Chapter 12
“If you don’t like this one in person, we can always look for something else,” Whitnee said through the other end of Cyren’s phone. “Or have them show you other layouts.”
Cyren’s bladder woke her up to pee, just in time to answer her cousin’s call. She flushed and washed her hands while Whitnee clicked away at the keyboard. Cyren didn’t know why she was up so early working, especially on a weekend, but she wasn’t complaining.
“I like it,” Cyren reassured. “I looked at all the pictures and videos online.”
Rubbing her tired eyes, Cyren adjusted one of Heavy’s oversized gray shirts, swallowing her frame.
The hem brushed the tops of her thighs, and her scarf was halfway off her head thanks to some great sex-induced sleep.
Given how they turned up at the club the night before, she was surprised she remembered to put it on.
“Okay, good,” Whitnee sighed, contentedly. “Do you want me to have someone come out and clean it before you get here, or do you want to wait?”
Although it probably would’ve taken some of the load off, Cyren was eager to clean her new home herself. It had been way too many months since she could blast her music and get to work, scrubbing, mopping, and cleaning the way she wanted to.
“You can wait. I’ll do everything once I get there,” Cyren answered, applying toothpaste to her toothbrush. “You’ve already done so much.”
Whitnee smacked her lips. “Oh, girl, please. You’re my cousin. It’s nothing. Just wait until we go furniture shopping. I already plan on doing the most.”
“Oh, goodness.” Cyren chuckled as she brushed.
Whitnee was thoughtful in ways people overlooked because doing for others came so naturally to her. She remembered birthdays, checked in randomly, and sent opportunities without making people feel like charity cases. She was happy Cyren was moving closer and couldn’t wait to spend time with her.
“The neighborhood is nice, too,” Whitnee continued. “There’s a walking trail nearby, a coffee shop I think you’d like, and you won’t be too far from me if you need anything.”
If you need anything.
The simplicity of her words made Cyren’s chest ache.
She swallowed around the tightness climbing her throat. “Thank you, Whit. I mean it.”
“You don’t have to thank me, boo,” Whitnee softly said. “One day, you’ll stop acting surprised every time someone loves on you.”
Cyren’s eyes burned unexpectedly. Before losing her mama, receiving real love and care felt normal. It was expected. Now, every kind gesture felt borrowed, as if it were only temporary before she had to give it back to the sender.
“One day,” Cyren murmured, thinking of one person in particular.
“Yes, one day. I’m lowkey jealous,” Whitnee groaned.
Cyren slightly frowned. “Of me?”
“Mhm.” Whitnee softly laughed. “Girl, I wish I could just pick up and move around the world the way you do. Experience different places. Meet different people. You be on the move.”
Cyren chuckled, but there wasn’t much humor behind it.
People always said that. Like movement meant freedom instead of survival.
Like packing up pieces of herself and starting over was bravery and not loneliness.
Nothing and no one had felt quite like home in a long time.
Not after her mama passed. Home used to be a person before it was a place.
Since then, Cyren had been bouncing around trying to recreate a feeling she couldn’t get back.
“Yeah,” Cyren murmured, “it’s not for the weak.”
Her gaze shifted toward the door again, and unexpectedly, her mind wandered to Heavy. Lately, being with him felt closer to home than anything had in years.
“I bet,” Whitnee chirped. “I’ma let you go, though. I just wanted to check in and make sure everything was still good to go. I can’t wait until you get here.”
Cyren smiled. “I can’t either. I already have a few restaurants I want to eat at when I touch down.”
“Oh, that’s all I needed to hear.” Whitnee laughed. “If we don’t do anything, we’re gonna eat some good food and enjoy ourselves.”
“As we should.” Cyren chuckled. “I’ll call or text you later.”
“Okay. Love you, cousin.”
“Love you, too.”
Cyren let out another yawn, then stretched and opened the door.
Heavy was still asleep, likely due to the blackout curtains she had him install the week before.
Even in the subdued light, her gaze fell on his lightly hairy chest. His locs were hidden under a black durag, and one arm was stretched above his head while the other laid near his stomach.
“Fine ass,” Cyren whispered.
A smirk teased her lips as she stepped closer to him.
The comforter sat low on his hips, exposing traces of tattoos she hadn’t gotten around to asking about.
Somehow, somewhere between their grief, exhilarating sex, random lunch dates, and late-night conversations, Heavy had become someone important to her. The realization scared her.
Quietly approaching, she paused briefly before leaning down and gently placing a kiss on his lips. Heavy slightly stirred but didn’t fully wake. His hand instinctively reached toward her, grazing the back of her thigh before rubbing her backside.
“Good morning,” Cyren whispered, lips still pressed against his.
Heavy cleared his throat. “Good morning,” he rasped. “Why you up so early?”
“I had to pee, and I’m hungry. I’ma go cook us some breakfast.”
“A’ight.” He yawned, pulling her closer. “Gimmie me a kiss.”
With his morning breath and all, they pecked lips while he caressed her ass.
Heavy was so touchy-feely, and Cyren loved it.
She could see herself waking up to him every day, enjoying their quiet mornings before starting their days.
That was the dangerous feeling she didn’t want to tap into.
Shaking it off, she pulled away to slip into a pair of his sweats and her house shoes before heading downstairs.
Cyren loved the calmness she felt in his home.
It took a certain type of energy and a certain type of person to provide that.
Wanting to make him feel just as good as the space he provided her, Cyren figured breakfast was a good start.
Heavy was always feeding her, sending food to her job, and making sure she was good overall; it was nothing to fill his belly.
The kitchen faintly smelled like his signature plug-ins as she moved around, pulling ingredients together. She had a taste for something simple, yet fulfilling.
Opening the refrigerator, Cyren grabbed the milk, eggs, shredded cheese, maple sausage, butter, and thick-cut bacon he kept stocked.
Heavy liked cheese folded into his eggs.
In her opinion, he used too much, but she’d noticed he enjoyed his food a certain way.
It made her slightly smile, realizing she’d paid attention to the small details.
She noticed how neatly he folded his towels.
How he washed dishes right away instead of letting them pile up, and never went to bed with a dirty kitchen.
How, like her, he separated his clothes a certain way before washing them.
How the fruit bowl near the stove held bananas that were a day or two from turning brown because he swore he was about to start eating healthier.
It was domestic shit.
Dangerous shit.
The kind of details women paid attention to when their feelings were involved. Cyren was that woman.
She placed everything on the counter before opening the cabinet to grab the flour, baking powder, cinnamon, and vanilla extract.
Her fingers hesitated around the container of cinnamon.
If someone had been watching her, Cyren’s hesitation would have gone unnoticed.
It was brief, but thoughts of her mama immediately came to mind.
Nicole loved adding just a touch of cinnamon to her pancakes.
Not enough to overpower the other flavors, but just enough to make them highly requested whenever she was on breakfast duty.
Cyren remembered waking up on Saturdays to gospel or R&B playing on the TV, with her mama moving around the kitchen before the sun fully rose.
Back then, she thought those mornings were normal for them.
Now, she realized that ordinary moments are the most treasured and valuable memories.
As the bacon and sausage sizzled on one side of the stove, she whipped together the batter. Unexpectedly, wet lashes appeared. Blinking quickly, Cyren tried to ignore the tears and swallowed around the lump forming in her throat.
Suddenly, she was no longer in Heavy’s kitchen.
She was sixteen again, sitting on the counter while Nicole cooked, complaining about being hungry before the food was ready.
Nicole hummed her favorite song and took Cyren’s hands, making her dance.
Knowing she could get away with it, Cyren would sneak a piece of bacon from the napkin-covered plate and run before getting popped with a dish towel.
She would laugh every time while crunching on the perfectly fried meat.
The memory hit her so quickly that it stole her breath.
One moment, she was in Heavy’s kitchen trying to make pancakes, and the next, she was recalling a version of herself untouched by grief.
A girl with a mama.
A girl who thought Saturday mornings would last forever.
Those tears she had tried to hold back welled up, but she quickly blinked them away. Cyren exhaled through her nose before pouring the first pancake into the pan. She watched the bubbles form for a few minutes before flipping it at the last second.
“Ugh. It’s too dark,” she fussed, frowning.
Her eyes welled up with tears again, and her stomach suddenly dropped, feeling completely irrational. Cyren sniffled as her nostrils flared in annoyance. When her frustration eased, a wave of sadness washed over her.
“No,” she whispered harsher this time.
Her chest stuttered, and her next breaths came unevenly. Then another.