YAYA
I was already sweating before the sun fully stretched. Clinical days were like that. Nonstop movement, early call times, and aching feet stuffed into nursing clogs that felt like bricks by hour four. I was running vitals on a colicky newborn when the mother who was barely twenty burst into tears because her boyfriend hadn’t shown up. Again.
I gave her tissues, a juice cup, and a soft, “You’re not alone.”
If I was being honest, though, I felt like I was lying. Not because I didn’t mean it but because I wasn’t always sure it was true. People were alone all the time, floating in pressure, in pain and in expectations. That’s why Ezra’s poem hit me the way it did. That line that went, “for the girl with pain in her laugh”. It felt personal like he cracked my chest open and peeked in without even touching me.
“You alright, Yavanni?”
I looked up to see Sarah, my clinical partner, standing across from me at the meds cart with her eyebrows raised. “Yeah,” I nodded, tying off my patient’s chart. “Just need caffeine and a nap.”
She chuckled. “Story of our lives.”
We wrapped by three-thirty. My locs were tied under a scarf and my skin was dewy in a way that wasn’t cute unless on a beach, and my left sock was fighting for its life. But despite all that, I was floating. Because in a few hours, I was seeing him again.
On my way out of the hospital parking lot, my phone lit up with our group text:
Dianna: BITCH! What time you meeting Mr. Poetic???
Erin: Should we track your location?
I smirked and typed fast with one hand as I merged onto the freeway.
Around 7. And don’t be crazy.
The typing dots bounced immediately.
Dianna: Yavanni Sinclair, the woman who schedules breathing time, is casually dating a hood poet now?
Erin: I’m screaminggg! Drop the pin later. If you go missing, I’m telling your mama.
Y’all are dramatic. I’ll text when I get there.
I made it home by five. My building sat like a modern temple in the heart of the city with glass and steel. Luxury Black girl living. I’d fallen in love with it the second I walked through the door. My apartment held sunlight and everything was earthy and soft.
My living room smelled like eucalyptus and there were tall plants hugging the corners while the walls were dotted with framed art from Black women artists. Soft bodies, bold color, nudes and revolution in one. Gold accents everywhere.
The coffee table books were stacked with titles like Medical Apartheid and The Souls of Black Folk, nestled beside crystals and candles named Moon Child and Protect Your Peace. I loved my space. My parents couldn't understand where this side of me came from and I used to think I was adopted until I realized I was just... me.
I dropped my bag by the door, kicked off my clogs, and moved through the space, undoing my scarf, and letting my locs fall free. They were long and thick, past my bra strap, with fresh honey-brown tips I’d dyed last month on impulse.
In the bathroom, I let the water run from the shower hot until the mirror fogged. As I stepped in, I let the heat hit my back and closed my eyes and all I saw was him. Ezra, leaning close. That voice. That one good eye trained on me like he could read what I hadn’t said out loud.
I washed slowly, dragging the loofah over my skin like it could help settle my nerves. But it didn’t. I was humming. Floating. Grinning. I was halfway through moisturizing, skin slick with shea butter and jasmine oil, when the doorbell rang. I wasn’t expecting anyone though. I threw on a kimono and went to peek through the peephole.
“Shit.” Opening the door, I plastered on a smile. “Hi Daddy. You, uh... you didn’t text.”
He stepped in, suit crisp, cologne strong and familiar. His salt-and-pepper beard was perfectly trimmed. Every move he made was deliberate and controlled. “I was in the area,” he said, kissing my cheek. “Thought I’d stop in.” Translation: he was checking on me.
“You hungry?” I offered.
He looked around, eyes skating over my decor like he was cataloging it. “No. Just wanted to see how things are coming along with clinical.”
“Fine,” I said, walking toward the kitchen. “Busy. Tiring.”
“Any setbacks?”
“No.”
“Still on pace to graduate early?”
I glanced at him, wondering if he ever knew how much pressure weighed in that question. “Trying to be,” I said.
He nodded once. “Good. You know the board for Hollis Medical is watching.”
“I know, Daddy.”
He looked at me and his brow dipped. “Something’s different.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’re glowing, Yavanni.”
I stared at him for a beat, debating. Then said, “New moisturizer.”
“What’s his name?”
“Daddy.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is he in medicine?”
“No.”
He exhaled slowly through his nose. “Is he… respectable?”
My stomach clenched. I hated that word. “Daddy, I have to finish getting ready.”
“Mm.” That sound said it all. He adjusted his cufflinks and turned toward the door. “You’re a Sinclair. Don’t forget what that means and what comes with that.”
When he left, I stood in the silence, letting it thicken. Then I walked to the mirror in my living room and studied myself. I didn’t look like a woman unsure. I looked like a woman choosing something different.
An hour later, I was dressed in a brown halter top, ankle-length cream skirt that moved when I walked, layered bracelets and anklets, gold hoops, and fresh liner and gloss. My locs were styled half up, half down with a soft beat on the face. Of course, One by Jennifer Lopez was kissed at the pulse.
I grabbed my phone and texted Ezra.
On my way.
Then I grabbed my canvas tote, and left my apartment, pushing aside whatever fear was left in me.