like it might give me advice.
ME: I didn’t say you could pick me up.
ERIC: You don’t want me to?
I stared at the message.
That was the trick. He didn’t argue. He gave me room to say no.
Which somehow made me want to say yes.
ME: You can. But send me your full name, birthday, and a picture of your driver’s license.
He replied with a laughing emoji.
Then sent his full name.
Eric Darnell Miller.
Then his birthday.
Then a selfie.
Not a license, but close enough to make my breathing disrespectful.
He was in a black hoodie, chain visible, beard neat, eyes low and calm. No filter. No weird angle. No tongue. No peace sign. Just fine.
I locked my phone immediately.
Tameka lunged. “Let me see!”
“No!”
“You selfish!”
“I am protecting my peace!”
“You protecting that man from being admired by the village.”
Mrs. Pearl held out her hand. “I just want to see if his eyes honest.”
“His eyes are none of your business.”
Tameka gasped. “Oh, you like him.”
“I met him yesterday.”
“And?”
“And normal people take time.”
“Normal people also go to bed at a decent hour and don’t eat hot fries for breakfast. We are not normal people.”
My first client walked in then, saving me from interrogation. She was early, which almost made me believe miracles still happened.
For the next few hours, I worked.
Or at least I tried to.
I did a classic set. A volume fill. A hybrid set on a woman who told me she wanted “natural but dramatic,” which was like asking for quiet fireworks.
I answered messages about a baby shower backdrop.
I ordered balloon garland supplies. I told one client, very gently, that if she slept face down and rubbed her eyes like she was fighting demons, her lashes were not going to survive.
But through it all, my mind kept drifting.
Eric.
Eric standing in front of me at Big Ray’s.
Eric asking if I was good like he had the patience to hear the real answer.
Eric saying he wanted to take me out. Not chill. Not link.
Take me out.
It was too fast.
I knew that.
I had enough sense to know one good night and a fine face did not equal destiny. Chemistry could be a liar. Attraction could put on church clothes and still lead you straight to clown ministry. I had been fooled before.
Terrence fooled me real good.
Three years of “we building,” only for me to find out he was building with everybody. The man had community property with women he barely knew. Had me thinking I was the future while he was sending “good morning queen” texts like a subscription service.
After him, I promised myself I would not be easy to impress.
Then Eric opened his mouth and said, “I’m intentional,” and my standards started acting brand new.
By five-thirty, I was standing in my apartment surrounded by clothes.
Everything was wrong.
The black dress was too much.
The jeans were too casual.
The jumpsuit from yesterday could not make a repeat appearance because I had already given it its moment.
The green wrap dress said soft life.
The red dress said I had planned for sin.
I held both up in the mirror and frowned.
My phone rang.
Tameka.
I answered on speaker. “What?”
“Wear the green.”
I looked around. “Are you in my vents?”
“You always pull out the green when you like somebody but trying to act wholesome.”
“I hate you.”