Chapter 8 Kyleigh
That didn’t stop my stomach from twisting like I’d swallowed a fistful of all the damn tinsel around town.
At three yesterday morning, when he’d stood in my bedroom like the shadows belonged to him, I’d been scared in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Not scared he’d hurt me. Scared because he’d been very clear: my money and my gates and my alarms were nothing compared to his determination… and his skills.
You don’t keep a man like that out. You negotiate.
So, here I was, being reasonable… against my will.
The idea of walking out in the middle of people’s Christmas joy made my skin itch.
But I knew he was compromising, too. I could see it all over him that he wanted to announce his connection to her, but he was waiting, trying to ease her into it.
For that, I was grateful. For that, I could cooperate.
“Tonight works,” he said after doing what I assumed was a quick Google search for Primrose’s Pretty Pines. “Lot closes at eight. We got time to go and come back.”
Excited, Aziza took off upstairs to grab her things, Max on her heels. Jabali looked at me then. Really looked, like he used to.
“You good?” he asked quietly.
He sounded like it mattered. I wanted to believe it did. But then, I remembered, and I swallowed down any soft-hearted foolishness.
“No. But she is. So, I will be,” I replied.
His mouth twisted. “That’s something, I guess. Go get your coat, Ky,” he commanded.
I stiffened at the nickname. “I’ve asked you not to call me that.”
He just looked at me, like he remembered all the times I’d smiled when he said it. “I’m not calling you Ms. Grindley. I will call you Kyleigh,” he agreed dryly. “Get your coat.”
Being in a truck with him again was a special kind of hell.
I buckled my seat belt like I was getting ready for war.
Aziza sat behind us, leg bouncing, humming something that sounded suspiciously like “This Christmas.” He adjusted the heat, flipped on the radio low, and drove like he’d never left, with one hand on the wheel, the other loose on his thigh.
Once upon a time, it would’ve been my thigh.
He smelled like soap, something clean and warm, and underneath it, a cologne that wasn’t loud but wrapped around me slowly.
It was somehow familiar but different. My brain was making no sense.
Jabali had always had that effect on me.
“You alright back there?” he called over his shoulder.
“Uh-huh. Do they let you touch the trees? Or is it like the museum where you only look?” she asked eagerly.
“You can touch ’em. Smell ’em too.”
She gasped, like that was scandalous.
“You cannot lick them. I feel like I have to say that,” I added.
“I’m not a baby, Mama,” she retorted.
I watched town lights appear between the trees as we drove downhill.
Emancipation looked like a postcard from up here, all red and green and white.
Everything below us was bright and busy.
The part of me that had always loved quiet was anxious.
The part of me that had always loved Emancipation refused to acknowledge how much I’d missed this.
“What you looking at?” he queried softly when he caught me staring out the window.
“Just thinking of all the people who’ll have something to say when they see me, especially with you. Mentally preparing my bail money,” I answered.
He laughed, low and deep in a way that I felt all over. “They can say it to me. I got time.”
He said it like a joke. Somehow, I knew it wasn’t
The lot was smaller than I remembered. Or maybe I’d just spent too much time in a big city where everything was turned all the way up.
Either way, it felt kinda cozy. Strings of lights draped over rows of trees while a little Bluetooth speaker belted out R it ain’t got no needles on it!
” “This one too crooked, huh, Mr. Jabali?” “This one look sleepy.”
Jabali played along, adding silly stuff like “shol’ look like it’s got osteoporosis” and “patchy like my cousin’s beard” and making her giggle. I hovered close, arms wrapped around myself, trying not to feel too much at seeing them together.
At one point I pointed to a smaller tree. It was neat, compact, reasonable. I could almost ignore it. “This seems fine. We could actually live with this,” I tried to persuade them.
They both looked at it and then at me like I’d suggested a potted plant.
“That look like a sad broom. We need a tree that stand up like a… like a… like one of the dresses Granny wears when PopPop takes her dancing. You know, it be having all that hard, scratchy stuff under it!”
I couldn’t help it; I smiled. “Crinoline, baby,” I offered the word before moving to kiss her forehead. She was so adorable.
We turned down another row, and she stopped dead.
The tree she’d found was… a lot. Tall and full, it was the kind they used in fancy foyers in movies and in engagement photos.
I felt my whole body say no before my brain had the chance.
She walked up to it carefully, pressed her cheek into the needles, and closed her eyes like she was listening to it.
“I love this one, this our tree,” she said softly.
I had to grab the nearest trunk to steady myself at that word. Our. “That thing is enormous. It’s going to swallow my foyer. And we’d have to hire a lumberjack to get it in the house. Pick something smaller, Zi. We not running a department store,” I finally managed.
She deflated, just got small, and I swear I could feel it in my own bones. Jabali narrowed his eyes at me.
“It’s a lot of tree,” he agreed slowly, looking between us. “But your foyer is a lot of foyer.”
“I don’t care how big the foyer is; That is too much,” I snapped.
His eyes slid to Aziza. Her shoulders were pulled in now, hands in her pockets, trying to look like she didn’t care either way. And I had a really sad thought… look at me, of all people, teaching my child how to shrink.
“Ky—” he began.
Before he could argue, one of the Hargroves’ workers came around the corner. He was young, wearing a hoodie and work gloves, and moving with that lazy swagger Emancipation boys got when they thought they were something special.
“Y’all picked a big one,” he said, eyeing the tree.
“Yes,” Jabali responded, like I hadn’t just said no.
The young man’s gaze skated over Aziza, then stuck on me for a second. A sneer curled his top lip as he addressed Jabali. “You hauling this up to that mansion on the hill? What they call it now, The Grindley? Down here tree shopping like she ain’t shut the gate on folks’ Christmas.”
My face felt hot and cold at the same time.
It wasn’t the worst thing anyone had ever said about me, but hearing it out loud, in front of my child and him, hit different.
I opened my mouth, tried to remember not to do him too badly in front of my baby, but Jabali moved first. He stepped in so smooth I almost didn’t see it until the younger man’s back hit the trunk of a small tree.
“I know that ain’t what you meant to say. Try again,” he said, his voice low and dark with an edge I’d never heard.
The whole lot seemed to shrink for a second. Tunnel vision, I guess. The music kept playing, people kept walking, but the air around us went tight.
The kid’s hands shot up as he shook his head. “Man, I’m just joking. Everybody been saying—”
“I don’t care what ‘everybody’ been doing,” Jabali cut in. “I’m talking about you. Right now.”
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. It was all in the way he leaned in, the way his hand curled in the young man’s jacket for just a second. Every line of him said I’m capable of much worse. And while I found it frightening, I also found it strangely alluring.
“You got something to say about who lives on that hill, say it under your breath when I’m not around. You don’t know her or her story. You know gossip and your own little disappointment. That’s not enough to run your mouth.”
The employee swallowed so hard I could see it. “Alright, man. My bad,” he muttered.
Jabali visibly relaxed and let him go. “Good. Keep it that way.”
“David, other customers need help,” Mr. Hargrove called from the end of the row, like nothing had happened.
The kid peeled off, rubbing his chest, not looking back. I realized I’d been holding my breath.
“You didn’t have to do that. I’ve been dealing with comments like that since I came back,” I said quietly. My voice sounded strange in my own ears, too thin, shaky.
He looked at me for a long moment. “You shouldn’t have had to. And you won’t with me standing here. People don’t talk crazy about the mother of my child in my presence. They’ll learn.”
His voice was low, for my ears only, thank God, because he’d used that phrase again. Mother of my child. The words circled my heart and sat there, heavy. He couldn’t do this. I couldn’t take his defending me like he’d been here this whole time. It messed with my head.
It messed with my heart.
Aziza pressed against my side, eyes big. “Mama? You mad?” she whispered.
I forced my shoulders down. “I’m okay. That was just… a lot.”
She looked at Jabali. “You mad?”
“A little,” he admitted. “But not at you. Not at your mama, either. At him. Some people don’t know how to keep their opinions about other people to themselves.”
She nodded seriously, like that made sense.
He smiled at her before smoothly changing the subject. “So, what’s the verdict? This the one or we looking at more?”
She hesitated, looking between the tree and me. I crouched so we were eye level.
“If this is the tree you want, then this is the tree we’re getting. I’ll deal with the rest.”
Her whole face transformed. “For real?” she breathed.
“For real. We’ll make it work,” I said, even though my inner neat freak was screaming.
She threw herself at me, nearly knocking me over, then spun and hollered for Mr. Hargrove like she’d just won the lottery.