Chapter 5 #3
“I am talking. I’m saying no.”
His expression stayed calm. “I already had them start.”
My mouth dropped open. “Without asking me?”
“They called you twice.”
I blinked. “They did?”
“You didn’t answer.”
“My phone was under a pillow.”
“I figured.”
“So you made an executive decision?”
“I made a safety decision.”
“Eric.”
“Monica, your brakes were bad.”
“I understand that, but you can’t just—”
“I can when it’s about you getting home safe.”
The room went quiet.
I should have been mad.
Part of me was.
Because independence is tricky when you have built it from disappointment. Sometimes help feels like love. Sometimes it feels like control. Sometimes you cannot tell the difference until it’s too late.
Eric watched me carefully, like he knew he had stepped near a boundary and didn’t want to crush it.
“I’m not trying to take over,” he said.
I looked at him.
“I know you can handle your own business,” he continued. “I’m not questioning that. But I had the means to fix something that could hurt you, so I fixed it. You want to pay me back, we can work that out. But I wasn’t waiting while your car sounded like it had last words.”
I pressed my lips together.
That was reasonable.
I hated reasonable when I wanted to be mad.
“You should’ve asked first,” I said.
“You’re right.”
That stopped me.
He nodded. “I should’ve asked. I’m sorry.”
I stared at him.
“You just apologize like that?”
“When I’m wrong.”
“Who raised you?”
“My mama and consequences.”
A laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it.
His shoulders relaxed.
I pointed at him. “I’m still paying you.”
“We’ll talk.”
I narrowed my eyes. “That means no.”
“That means eat before you start swinging.”
He unpacked the food: pasta, salad, garlic bread, and cheesecake.
“Cheesecake?” I asked.
“You like it?”
“Yes, but how did you know?”
“I asked Tameka.”
I closed my eyes. “I’m blocking everybody.”
“She also said you like extra sauce, hate mushrooms, and get emotional over old-school R&B.”
“She is dead to me.”
“She cares about you.”
“She also told my business for free.”
“She charged me.”
I opened my eyes. “She what?”
He smiled. “I’m joking.”
“You better be.”
We ate at my little kitchen table.
It should have felt too intimate.
It did.
But it also felt easy.
Eric looked too big for my chairs, which made me laugh. He asked about my event work, and I showed him pictures of baby showers and birthday setups on my phone. He listened like he actually cared. Asked questions. Not fake ones either. Real ones.
“How long does something like this take?” he asked, scrolling through a balloon arch I had done for a gold-and-white fiftieth birthday.
“Depends. That one took four hours, not including setup drama.”
“What’s setup drama?”
“People standing in the way asking if you need help while not helping.”
He nodded. “I know that type.”
“You have Dre.”
“I have Dre.”
We laughed.
Then the conversation softened again.
“You’re talented,” he said.
I waved him off. “I’m alright.”
“No. You’re talented.”
I looked down at my plate. “Thank you.”
“You don’t take compliments well.”
“I take payments better.”
He smiled, but his voice stayed serious. “Who made you uncomfortable being seen?”
I froze.
Just like that, he had stepped into something.
Not loudly.
Not aggressively.
Just with a question sharp enough to find bone.
I pushed pasta around my plate. “That’s not first-week conversation.”
“Okay.”
He didn’t push.
Somehow, that made me want to answer.
“My ex,” I said after a moment. “Terrence. He used to compliment me in public and criticize me in private. So after a while, praise started sounding like a setup.”
Eric’s face changed.
Not pity.
Anger.
Controlled, but there.
“He put hands on you?”
“No,” I said quickly. “Not like that.”
His jaw tightened anyway.
“But words do enough,” I added.
“They do.”
I swallowed. “He made me feel like I was too much and not enough at the same time. Too emotional. Too guarded. Too independent. Not supportive enough. Not trusting enough. Then I found out he was cheating and somehow he still tried to make it my fault.”
Eric leaned back slowly.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I looked at him.
“You didn’t deserve that.”
My throat tightened.
Four simple words.
You didn’t deserve that.
Not “what did you do?”
Not “why did you stay?”
Not “all men ain’t like that.”
Just truth.
I blinked fast and reached for my water. “I know.”
But my voice betrayed me.
Eric didn’t move closer. He didn’t try to touch me just because I was vulnerable. He sat there and let me have my dignity.
That did something to me.
A lot, actually.
After we cleaned up, I walked him to the door because if he stayed much longer, my feelings were going to start unpacking.
He paused in the doorway.
“Thank you for letting me in,” he said.
I leaned against the doorframe. “You brought cheesecake.”
“I’ll remember that strategy.”
“You do that.”
He looked down at me, and the air shifted.
Again.
This man and these atmospheric changes.
I needed a warning system.
His eyes dropped to my mouth.
This time, mine did not look away.
“Monica,” he said softly.
“What?”
“I want to kiss you.”
My breath caught.
There it was.
Not a move.
Not an assumption.
A request.
I should have said no. I should have said not yet. I should have laughed it off and told him he was moving fast.
Instead, I whispered, “Then kiss me.”
Eric stepped closer slowly.
One hand came to my waist, warm and steady. The other touched my jaw like I was something delicate, even though I had spent most of my life acting unbreakable.
Then he kissed me.
Soft at first.
A question.
Then deeper when I answered.
And Lord, I answered.
His mouth was warm, sure, patient. He kissed like he had nowhere else to be and nothing else to prove. Like he was learning me. Like he had been thinking about it since the rooftop and had spent all day practicing restraint with gritted teeth.
My hands found his chest, and under my palms, his heart beat strong and fast.
Good.
So it wasn’t just me losing sense.
He pulled me closer, and I went.
The kiss turned hotter. Slower somehow, but more intense. His hand tightened at my waist, and a soft sound slipped out of me before I could catch it.
Eric went still for half a second.
Then he kissed me again like that sound had tested every bit of his self-control.
My back touched the wall.
His body didn’t press fully into mine, but it was close enough for me to feel the heat of him. Close enough for my knees to remember they were not loyal.
I slid my hands up around his neck.
Dangerous.
So dangerous.
His lips moved from my mouth to my cheek, then my jaw, then back to my mouth like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to be gentle first.
I forgot the hallway.
Forgot the food.
Forgot Terrence.
Forgot every rule I had written to keep myself from wanting too much too soon.
There was only Eric’s hand at my waist, his breath against mine, and the terrifying realization that my heart was not tiptoeing anymore.
It was running.
I pulled back first, breathing hard.
Eric rested his forehead near mine but didn’t chase my mouth.
“You good?” he asked, voice rougher than before.
That question again.
But this time, I didn’t joke.
“No,” I whispered.
His eyes searched mine.
I swallowed. “I mean yes. I just… this is fast.”
“I know.”
“Too fast.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re supposed to disagree.”
“I’m not going to lie to make you comfortable.”
That almost made me laugh, but I was too overwhelmed.
“I don’t do this,” I said.
“Do what?”
“Feel like this after two days.”
His thumb brushed lightly against my waist. “Me either.”
I wanted to believe him.
That scared me most.
I stepped back, and he let me.
“I need to slow down,” I said.
He nodded. “Then we slow down.”
“You say that now.”
“I’ll say it tomorrow too.”
“Eric…”
“I want you, Monica. I’m not going to pretend I don’t. But I want you safe with me more than I want you rushed.”
My eyes burned a little.
Absolutely not.
I refused to cry in leggings and an oversized T-shirt while a man stood in my doorway being emotionally responsible.
That was too much.
“I need you to leave,” I said softly.
Not because I wanted him to.
Because I didn’t.
He understood.
“I know.”
He stepped back into the hallway, but before he left, he took my hand and kissed my knuckles.
Again.
This hood prince foolishness.
“Lock the door behind me,” he said.
“Bossy.”
“Safe.”
I smiled despite myself.
He smiled back.
Then he left.
I closed the door and leaned against it, pressing my fingers to my lips like they were evidence.
My phone buzzed on the table.
I walked over, still floating and terrified.
A notification.
Instagram.
My stomach dropped before I even opened it.
Latrice had posted a video.
I knew it was Latrice before I saw her face. The dramatic caption. The fake hurt. The gloss. The lighting. The need to perform pain for people who had no business watching.
The video started with her sitting in her car, looking into the camera like she had been deeply wronged by a man she never had.
“I wasn’t even gon’ say nothing,” she began, which meant she had already said everything to at least seven people.
I should have closed it.
I did not.
“I just think it’s funny how some men recycle the same little spots, same little lines, same little rooftop dinners, and have girls thinking they special. But hey, enjoy, sis.”
Then the video cut to a clip.
Old. Grainy. Clearly from months ago.
Eric standing on the rooftop with people around him, Latrice near his side, smiling like she owned the night.
Not kissing. Not touching. Not romantic.
But enough.
Enough for people to assume.
Enough for the comments to start.
Enough for my chest to tighten all over again.
Then Latrice added a final line.
“Couldn’t be me getting played in public.”
The comments were already messy.
People tagging people.
Laughing emojis.
A few “I know who she talking about.”
And then my phone buzzed with a text.
From an unknown number.
UNKNOWN: Girl, you know Eazy still got options, right?
I stared at the message.
My hands went cold.
Not because I believed it fully.
Because I hated being turned into entertainment.
I hated that my soft moment with Eric had barely cooled on my lips before somebody tried to make me feel stupid for having it.
My phone buzzed again.
Eric.
ERIC: I made it downstairs. Lock your door.
I stared at his message.
Sweet.
Simple.
Safe.
Then I looked back at the video.
Public.
Messy.
Humiliating.
Old wounds don’t ask permission before they start bleeding again.
My thumbs moved before my heart could catch up.
ME: You could’ve just told me you still had options.
I hit send.
Then because I was hurt, embarrassed, and allergic to looking foolish twice, I did the one thing mature women should not do but wounded women do quickly.
I blocked him.
Then I stood in the middle of my apartment, breathing hard, lips still warm from his kiss and eyes burning from somebody else’s lie.
The cheesecake sat untouched on the counter.
My door was locked.
My heart was not.