Chapter 6 #2
“Marlo.”
Dre stood near the entrance, arms crossed, pretending he was relaxed. He was not. I could see his foot tapping.
I handed Marlo an envelope.
He weighed it in his hand. “All there?”
“Count it.”
He did.
Right there in front of me, because disrespect sometimes wore cologne too.
When he finished, he nodded. “Quan good.”
“No,” I said. “Quan is done.”
Marlo looked up.
“He don’t owe you. He don’t run with you. He don’t borrow from you. He don’t speak on business with you. We clear?”
His mouth tilted. “You giving orders?”
“I’m setting terms.”
“With my money?”
“With my brother.”
Marlo looked at me for a long moment.
I looked right back.
The shop noise seemed to fade for a second. Everybody nearby pretended not to watch while absolutely watching.
Finally, Marlo laughed under his breath. “You always act like you better than the block.”
“No. I act like I survived it.”
Something flashed in his eyes.
“Respect that,” I said. “Or don’t. But don’t confuse me building something with me forgetting anything.”
He tucked the envelope into his jacket.
“We clear,” he said.
“Good.”
“And the window?”
I stared at him.
He smirked. “Heard somebody did that. That’s crazy.”
“Yeah. Real crazy.”
His smile faded when I didn’t play along.
He nodded once, turned, and walked back to his car.
Dre waited until they drove off before exhaling loud enough to move clouds.
“I hate when you do that calm gangster inspirational speaker thing.”
I walked toward the office. “He got the message.”
“Yeah, so did my blood pressure.”
Inside, I checked the time.
12:34.
Monica would be at the salon.
My chest tightened.
Dre followed me in. “You going over there?”
“Yeah.”
“You got the video?”
“Yeah.”
“The screenshots?”
“Yeah.”
“The humble spirit?”
I looked at him.
He pointed at me. “Find it before you park.”
I drove to the salon with the windows up and the radio off.
The whole way there, I rehearsed nothing.
That was intentional.
I didn’t want to give Monica a speech. Speeches made people feel managed. I wanted to tell the truth and let her decide what to do with it.
When I pulled up, Tameka was outside sweeping the front walkway like she had been waiting on me with a broom and judgment.
She looked up slowly.
Oh, she was ready.
I got out.
“Afternoon, Tameka.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
I walked closer. “She here?”
“She got a client.”
“I’ll wait.”
Tameka leaned on the broom. “You know she blocked you?”
“Yes.”
“You know why?”
“Yes.”
“You know I almost helped her slash your tires in theory?”
I nodded. “I figured.”
“In theory,” she repeated. “Because I’m saved enough not to go to jail over a man who ain’t mine.”
“I respect that.”
She studied me. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Because Monica ain’t one of them women you can play with, Eric. She joke a lot. She act hard. But she love deep and she hurt quiet. That quiet hurt is dangerous.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t know. You just met her.”
“I know enough to care.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That sounds cute.”
“It’s true.”
“Cute and true are cousins. Not twins.”
I almost smiled. “You sound like her.”
“She got it from me.”
“Tameka.”
“What?”
“I’m not here to play with her.”
“Then why is she upstairs crying over your old rooftop footage?”
That hit harder than I expected.
“She cried?”
Tameka’s face softened just a little, then hardened again like she remembered she was security.
“She had allergies.”
I looked toward the salon door.
My chest hurt.
“I have the full video,” I said. “It’s old. It wasn’t a date. I didn’t lie to her.”
“I believe that you believe that.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Truth still needs timing, Eric. You men love telling the truth after women done already seen the lie.”
“I know.”
“Good. Because I like you. Unfortunately.”
I looked back at her.
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get excited. I like everybody for six business days until they prove me wrong.”
“I’ll take it.”
“She’s with a client. You can sit in the waiting area. But don’t be staring at her door breathing heavy.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t come in here with attitude.”
“I won’t.”
“And if she asks you to leave, you leave.”
“I will.”
Tameka stepped aside. “Fine.”
I walked into the salon.
The smell of hair products, edge control, and something sweet hit me. Music played low. A stylist was curling somebody’s hair near the back. Mrs. Pearl sat under the dryer reading a magazine upside down.
She looked at me over the top of it.
“Well, well, well.”
I nodded. “Mrs. Pearl.”
“You here to fix what the internet broke?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Because if I have to learn how to screenshot one more thing, I’m suing somebody.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She pointed two fingers at her eyes, then at me.
I sat down.
For twenty minutes, I waited.
Not scrolling.
Not texting.
Just sitting there, aware of every sound.
Then Monica’s lash room door opened.
She stepped out with a client, smiling professionally. That smile stayed in place for exactly three seconds after she saw me.
Then it dropped.
My whole body responded to her like nothing had happened and everything had happened at the same time.
She looked good. Hair pulled up, black fitted top, jeans, gold hoops. Face calm, eyes tired.
The kind of tired I hated knowing I helped create.
Her client paid, hugged her, and left.
Monica stood near the desk, arms folded.
“What are you doing here?”
Her voice wasn’t loud.
That was worse.
I stood. “I wanted to talk.”
“I blocked you.”
“I noticed.”
“So you came to my job?”
“Tameka let me in.”
Monica cut her eyes at Tameka.
Tameka suddenly became fascinated by the appointment book.
“I’m not here to make a scene,” I said. “I’ll leave if you tell me to.”
Her jaw worked.
For a second, I thought she would tell me to go.
Instead, she said, “You got five minutes.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
She turned and walked into her lash room.
I followed.
The room smelled like cleanser and lavender. A lash bed sat in the center. A small rolling cart held tweezers, tape, and tiny little trays of lashes. There were framed quotes on the wall, a ring light by the corner, and one chair that looked too small for me but I sat in it anyway.
Monica closed the door but didn’t sit.
She leaned against the counter, arms folded.
Five feet between us.
Felt like fifty.
“Talk,” she said.
I pulled out my phone. “The video Latrice posted is from an investor preview night months ago. It wasn’t a date. There were about twenty people there.”
I opened the full video and handed her my phone.
She hesitated, then took it.
I watched her watch it.
Her face stayed still, but her eyes moved carefully. She saw Dre. Ray. Other people. She saw Latrice standing near the group, talking to some woman. She saw me walk past Latrice without touching her. Saw the wide shot of the rooftop crowded with people.
Then I showed her the date on the video file.
Then the email invite for the investor preview.
Monica handed the phone back, quiet.
“I didn’t lie to you,” I said.
She looked away.
“I know the edited video looked bad.”
“It did.”
“I know that comment made it worse.”
“It did.”
“And I know you didn’t pull that fear out of nowhere.”
Her eyes came back to mine.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees.
“I’m not mad you had questions. I’m not mad it hurt you. I’m not even mad you blocked me.”
Her eyebrow lifted slightly.
“Okay,” I said. “I was a little mad about the block.”
A tiny flicker crossed her mouth.
Not a smile.
But almost.
“I’m mad that somebody took something I meant for you and made it feel cheap,” I said. “Because it wasn’t. Not to me.”
Her arms loosened, just a little.
“Eric—”
“No, let me say this. Then you can tell me to leave.”
She went quiet.
“I don’t have options I’m entertaining. I don’t have women tucked away.
I don’t have Latrice waiting somewhere with a claim on me.
I’m not perfect. I got family mess. I got a past. I got a brother who makes me want to change my phone number twice a week.
But I’m not out here trying to make you look stupid. ”
Her face shifted at that.
“I know you don’t know me yet,” I said. “And I know this feels fast. It feels fast to me too. But fast don’t mean fake. I’m not rushing you. I’m not trying to own you. I’m just not going to pretend I don’t feel what I feel because it would make more sense on paper.”
Silence.
Monica blinked and looked down.
For the first time since I walked in, I saw the hurt under the attitude.
“I hate being embarrassed,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
“No, Eric. I hate it. I hate people looking at me like I got played and should’ve known better. I hate feeling like the joke.”
“You’re not the joke.”
“I felt like one.”
I stood slowly, but I didn’t step closer.
“I’m sorry.”
She looked at me.
“I’m sorry that happened. I’m sorry she put you in that position. I’m sorry my past had a mouth loud enough to touch your peace.”
Her eyes got shiny, and she looked away fast.
“I’m not crying,” she said.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“My allergies are disrespectful.”
“I figured.”
A soft laugh broke out of her before she could stop it.
There she was.
Just a little.
I took a breath.
“Monica, I need you to understand something.”
“What?”
“If something looks bad, ask me. If you’re scared, tell me. If you need proof, I’ll give it. But don’t disappear on me without giving me a chance to tell the truth.”
She crossed her arms again, but this time it felt less like armor.
“I don’t owe you access to me when I’m hurt.”
“No, you don’t.”
That caught her.
“I’m not saying you owe me,” I said. “I’m asking you not to shut me out if what we’re building matters to you too.”
Her throat moved as she swallowed.
“It does,” she admitted.
Two words.
Quiet.
Heavy.
Enough.
I stepped closer then.
One step.
Still leaving space.
“I’m falling for you,” I said.
Her eyes widened.
I heard Mrs. Pearl cough loudly from somewhere outside the door like she had her ear pressed to wood.
Monica closed her eyes. “Lord.”
“I know how it sounds.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”