2
The following morning, I held a funeral for our situationship.
My best friend, Jessalyn Boone, arrived at my apartment with breakfast, peach mimosas, and a black balloon she had purchased from the party store.
The balloon read REST IN PEACE in silver letters.
“You are doing too much,” I told her.
“I bought matching napkins.”
“You need supervision.”
Jessa set the food on my kitchen island. “This relationship died after a long illness. We should honor its struggle.”
“It wasn’t a relationship.”
“Exactly. No birth certificate, no Social Security number, and somehow it still claimed you on its taxes.”
I laughed despite myself.
Jessa had been my best friend since freshman year of college, when she saw me arguing with a vending machine and offered to help me drag it outside.
She was five feet ten, honey-brown, slim, and always dressed like she expected photographers. Today, she wore a cream jumpsuit and oversized sunglasses, although we were standing inside my kitchen.
She managed the wine bar at my bookstore and spent most of her free time trying to prevent me from making emotionally expensive decisions.
I poured orange juice into my glass.
Jessa looked at the bottle of champagne.
“I have to work.”
“You own the place.”
“That means I have to be sober enough to fire myself.”
She removed her sunglasses. “How are you really?”
“I’m fine.”
“Your hair is wrapped, you’re wearing his T-shirt, and there’s a family-size bag of barbecue chips open at eight in the morning.”
I looked down at Keon’s faded Riverton Tech shirt.
“It’s comfortable.”
“It is evidence.”
I grabbed a chip. “I’m going to wash it and return it.”
“You should burn it.”
“It’s cotton, Jessa. I’m heartbroken, not wasteful.”
She leaned against the counter. “Did he call?”
“Six times.”
“And?”
“I blocked him.”
Her eyes widened. “On everything?”
“Phone, social media, and the security app to my building.”
“The doorbell camera too?”
“I removed him as an authorized user.”
“Page Carter, I have never been prouder.”
My last name was Carter, although most people called me Page because my mother had named me after the one place she claimed she could always find peace: inside a book.
I had carried the joke my entire life.
Page loved books.
Page owned a bookstore.
Page needed to turn the page.
God had a sense of humor and apparently enjoyed themes.
My bookstore and wine lounge, Margin Notes, sat on the corner of Marlowe Avenue and Seventh Street. The neighborhood had once been considered undesirable by everyone except the people who lived there. Then developers discovered exposed brick and started calling the same buildings historic.
I had purchased my storefront five years earlier using my savings, a small-business loan, and enough blind faith to qualify as temporary insanity.
Margin Notes became my fresh start after my engagement to Ephram Cole collapsed.
Ephram had loved me in future tense.
He was going to marry me after his promotion.
We were going to buy a home when the market improved.
He planned to prioritize our relationship once life settled down.
Life never settled.
He simply moved out while I was at work and sent me a message explaining that he needed to find himself.
Three months later, he found himself inside a destination wedding with somebody from his accounting department.
After Ephram, I promised myself I would never again build a home inside somebody’s maybe.
Then Keon arrived with broad shoulders, quiet eyes, and a smile that made common sense leave through the nearest emergency exit.
Jessa slid a breakfast sandwich toward me.
“You have spent enough time waiting for men to become ready,” she said. “Keon knew what you wanted.”
“He’s been through a lot.”
“So have you. Your trauma still owns a calendar.”
I unwrapped my sandwich.
Keon’s history was complicated.
His mother battled addiction for most of his childhood. His father appeared whenever he needed money or forgiveness. Keon’s grandmother raised him and Tavron in a small two-bedroom house near the old rail yard.
At nineteen, Keon began running with men who believed fast money came without a receipt. He was arrested once for riding in a car with stolen merchandise. The charge was dismissed, but the experience scared him straight.
He learned construction from his grandmother’s brother, saved every dollar he could, and eventually created Maddox Restoration. By thirty-six, he owned two work trucks, employed twelve people, and had contracts across the city.
His former fiancée, Sabrine Holt, left during the first year of his business when money became tight. According to Keon, she had told him love wasn’t enough to survive struggle.
Keon heard, You will eventually disappoint everybody who depends on you.
I heard, Please wait patiently while I decide whether you are worth the risk.
We understood each other’s wounds.
Unfortunately, understanding somebody’s wounds didn’t mean volunteering to bleed beside them forever.
My phone buzzed across the counter.
Jessa looked at it. “I thought you blocked him.”
“I did.”
The screen displayed an email notification.
From: Keon Maddox
Subject: This is childish.
Jessa leaned closer.
I opened it.
> You blocked me on the thermostat app too?
Jessa pressed a hand to her chest. “That man is suffering.”
“I pay for the thermostat.”
I typed a response.
> You have a thermostat at your own apartment. Build a relationship with it.
His reply arrived thirty seconds later.
> I need to talk to you.
I deleted the email.
Jessa nodded approvingly. “Welcome to the Keon Cleanse.”
“How long does the cleanse last?”
“Until he develops emotional fiber.”