Chapter 23 #2
“You know I have tried to stay far away from love.”
“I know.”
“No, Imani. I mean far. Across the street. Different zip code. Fake phone number. Emergency exit mapped out before appetizers.”
“I know,” I said again, gentler this time. “But you and Malcolm are playing a game that only love wins.”
Her eyes closed for a second.
When she opened them, the shine there made me reach for her hand.
“I don’t know if I’m built for that,” she said.
“You are.”
“I’m good at wanting. I’m good at leaving before wanting turns into need.”
“Maybe you’re tired of leaving.”
She looked at me.
Camille swallowed, and for a moment, the restaurant noise moved around us without touching the table.
“I hate when you get emotionally accurate,” she said.
“I learned from the best.”
“I am the best.”
“You are.”
Her smile came back, smaller than usual but real.
We sat there longer than we planned, talking about travel, love, men with old football bodies and new emotional vocabulary, the house Camille had sold that morning, the boxes I had finally unpacked because Dre had “helped”, and whether my mother would ever stop pretending she was not thrilled every time his name came up.
“She won’t,” Camille said.
“You don’t know that.”
“Your mother is a Black woman with a daughter she likes and a man she approves of circling that daughter with intention. She is already mentally shopping for her dress.”
“She would never admit that.”
“She doesn’t have to. The dress knows.”
I laughed into my water.
Outside the restaurant, Camille hugged me longer than usual. The afternoon had cooled, and traffic moved softly along the street while the florist next door watered buckets of roses by the window.
“Don’t borrow fear from old versions of yourself,” she said near my ear.
I closed my eyes.
“Try taking that advice too.”
She pulled back. “Absolutely not. I am the advisor.”
“Fraud.”
“Successful fraud.”
I watched her walk toward her car, coat moving behind her, phone already in her hand. Probably Malcolm. Probably a client. Possibly both, because Camille loved making her life difficult in heels.
When I drove to Dre’s house, the sky had started shifting toward evening.
I still was not used to the size of it.
The first time I came here, I thought it was beautiful.
The second time, I thought it was excessive.
Now, I had accepted that both could be true.
Dre had given me the code two weeks ago.
The first time, I stared at the keypad like it might ask for blood.
He had only said, Mani, use the code. I gave it to you because I want you in.
Unfair.
Now I entered it, heard the lock release, and stepped inside like a woman trying to learn what it felt like to be expected.
The house smelled faintly like cedar, leather, and the candles he pretended he did not care about but always had burning somewhere. No television. No music. Only the low hush of a big house holding itself together.
“Dre?” I called.
“In here.”
His voice came from down the hall.
I followed it past the living room, past the long wall of black-and-white photographs, past the formal dining room I still had not seen him use. His office sat near the back of the house behind double doors that were half open.
I stopped in the doorway.
I had seen pieces of Andre Jones’s career before. Everybody had. Highlights. Covers. Framed jerseys in restaurants. Clips posted by fans who still argued about what he would have been if his knee had held.
This was different.
His AWU helmet sat on a shelf beside the purple-and-gold game ball from his final college game.
Framed photos lined the wall: Dre stiff-arming a defender at AWU, Dre in a Forge uniform with snow in the air, Dre laughing on the sideline, Dre on crutches after surgery with his mouth set in a line that hurt to look at.
Awards filled another wall.
Rookie honors.
Pro Bowl selections.
A framed article from his record-breaking playoff game.
And in the center case, under soft light, sat the Super Bowl ring he won his second season.
It looked almost too heavy for one hand.
Dre stood near the desk in dark sweats and a black T-shirt, one hand braced near his laptop. His agent’s voice came through the speaker.
“The deal is there if you want it,” Marcus Hale said. “Price talked to ownership and front office. They want you in the building.”
Dre looked up and saw me. Something in his face changed.
Not enough for Marcus to hear.
Enough for me.
He held out one hand.
I crossed the room quietly and placed mine in it. He pulled me close without breaking the conversation, tucking me against his side while his career stared at us from every wall.
“I told Coach I needed a few days,” he said.
“I know. I told him that too. But they can’t hold off much longer, Dre. They’re 4–6 heading into Week Eleven. If they’re going to fight back to .500 and keep the season alive, they need somebody in that running backs room now.”
My stomach tightened.
Week Eleven.
Practices. Film. Staff meetings. Road games. Late nights. Early mornings.
Dre’s thumb moved once over the back of my hand.
“I hear you,” he said.
“I’m not pressuring you.”
“You are absolutely pressuring me.”
“I am professionally encouraging a client to make a timely decision.”
“That sounds like pressure with invoicing.”
Marcus laughed. “It is. But I also know you. If you didn’t want this, you would have said no already.”
Dre looked toward the ring case.
He did not answer.
That silence told me enough.
Marcus softened. “Take the few days. But not too many. Price needs an answer before they finalize Week Eleven prep.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“All right. And Dre?”
“Yeah?”
“You were built for more than playing.”
The room went still.
Marcus hung up before Dre had to answer.
For a few seconds, neither one of us spoke.