Chapter 2 #2
My fraternal twin had been born nine minutes after me, stood as tall as our father, and had spent our entire lives refusing to acknowledge any evidence that made me the elder.
Same deep-brown complexion. Low cut. Neatly trimmed beard.
Enough easy charm to ensure there was usually some woman calling, texting him, or being described as somebody he was “still getting to know.”
Somehow, he also found time to make aggravating me a second career.
Bari picked up one of my throw pillows and turned it over. “What is this for?”
“It is a pillow.”
“It’s the size of a folded hoodie.”
I pointed the hammer toward him. “You have not plugged in one lamp.”
“I helped with that rug.”
“The delivery men carried the rug.”
“I told them where to put it.”
“You opened the door.”
“And made sure nobody stole your rug. Security.”
Daddy laughed without looking up. “Ignore him.”
“I have been trying since we shared a womb.”
Bari dropped the pillow beside him and stretched back across my new couch like he had paid for half of it. “You keep bringing up the womb because it’s the only time you were ahead of me.”
“Nine minutes, Jabari.”
“Scoreboard don’t count until everybody on the field.”
I put the hammer on the island harder than necessary. “I’m fine.”
My mother gave me the look she reserved for daughters who had presented a lie without putting enough effort into making it convincing.
The large furniture had arrived the previous weekend: bed, couch, dining table, mirrors, rugs, and the rust-colored velvet chair I absolutely did not need and loved too much to leave in the showroom.
Everything else remained boxed along the walls because my first full week with Saint Aurelia had swallowed most of my waking hours.
Tiffany had been the dream when I was twenty-two.
The internship became more, and for years I learned what happened behind the little blue box—the discipline required to make a global brand feel personal, the detail hidden beneath luxury, the way desire could be built around a color, a ribbon, a piece of jewelry somebody hoped would become part of family history.
YSL came later with bigger campaigns, more money, more responsibility, Paris calls at ridiculous hours, beautiful clothes I occasionally got to borrow and absolutely could not afford to keep, and the kind of résumé line that made recruiters return emails quickly.
I could have stayed inside that world for a long time.
Then Saint Aurelia called.
The Black-owned fine-jewelry house was smaller than Tiffany or YSL, but they were not asking me to make jewelry. They already knew how to do that beautifully. What they wanted was help deciding who Saint Aurelia would become next and making sure the right people knew its name.
Their longtime clientele was loyal, intimate, almost protective.
They knew the designers. Called client services by name.
Understood that a piece might be adjusted specifically for their wrist, throat, or story.
But there was an entire generation of younger Black professionals buying luxury watches, handbags, cars, trips, and diamonds who did not automatically think of a Black-owned jewelry house when they were ready to spend serious money.
That was the opportunity.
Tiffany had taught me what a legacy brand could mean to people.
YSL taught me what desire looked like when a house understood culture, image, and aspiration.
Saint Aurelia gave me the chance to take everything I had learned and use it for a Black luxury brand that already had the product and deserved a larger audience.
For the first time in years, I would not only be working inside somebody else’s legacy.
I could help grow one.
The fact that Saint Aurelia was headquartered in Pittsburgh complicated the decision and eventually helped make it.
Coming home was not the reason I said yes, but it also was not nothing.
I had not come back because New York had spit me out or because my ambition had softened around the edges.
I came because the future called from a place I already knew by heart.
That did not mean every part of coming home felt simple.
My new office had a downtown view people posted beside quotes about discipline and abundance, and my corporate condo had enough light to make unpacked boxes look intentional if I squinted. Every night after work, I came home planning to put my life in order after one final email.
One email became eleven-thirty, then midnight, and midnight had a way of convincing me unopened boxes were tomorrow’s business.
Sunday was the first day everybody had available before Crown Weekend started Thursday, so my parents came over straight from church and Bari arrived in clothes that suggested God had not seen him that morning.
My mother tapped the stool beside her. “Five minutes.”
“I have been sitting all week.”
“At a desk. Thinking hard is not rest.”
Bari pulled a decorative bowl from a box. “What goes in this?”
“Nothing.”
He stared at me. “So you bought a bowl nobody can put keys, change, or snacks in.”
“It is decorative.”
“Decorative means useless with a price tag.”
“Put it on the console.”
He looked toward Daddy. “See? This why she stressed. She got bowls with no assignment.”
“Leave her things alone and help with the books,” Daddy said.
Bari got up with the exaggerated irritation of a man who had done maybe eleven minutes of labor and believed OSHA needed to be involved.
I sat because all three of them had started watching me.
Mama’s face softened immediately.
That was the problem with becoming still around people who knew me. I could stay busy enough to fool myself for days. My family needed maybe ten minutes.
She pushed a plate toward me.
“Eat.”
Half a turkey sandwich and kettle chips.
I took a bite and discovered I was hungrier than I thought.
“You have been home one week,” she said, “and you’re already working like Pittsburgh might disappear if you take a nap.”
“I had deadlines.”
Daddy leaned away from the console. “You had something to avoid.”
Bari gave a low laugh.
Mama turned toward him. “Do not encourage your father.”
“I’m not. I’m just glad somebody else said it.”
I pointed my sandwich at Daddy. “That was dramatic.”
“No. Dramatic was unpacking spices before your sheets.”
“The sheets are on the bed.”
“You know what I mean.”
Daddy never needed a long speech, which was unfortunate because long speeches gave a person time to build a defense. He preferred leaving one sentence nearby and letting me decide whether I intended to embarrass myself by stepping around it.
“I’m not avoiding anything.”
My mother made a sound into her tea.
Bari slid a book onto the shelf. “What time you leaving Thursday?”
I knew exactly what he meant.
“Why are you involved?”
“Because if you act weird all weekend, Mama gon’ call me. I’m protecting my peace early.”
“I do not act weird.”
Bari looked at Daddy. “She just lied in front of the Lord and didn’t even blink.”
“I skipped church,” I reminded him.
“That don’t make Him unavailable.”
Thursday night was the opening mixer at Royal House, AWU's alumni house on campus. Royal House had history, beautiful old rooms, and nowhere near enough space for everybody who wanted inside during Crown Weekend, which was part of its charm and half the reason invitations mattered.
By Friday, the celebration moved downtown to The Nocturne for the Crown Legacy Gala.
AWU and the St. James family had been doing some version of that dance for decades.
Alumni stayed there. Donors met there. Reunions, retirement dinners, award nights and the occasions too important for folding chairs had passed through those rooms. The Nocturne wasn't part of AWU, but during Crown Weekend, it had always felt like family.
Purple-and-gold banners had already started going up around campus, hotel rates had become disrespectful, and every group chat with AWU alumni in it had turned into a countdown.
It should have felt like an easy return.
I had missed AWU in the way a person missed a place that had raised one version of her.
The campus had given me friends, confidence, terrible dining hall food, good parties, hard lessons, and the first real taste of being somewhere with Black excellence folded into the brick.
Crown Weekend was reunion and ritual. Yard music, vendors, old pictures recreated in new clothes, people screaming across crowds because they saw somebody they had not seen in years but still called family.
I wanted that part.
I wanted the future waiting on the other side of it too. Saint Aurelia. Pittsburgh. My own place. A title that challenged me. A city I understood differently now that I was returning to it as a woman with options instead of a girl trying to prove she deserved some.
But Crown Weekend had never been only Crown Weekend for me.
Bari did not say Dre’s name yet.
He did not need to.
My phone vibrated on the island.
Seeing Damien’s name made me tired before I read anything, which was unfair but honest.
I left it where it was.
Bari noticed. “New York?”
“Yes.”
“The finance dude?”
“He has a name.”
“Damien,” Mama supplied.
Bari nodded. “Right. Mr. Dinner Reservation.”
I laughed before I could stop myself. “What is wrong with dinner reservations?”
“Nothing. I make them too. I’m just saying that man looked like he asked permission before he ordered tap water.”
Daddy lowered his face to hide his smile.
“I raised y’all better than this,” Mama said.
Bari pointed at me. “She laughed first.”
I picked up the phone before Damien’s name could light up again.
Damien: Hope the unpacking isn’t too bad. I know you asked for space. Just checking in.
Damien had never betrayed me, embarrassed me, or treated me badly.
He was handsome, successful, attentive, and considerate.
He remembered flowers, reservations, important dates, and the exact Bordeaux I liked with dinner.
His suits fit correctly. His manners never needed adjusting. Our friends understood us together.