Chapter 27 #2
“I mean it, Naji. You go quiet on me, I’m pulling up.”
Another tic slipped out. “I-iMessage or inter—shit!—intervention, ha! Haaa, text yo’ mama!”
“Yeah, what you said. Now go have a good day, beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I expressed softly. “For everything.”
He brushed his thumb along my cheekbone, then leaned in and kissed me. It was deep, but not greedy or rushed. It told me everything without saying anything at all. Imanio was so caring. He showed me affection without allowing my tics to kill the moment.
When Imanio pulled back, he helped me into the seat like I was something rare then closed the door. I clutched the phone in my hand and stared out the window at Imanio—still standing there, still watching. I didn’t even make it out of the neighborhood before I texted him.
Me: I miss you already.
I pushed through the employee entrance of The Lexington Aquatic Pavilion, the faint scent of chlorine and lemon disinfectant hitting my nose like a familiar welcome. I didn’t even make it past the supply closet before voices started calling out.
“There she goes!”
“Look who decided to swim back into work.”
“Girl, we were about to blow your phone up.”
I gave a small smile. “I just needed a break. That’s all. Just… air, you know?”
They didn’t press. That’s why I loved it there. My coworkers were goofy, overworked, and some full of side-eye—but they didn’t treat me like a burden or a spectacle. They didn’t flinch, tease, or pity me when my tics came out; they just let me be.
I spent the morning restocking towels, swim caps, and goggles, and organizing the back shelves. Then I helped break down a shipment of pool noodles. It felt good to sweat for normal reasons.
The day dragged by slower than usual, and since I was done with my work for the day, I got off an hour earlier.
Since I had time to spare, my detail driver wasn’t scheduled to come pick me up until the time I was originally supposed to get off, and I couldn’t call Imanio to inform him that I had gotten off early due to my phone needing to be charged, I just decided to do something useful in the meantime.
I debated going back inside of my job to wait, but my throat was dry, and my thoughts were spiraling.
I was sure a cup of hot tea would fix at least one of those things.
When I stepped outside, my eyes naturally drifted across the street to the little café nestled beside the bookstore—the same one I’d been dying to try for years but never had the courage to enter.
Truth be told, for the past three years, I hadn’t stepped foot in many places beyond the walls of work or the cold sterility of my necessary doctor appointments—neurologist and gynecologist, nothing extra.
Everything else—my clothes, toiletries, skincare, even tampons—came from online orders.
When it came to food, I rotated between DoorDash, Walmart pickups, home-cooked meals, or whatever Blu brought home.
After everything I’d heard about him—things too dark to fully process—it was still hard to accept that Blu had been involved in such horrific things. But no matter what, I could never deny one thing: he always had my back. Always.
The reason I dared to take that leap that day—to walk across that street and push open the door of a place that once terrified me—was because, since I’d been with Imanio, something in me had started to shift.
The group of supportive people surrounding him—but most of all, Imanio—had gradually helped me emerge from my shell…
bit by bit… moment by moment. Their encouragement and kindness made me believe that maybe, just maybe , I didn’t have to keep hiding from the world any longer.
The thought stirred both excitement and anxiety within me.
"Just in and out," I murmured under my breath, steeling myself as I took a deep breath and began to cross the street, determined to face whatever lay beyond my comfort zone.
The place was dimly lit and smelled like lavender and oat milk. I stepped up to the counter, clutching the strap of my tote like it held my last shred of dignity.
A white guy, maybe in his mid-twenties, stood behind the register. He eyed me like he’d seen me on the news but couldn’t figure out if it was for something good or messy.
“Hello, what can I get for you today?” he greeted, chipper and polite.
“Hi,” I replied, barely above a whisper.
My eyes drifted to the menu board behind him, scanning the neat rows of options.
They had everything—peppermint, chamomile, hibiscus.
Normally, I would’ve gone straight for peppermint, my safe choice, but that day I was trying to push myself past the usual.
One name stood out, bold against the list, almost daring me to pick it.
“I w-want to try the… lemon balm tea.”
“Sure thing. What size?”
“Medium, please?”
“You got it,” he said with a nod, tapping at the register, then gave me the total.
I pulled out the card Imanio had given me and handed it over without thinking.
The guy took it, squinted, then blinked like he was trying to clear a fog from his memory.
He leaned over the counter, eyebrows raised. “Wait… this says Imanio Kors . As in the Imanio Kors?”
“Yes,” I confirmed, swallowing. “He’s… he’s my husband.”
He sniggered, then caught himself, like it slipped out before his brain approved it.
For a second, I forgot how popular Imanio really was—how his name carried weight, how his face was everywhere and how nobody knew we weren’t married—at least not the people outside our bubble.
“Fluff biscuit! No, wait—hold on—don’t y’all start—” My words started tripping over each other, spiraling with the tics. “I—I have Tourette’s. Sorry.”
The barista stared at me, unsure whether to laugh, call security, or offer me chamomile.
“Uh… wait here,” he said, then vanished behind a swinging door without a word.
I swallowed hard, glancing at the growing line of customers behind me. I could feel it creeping up—the burn behind my eyes, the heat in my chest, the tic building like pressure behind a dam.
The guy returned with a chubby white man in khakis and a button-up. His eyes flicked down to the card, then up to me.
“Good evening, ma’am,” he greeted with a tone as fake as sweetener packets. “My employee here believes you’re using a card that may not belong to you. Tell us again how you came into possession of this?”
I cleared my throat. “Imanio Kors is my husband. H-He gave it to me.”
The manager looked like he wanted to laugh but was trying to keep it business-casual.
“You expect us to believe you’re married to him ?” the manager repeated, voice dipped in judgment.
“Yes!” I snapped, then winced as a tic blurted out—“Boiled laundry! Don’t gaslight me with your khaki privilege!” My whole body tensed. “S-Sorry! I don’t mean… I mean, I do but not like… oh my God!”
I fumbled in my tote bag for my ID. Of course, it didn’t reflect the name change. I still hadn’t gone to the DMV.
Why hadn’t I gone to the DMV?
My chest tightened like someone was sitting on it.
I backed up, nearly knocking over a napkin holder. It clattered to the floor. A toddler in line pointed at me like I was a circus act.
“Stop looking at me like I stole your taxes! I’m so sorry!” I apologized.
A little boy’s eyes went wide as he ducked behind his father’s leg. But the dad didn’t snap or scold. He just gave me a look… like he understood—like he’d seen someone like me before and knew it wasn’t what it looked like.
“Ma’am,” the manager began, stepping back like I had airborne rabies. “We’re going to have to confiscate the card.”
“I… I d-d-didn’t steal that!” I shouted, louder than I meant to. “I’m—I’m his wife… Naji Kors. ”
The place went quiet.
No one laughed. No one made a sound. Just stiff silence.
“Ma’am, please step aside,” the manager advised, voice tighter now, nodding toward the back office.
And then a voice cut through the air, calm but sharp.
“Is there a reason y’all are humiliating Imanio Kors’s wife? ”
All heads turned.
The girl Paris, who I remembered from the dinner at Imanio’s parents’ house, stood near the entrance in four-inch nude heels and a buttercream trench coat that screamed Fashion Week with one brow arched and her glossy lips curled into a faint smirk.
She looked like she’d walked straight out of an ad campaign.
“She’s who?” the cashier blinked.
Paris walked up slowly, pulling her sunglasses down just enough for her eyes to pierce through both employees.
“Imanio Kors’ wife ; you know, the man who could buy this entire block and still get change back? Y’all about to owe this woman an apology and some free tea.”
“She… she was twitching and yelling weird stuff!” the cashier stammered.
Paris snatched the card out of his hand so fast it made him flinch.
“That’s because she has Tourette’s, dumbass! Not sticky fingers!” Her voice cracked like a whip. “Do you even know who she is? Clearly not. This is Naji Ali. Former runway model. Media whisperer. She walked Paris Fashion Week with a tic disorder and still shut it down.”
The cashier and manager both opened and closed their mouths like broken animatronics as the realization hit them. I could feel the weight of people staring—phones slowly being pulled out, camera lenses aimed like weapons.
Paris leaned forward and pointed her perfectly manicured nail at both men.
“You two made a big mistake today. And trust me, her husband is going to hear about it. And when he does?”
A grin crept across her face slow—like the Grinch right before he ruined Christmas. Except she was wearing heels, a trench coat and highlight.
“You better start praying your business got flood insurance—‘cause he’s known to drown disrespect,” she finished, then drew back.
The silence in the room was suffocating.
My face burned, my throat felt like it was shrinking and my hands trembled like they’d forgotten how to exist without panic.
Then Paris turned to me, softer now. Her voice shifted like a warm towel after cold rain.
“Hey, you okay?” she asked, gently placing her hand on my shoulder.
I nodded slowly, though my mouth was dry.
“Ye-Yes. I need to c-call Imanio. My phone is dead.”
“You can use mine,” she offered easily. “But let’s step outside. You need air.”
We walked past the line of quiet onlookers. I didn’t look at them — I couldn’t. The embarrassment stuck to my skin like honey in summer.
Outside, I inhaled like I hadn’t breathed in ten minutes.
“Thank you,” I expressed once we were outside. “Pancake—ugh. Pancake betrayal . Tic. I… I don’t even know what that means.”
Paris chuckled, amused and unbothered. “Don’t worry about it. I like a little crazy.”
“You do?”
That caught me off guard. I took her as the bougie, stuck-up type; like she drank cucumber water and judged people with neck tattoos.
“Between me and you? I never wanted a guy like Imanio; his mama just assumed I did… my parents, too. It was like I was picked out the catalog to be his wife or something.”
“Y-You don’t find him attractive?” I asked out of curiosity.
“Girl, yes! No disrespect to you since you’re his wife. But let’s be real… that man is fine-fine . The kind of fine that makes a woman forgive a lie she hasn’t even heard yet.”
We laughed in unison.
“Seriously, though, I want someone who didn’t have it easy…
probably still doesn’t. Someone who still knows what struggle tastes like.
I’ve had luxury since birth; I don’t need more of it…
I need balance. I always believed opposites attract.
Two rich people who were born with silver spoons in their mouths?
Boring. Give me somebody with scars and a story,” she explained.
I was stunned. I’d assumed she was my competition. Turns out, she wasn’t even in the game.
“Wow,” I murmured. “I g-guess that’s why it’s not always good to judge a book by its cover.”
“Nope,” Paris sighed. “ Because sometimes the prettiest covers got the ugliest stories. And the ones with creases and coffee stains? They’re the ones worth reading twice .”
I didn’t know what Paris had been through, but I could tell—something in her eyes, in the way her voice dipped just then—that it wasn’t all champagne and shopping sprees. Whatever it was, it left marks. And in that moment, I realized…
Having money doesn’t mean a person has peace, happiness, or even love. Sometimes it just means they have better things to hide behind.
“That’s true,” I said. “C-Can you call Imanio? I’m shaking too bad.”
“Girl, yes! Of course! We’re out here talking like two best friends catching up!”
I smiled faintly.
“Just give me his number.” Paris unlocked her phone. “Although, I have no idea how this conversation is about to go.”
Me neither , I wanted to say.
But all I could do was brace myself and pray he didn’t burn the whole place down before I got to try their lemon balm tea.