Chapter 3 #3
“Like what?”
“Like you got a thought.”
“I got several.”
“Keep them.”
“I’m trying.”
My stomach flipped again.
I pointed a fry at him. “You said you’d behave.”
“I am.”
“You sure?”
“Monica, if I wasn’t behaving, you’d know.”
The way he said my name made the air change.
I looked away, but not fast enough.
He saw everything.
That was becoming a problem.
After dinner, he stood and held out his hand. “Dance with me.”
I laughed. “There is no dance floor.”
“It’s a rooftop. Plenty of floor.”
“I don’t dance on first dates.”
“You got rules for everything?”
“Yes.”
“How they working for you?”
I should have been offended.
I was.
A little.
But the truth had slipped into his question quietly.
I had rules. Walls. Systems. Escape routes.
And somehow, this man had been gently tapping on all of them since yesterday.
I stood but did not take his hand right away. “One song.”
He smiled. “One song.”
I took his hand.
He pulled me close, but not too close. His hand rested at my waist like he knew it belonged there but wasn’t going to claim it without permission. Mine landed on his shoulder.
The music was slow. The night was warm. The city glowed around us.
I tried to focus on anything except how solid he felt under my hand.
“So,” I said, “how many women you bring up here?”
His hand stilled for half a second.
“None.”
I gave him a look. “Eric.”
“I’m serious.”
“This rooftop looks suspiciously ready for romance.”
“It was ready for construction workers and permit stress until this afternoon.”
I studied him.
He let me.
No blinking. No smirk. No defensiveness.
“Why me?” I asked before I could stop myself.
His eyes softened. “Because you felt different.”
“That’s vague.”
“It’s honest.”
“Different how?”
He looked down at me for a long moment.
“Some women look good,” he said. “You felt like peace.”
My breath caught.
I hated that.
I hated that he could say something that sounded like a line but make it feel like a confession.
I tried to joke because joking was what I did when emotions got too close.
“Peace? I threatened to fight a man with soda.”
“And still.”
I shook my head. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough to want to.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“Only if I’m not serious.”
“And are you?”
His hand tightened slightly at my waist.
“Very.”
The song kept playing, but I barely heard it. We were barely moving now, just swaying under the lights like the whole city had stepped back to give us room.
His eyes dropped to my mouth.
Mine did the same to his because apparently I had no home training.
The space between us got smaller.
My heart started acting like it had somewhere to be.
Eric leaned in slowly. So slowly I could have stopped him. So slowly I knew he was giving me time to choose.
I didn’t move.
His lips brushed my forehead first.
Soft. Warm. Reverent.
Not the kiss I expected.
Somehow better.
My eyes closed before I gave them permission.
He stayed there for one second, maybe two, then pulled back.
I looked up at him, confused and entirely too touched.
“That’s it?” I whispered.
His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed serious.
“For now.”
“Why?”
“Because if I kiss your mouth tonight, Monica, I’m going to want more than one kiss. And I told you I’m trying to know you right.”
Lord.
I needed to sit down.
Or call a friend.
Or call a pastor.
Something.
I stepped back slowly. “You always say stuff like that?”
“Only when I mean it.”
“That’s inconvenient.”
“For who?”
“My nervous system.”
He laughed softly and reached for my hand again, kissing my knuckles this time.
A kiss on the hand.
Who did he think he was? A hood prince?
I was not built for this.
After a little while, he drove me home.
The ride back was quieter, but not awkward. My head was full. My body was warm. My heart was doing too much without a permit.
When he pulled up in front of the salon, Tameka’s lights were off, thank God. Mrs. Pearl’s upstairs lamp was on, though, which meant she was probably watching from behind the curtain with binoculars and a prayer cloth.
Eric walked me to the door.
Of course he did.
“I had a good time,” I said.
“Me too.”
“Thank you for dinner.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And for the garnish wings.”
“Ray said don’t call them that.”
“Tell Ray I said he fancy now.”
Eric smiled, then grew quiet.
The air changed again.
I knew he wanted to kiss me.
I knew I wanted him to.
That was the problem.
I had spent all night feeling safe with him, laughing with him, opening up just enough to scare myself. A kiss would not be just a kiss. Not with him.
It would be a door.
And I did not know if I was ready to walk through it.
Eric stepped closer, then stopped.
“Goodnight, Monica.”
I looked up. “Goodnight, Eric.”
He kissed my forehead again.
Same spot.
Same softness.
Then he waited until I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
I leaned against the door after closing it, hand pressed to my chest like some dramatic woman in a movie.
I was not dramatic.
I was concerned.
There was a difference.
I walked upstairs to my apartment in a daze, kicked off my sandals, and dropped onto my couch.
My phone buzzed almost immediately.
I smiled before checking it, expecting Eric.
It was Tameka.
TAMEKA: Well?
ME: It was nice.
TAMEKA: Nice? Girl, funerals are nice. Was it romantic?
ME: Yes.
TAMEKA: Did he kiss you?
I paused.
ME: Forehead.
The phone rang instantly.
I ignored it.
Then another message came through.
Not from Tameka.
From an unknown account notification.
Somebody had commented under a post Eric had made earlier that day. I must have clicked his profile at some point—strictly for safety reasons—and now the algorithm was being messy.
The post was a picture of Loyalty’s rooftop view. No people. Just the city lights and the caption:
Building something worth staying for.
Cute.
Too cute.
Then I saw the comment.
LATRICE BELL: Still taking girls to rooftops, Eazy? Some things never change.
My stomach dropped.
Latrice.
Of all people.
Latrice Bell, my ex-friend, former brunch partner, current enemy with lip filler and bad intentions.
I stared at her comment until the words blurred.
Still taking girls to rooftops.
Still.
I heard Tameka’s voice in my head.
Women have embarrassed themselves over him in public.
I locked my phone, then unlocked it again.
Read the comment again.
Locked it.
Unlocked it.
Because apparently pain needed confirmation.
My chest got tight, and that soft, romantic feeling from the night started slipping through my fingers.
Maybe I was stupid.
Maybe this was his thing.
Maybe this rooftop was not special. Maybe I was not special. Maybe I was just the newest woman under the same string lights, eating the same cute little wings with parsley on the side like a fool.
My phone buzzed.
ERIC: You inside safe?
I stared at his message.
Safe.
Funny word.
Because five minutes ago, I had felt safe.
Now I felt like I had walked barefoot into broken glass wearing a green dress and medium hoops.
I didn’t respond.
Instead, I opened his profile again and stared at Latrice’s comment.
Then I whispered to myself, because apparently my apartment had become a confession booth.
“Monica, you knew better.”
My phone buzzed again.
ERIC: Monica?
I didn’t answer.
Not because I didn’t want to.
Because if I did, I might ask him the question, and if he gave me the wrong answer, the pretty little night would turn ugly fast.
So I set the phone down, sat back on my couch, and looked at the ceiling.
The woman in me wanted to trust what I felt.
The woman who had been played before wanted receipts, witnesses, and surveillance footage.
And the petty woman?
She wanted to comment back under Latrice’s post with something that would get me talked about until Labor Day.
I closed my eyes.
Lord, I asked for peace.
Why you send me a man with a rooftop and a past?