Chapter 11
NIA
Wrapped in the hotel’s thin towel, I stepped back into the room. The bed looked enormous without Ronan in it. I pulled on an oversized T-shirt from my bag and crawled into bed, pulling the blanket up to my chin.
The duvet smelled like generic detergent, not the subtle scent of a man that had surrounded me last night. I buried my face in the pillow and groaned. One night with him, and suddenly everything else felt wrong.
What would Devon think? The thought ambushed me, bringing with it a wave of guilt. My brother, killed by men with badges, and here I was, falling into bed with one, kissing him, wanting him. Letting him see parts of me I’d kept guarded since Devon’s death.
Ronan wasn’t just a badge, that was the problem. I’d seen the man behind it, the man who stepped between young protesters and National Guard troops, who got himself arrested in his own jurisdiction, who held space for my grief about my brother without trying to defend the system that killed him.
“This is some bullshit,” I said into the empty room. I’d caught feelings for Birmingham’s top cop. If this weren’t my life, I’d think it was a bad movie plot.
My phone chimed. I grabbed it, hoping it was him, but it was Talia.
Talia: U ok? Been trying 2 reach u all day.
Me: I’m fine. Just needed some time to decompress.
Talia: Worried about u after that protest mess. CNN showing footage. U look good on camera, even getting arrested lol.
I smiled. Leave it to Talia to find the bright side, even after I got arrested.
Me: Talk tomorrow. Need sleep.
Talia: Okay. GN.
I set the phone face down, cutting off its illumination. Sleep seemed impossible, with my brain spinning like this, replaying moments from the cabin on an endless loop. Ronan’s chuckle was rare but genuine. The careful way he’d handled me. How he’d held me afterward.
I pulled the blanket under my chin, wishing it held a trace of Ronan, proof that what happened between us was real.
I spent one night against his chest, and now my solitude felt like loneliness.
Missing a man I barely knew wasn’t me. I knew who I was, what I stood for. Devon’s memory demanded nothing less.
Sleep finally crept over me, but it wasn’t my brother’s face I saw behind my closed eyes. It was Ronan’s, looking at me in that moment when everything between us changed, when he became more than a sex symbol, and I became more than a cause. And I wasn’t sure if it was betrayal or growth.
The next morning, I texted Ronan.
Me: Hey, you, I'm going to have breakfast with Mama and then head to campus for the lecture, just checking in.
Ronan: I’m walking out the door now. I’m sure it will be a long day.
Me: Don’t work too hard.
Ronan: I’ll try.
Mama’s front porch still had the same wooden swing that had seen every big moment in my life.
First heartbreak at fifteen? That swing.
Acceptance letter to Howard? That swing.
The night we got the call about Devon? The swing, too, so it made sense that I ended up in it before even knocking, holding a paper bag of warm scones.
I didn’t need to knock. Mama had a maternal radar. The screen door opened, and there stood Vivian Price, five foot, four inches of librarian fierceness, her graying locs swept up in a colorful scarf.
“Thought I heard that swing complaining. You gonna sit out there all morning or come give your mama a proper hello?” she asked, eyes crinkling at the corners.
I got up from the swing and crossed the porch to hug her, breathing in her scent, unique cocoa butter and Earl Grey tea. Some things never changed, thank God.
I lifted the paper bag. “I brought breakfast from that bakery you like on Fifth.”
Her eyes lit up. “The one with the blueberry scones? Girl, you trying to butter me up for something?”
I laughed, following her inside. “Can’t a daughter just bring her mama breakfast?”
The kitchen looked just as it always had, with yellow walls repainted the same shade at least four times, family photos covering the fridge, and the wooden table that still wobbled a little. Daddy always meant to fix it, but never did before he passed.
Mama took plates from the cabinet while I poured coffee into our old mugs. Mine had faded cartoon characters, and hers read, Librarians Do It By The Book.
Mama sat across from me, her reading glasses hanging from a beaded chain. “You gonna tell me what’s got you looking like you’re carrying the weight of the world? Or are we just going to pretend these scones are that interesting?”
I couldn’t help but smile. Mama never liked to beat around the bush.
I tore my scone into small pieces instead of meeting her eyes. “It’s been a long week. The protest for Jaylen Harris got ugly. They sprayed us with tear gas, and I was arrested. It was a mess.”
“I was worried sick when I saw that on the news, but Talia told me she was working to get you out. And then you texted me the next morning. I also saw Birmingham’s fine-looking police chief got himself arrested right alongside you. How did they arrest the police chief? That was interesting.”
Heat rose to my cheeks, and I focused harder on my demolished scone. Should’ve known she’d cut straight to the point.
I finally looked up at her. “Chief Banks was trying to keep things from escalating. When the National Guard moved in with tear gas, he actually tried to stop them. He’s . . . not what I expected, Mama.”
She shrugged slightly. “Oh?”
That one word said a lot. I took a deep breath, knowing I couldn’t hide anything from the woman who taught me to speak my truth, especially when it was complicated.
“He listens, really listens. Not just waiting for his turn to talk, but hearing what I’m saying about the system, about what happened to Devon. He got arrested in his own jurisdiction because he stood up for what was right, even against his own people. Who does that?”
Mama’s eyes narrowed a little as she studied my face. She put on her reading glasses, as if they’d help her see me more clearly.
“Sounds like you spent some time with this man beyond just seeing him at the protest,” she noted carefully.
I nodded and picked at a blueberry that had fallen from my scone. “We were in the same holding cell. And then . . . after we got released . . .”
“After you got released . . .?” she prompted when I trailed off.
“We went to his cabin by the lake. And we . . . talked. Among other things.”
Mama’s eyes widened for a moment before she hid her reaction. “I see.”
“It’s not what you think . . . Actually, it’s exactly what you think, but it’s also more than that,” I corrected quickly, then laughed at myself.
“Baby girl, you know I trust your judgment. But you also know how I feel about men with badges.”
“I know. That’s why I’m here. Because I don’t know if I’m losing my mind or if there’s something real happening. He’s a cop, Mama. The chief of police. Everything I’ve fought against since Devon . . .”
I couldn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t need to. We both lived with that ghost between us.
“Trusting your heart is brave. Just don’t break it on a badge. Men like that are a part of a system bigger than themselves. No matter how good their intentions are.”
My shoulders dropped. This was why I came, not just for advice but for a safe place to be vulnerable, to be unsure, to not have all the answers like Dr. Price was supposed to.
“He talked about reforming from within, about changing the system. And I want to believe him, but . . .”
“You’ve heard that before, from politicians and chiefs who showed up at community meetings after Devon died. Promising change that never came.”
I nodded, grateful she understood. “Ronan feels different, though. When he talks about it, I believe him. Is that na?ve?”
Mama took off her glasses, letting them hang from their chain again. “I raised you to be many things, and na?ve ain’t one of them. Your eyes light up when you talk about him. Been a long time since I’ve seen that.”
I hadn’t realized it was so obvious. “Yeah, well . . .”
“Just be careful with your heart, baby, and with your work, too. You’ve built something important to your activism, your teaching. Don’t let feelings for this man, no matter how good he might be, undermine what you stand for.”
“That’s what scares me. What if being with Ronan compromises me? What if people think I’ve sold out? What if I pull punches because I’m worried about how it affects him?”
Mama’s face softened. “The fact you’re asking these questions tells me you’re still my clear-eyed girl. Let me ask you this. Did being with him make you feel more or less like yourself?”
Her question caught me off guard. I thought about the time I spent at the cabin, everything from our conversations, physical intimacy, laughter, and the quiet moments of connection.
“More. I know this sounds strange, but it felt like the parts of me I shut down since Devon passed can finally breathe again.”
She nodded, like I’d confirmed something she already suspected. “Then maybe this isn’t about compromising who you are. Maybe it’s about expanding who you can be.”
I let her words sink in.
“Besides, relationships are about growth. Maybe you change him a little, he changes you a little, and you both end up better for it.”
“When did you get so wise about relationships? You’ve been single since Daddy died,” I teased, glad for the lighter mood.
“Child, please. I read books for a living. And I’ve seen enough real-life love stories unfold in my library to know a thing or two. Now, you want more coffee, or you want to keep pretending these feelings aren’t scaring you half to death?”
I laughed and slid my mug toward her. “Both, I think.”
As she refilled our cups, I relaxed. This was what I needed: my mama’s kitchen, her wisdom, her way of seeing me without judgment. No matter what happened with Ronan or what came next, I knew I could always come back here. This was where I could be both brave and scared at once.
As always, Mama knew just what I needed to hear.
After breakfast and talking with Mama, I went to the lecture hall.
That was the real reason I’d come back to Birmingham.
It was my first public appearance since the protest, the arrests, and everything that happened at Ronan’s cabin.
Everything had changed, but no one in the audience would know just by looking at me.
“Ten minutes, Dr. Price,” a student assistant called through the door, interrupting my thoughts.
“Thank you,” I replied, smoothing down my blazer. I looked like myself, professional, put-together, and confident, not like a woman whose world had tilted on its axis in a cabin by a lake.
My phone buzzed in my hand, an unknown number. I almost let it go to voicemail.
“Hello?”
There was a pause.
“It’s me, Ro.”
“You calling me from a burner now, Chief?”
He laughed quietly. Then he was quiet again, longer this time. “Nia, I need you to listen.”
The smile slid off my face at his seriousness. “Okay . . .”
“For a little while, I need you to be careful.”
I leaned against the counter. “Careful how?”
“If anyone asks about us, keep it simple. Simple as we ran into each other. That’s it.”
“Are you asking me to lie?”
“No, I’m asking you not to offer more than what’s asked.”
I closed my eyes. “Why?”
There was more silence on his end.
“Because I don’t want my world touching yours in a way that hurts you.”
I blew out air, tired of this charade.
“So, what are the fuck are we doing?”
After another pause regret threaded through his voice.
“We’re still us. I just need you to move smart for a minute.”
“Okay, I can do smart.”
“Good, I’ll call you soon.”
I stared at my phone long after, unsure why my hands shook. It wasn’t what he said. It was what he didn’t. Ronan wasn’t vague by nature. He was a deliberate, precise man, whose authority lived in clarity. Whatever he’d held back had weight.
I told myself not to spiral. I was good at spotting fear when it dressed itself up as concern. This hadn’t felt like that. It felt like what my mama warned me against. It felt like things between us were coming to an abrupt stop, and it hurt.
I slid my phone into my bag just as it buzzed again. This time, it wasn’t him. I glanced down at the screen and froze.
Alert: federal “domestic disruptor” database updated.
The notification came from a civil liberties watchdog app I’d installed months ago.
My hands trembled while I opened it and scrolled through the update.
There was my name, Dr. Nia Price, listed among two dozen activists newly added to the Department of Homeland Security’s “potential disruptors” watchlist.
“What the fuck? I’m a historian, not a terrorist,” I said out loud, and I held the edge of a table to steady myself as the room spun.
Panic and anger rushed over me in droves.
I scrolled down and read the short explanation next to my name.
“Demonstrations with anti-government rhetoric maintain connections with known radical elements, which influence young activists through academic position.”
My teaching. My research. The things I’d devoted my life to were now being used to label me a threat to national security.
“Five minutes, Dr. Price!”
I closed my eyes and forced myself to breathe, even though my chest felt tight. This wasn’t the time to fall apart. I’d devoted weeks to preparing for this lecture, and three hundred people were waiting to hear it. The irony of being called a “disruptor” right before this lecture wasn’t lost on me.
I tucked my phone into my pocket, collected my notes, and took three deep breaths. Time to be Dr. Price.
When the department chair introduced me, I walked onto the stage with practiced confidence. The lecture hall was almost full—students with notebooks open, faculty colleagues nodding in greeting, community members who’d come to this lecture to hear the “firebrand historian” speak her truth.
I adjusted the microphone, set my notes on the podium, and observed the audience with a smile that came across as more natural than I expected, considering the news I’d just received.
“Thank you all for coming today. We’re here to talk about the evolution of civil disobedience in the digital era, but first, I want to take us back to the foundations . . .”