Chapter 18 Zuri
zuri
. . .
Yesterday, I’d opened a door he kept padlocked, chained, and boarded.
I’d spoken his story out loud. On top of that drama? He didn’t appreciate my cryptic response about last night’s call.
We swapped a wordless flight for a long, wordless drive to the Babineaux land. As the sun fell, it colored the horizon purple and blue.
My heart thudded in my throat as I glanced at the moss-draped cypress and live oaks near his estate. Montana took a bridge over the Bogue Falaya River, its water darker with the oncoming night. The Louisiana air was heavy—moist, green—and I tasted the river.
Miss Virginia’s creole cottage sat close, not big enough for a man like Montana. Nor was it big enough to cage the heart thudding in my chest.
The car slowed at his mom’s house, not going up the hill past the stables.
I’d expected that. Dang. Didn’t feel good.
And I didn’t have the right to jump onto the hood, arms crossed, stamping my foot, while yelling, “No … Gimme one more night with you. I just wanna cuddle, though. But you’ll love every second.
” Bonus points if I moaned softly at the end, just to add desperate-femme-fatale vibes.
Montana dropped his hand onto my jittery leg because, of course, I hadn’t even gotten out of the car to do anything remotely dramatic.
I sighed. “We’re still not talking?”
He got out, then opened my door.
Apparently, my life needed a soundtrack because a crow cawed in the distance. Might as well have been a full-bellied laugh.
I climbed out, and he wheeled my luggage from the trunk, then carried it up the porch.
Without knocking on the door of his mother’s home, Montana strolled down the steps.
My feet ate up the path, and I almost stepped on his feet just to block him from getting back into his Escalade.
An arched brow lifted.
I cleared my throat. Anytime, Zuri. You couldn’t shut up earlier, so speak.
“As you know, I spoke with my friend’s wife last night.”
“A friend that helps you disappear.” He smirked. “You gonna run? We have one argument, and you gonna run!”
“I told you,” I said, heaving a sigh. “Curtis and Deidre just got back from visiting family for the holiday.”
“You call dude to say Happy New Year, or for another fake ID? You got money now to pay for another escape.”
“Funny you didn’t realize, I left every brick of cash you gave me at your home.” My glance flicked up the hill. “I didn’t need it for the trip. Especially to get past the TSA. I don’t want it. Now.”
He shrugged. “You think I need it?”
“Maybe along with the old lady crew’s SSA checks.
” A smile found my cheeks and then flopped.
“You need to stop with the arrogance. Listen!” Dang, Zuri!
Now, you want Montana to listen after a half-hearted response earlier.
“I called Curtis for a fake ID—weeks ago. It looks bad because they just returned the call.”
“Yep. Looks bad.”
“When … I first left, I lived with them. Diedre’s a homemaker.
She watched Darius for a year. She and Curtis struggled to have children for years yet welcomed us into their home.
Seeing my son thrive in the chaos I’d created, while she couldn’t have her own …
it broke her heart.” My voice cracked. I was opening up to him. Sharing names.
Those sharp shoulders remained rigid.
“She and I chatted last night. Their Christmas gift to themselves was fertility drugs, a splurge for normal people.”
He sniffed, glared at a cypress, then pinned me. Eyes a flash of intelligence and disappointment. “You telling me something for the first time, Zuri. Funny, it ain’t your story. The little part that is doesn’t even add up. Why just a year?”
The look he gave told me he didn’t want that. I tried to take his hand. He folded his arms. “We have a spark, Montana. Yesterday, I didn’t know how else to help. I took it too far. Turned your pain into a case study on domestic violence.”
His face didn’t move. Not a muscle. Montana Babineaux was pure stone. Backlit by the fading light, shoulders squared like he’d rather go twelve rounds with me than open his mouth and discuss feelings. Speak.
Blink, sigh. Hell, cuss me out. This unreadable silence was a death sentence.
Raw panic bubbled in my throat. How could I tell him everything? The shame … New York …
“This how it’s gone be? You can’t be honest with me, Zuri?” He turned slowly. “Never brought a woman here, but you gone crap on all I’ve offered!”
Baby, I did more than shove a man. I couldn’t be the reason he never returned to baseball. “I messed up. Forgive me.” My voice came out a croak, but it held.
Last time I apologized, my social worker told me that if I “made it sound sincere,” my caregivers might let me stay. I’d sat there, snot bubbling, apologizing for my existence.
Now, here I was, frigid breath pluming from my lips, serving up my first apology in over a decade. So, I stepped closer to him, lifted my hand to caress his Bay-rum-scented beard.
Montana flinched, his chest puffing out—taller than ever and further from me. “I’m sorry, Montana.”
“I forgive you.” The words rolled out of Montana’s mouth, slow, steady, and with a rumble that shook the ground I stood on.
His dark eyes softened. “How can I not?” He glanced at me sideways, like a puzzle he couldn’t solve, but wanted to.
“You’re stubborn. Got a big, intelligent brain inside that—”
“Don’t say it,” I managed, practically giggling.
“3X gorgeous head.” As he spoke, my gaze drifted from the ground to meet his, and I stepped forward. Before I knew it, the Babineaux gravitational pull had me inches away. Would’ve been all over him if he weren’t so tall.
“So loyal,” his voice rasped, reminding me of honey and volcanic pumice. The perfect scrub. Guaranteed to bring a sigh. “Your mouth doesn’t clock out. Bébé, you care like it’s your job to breathe.”
Every word slid down my spine like honey, and that pumice, that deep pumice tone was the closer.
My body went rogue before my brain realized. Toes on the rise. Tongue darting across my lips to give it a glossy effect. My eyes hooded, lashes batting.
His hand splayed on my lower back. The sigh that slipped through my lips made me feel taller.
Bridged the gap. He was so close. Nodding his head, he added, “You also one, out of many,”—he chuckled, then finished in a cocky, Creole drawl—“many women who ever tried to strip me naked without knowing my name.”
My bottom lip pudged—leaving less than a breath between our lips. My toes ached. I didn’t care. “Mm-hmm. Didn’t get you naked. Conceited much.” My wide smile cut through the ache of waiting for him to kiss me.
But I wasn’t in a position to complain. I was, however, in the position to have him speaking Creole. Once. He. Kissed. Me.
My eyes closed. Committed.
Cue the fireworks.
Cue the violins.
Cue Etta James’s “At Last.”
And then …
“Who your people, Zuri? Why you live with a college friend and his woman?”
My eyes snapped open so fast I swear I sprained an eyeball, eyebrow, and the left half of my face. “Montana?”
“Okay. Never mind. Gimme the name of Darius’s father.” His brows rose. “Didn’t expect that yet. But I expected something! You told my business. I can’t be in yours?”
My jaw worked, and my hand fell onto my hip.
“Excuse me, sir? Do you see me?” Somewhere inside, my brain’s alarm flashed an SOS.
Throw the rescue tube. A life jacket. Pull this five-year celibate woman out of a three-foot pool before she chokes and dies.
But outside, I was livid. “My toes hurt. I’m out here looking like a fool standing in front of you—Montana Babineaux, alternate alias Big Country—and you wanna take me on a super old episode of Maury Povich. ”
“You something else.” He backed up and jutted his chin to the door. “Get in the house, woman.”
“Good night, Montana.” I strolled up the porch. As my fist rose to knock, the door opened.
A searing heat burned my eyes, clouding Virginia and the blur running toward me.
Darius launched himself into my arms.
“Tried to hold him off …” she said.
Thank you, I mouthed, pretending to struggle to stand while embracing my son. I fell to my knees with a groan that pulled something out of me. I’d blindsided Montana after the meeting. He’d returned the favor. “You’ve gotten so big.”
“Yes, Mommy. I’m big and strong.”
“Exactly.” I patted the top of his head and stood up to hug Virginia.
Tears spilled before I could stop them. “I’m sorry.”
With a look, she dissolved pretenses and got to my core. “You’ll be okay.” She soothed my back, even though she seemed puzzled by my tears.
Dang. Montana hadn’t revealed my actions.
“I-I left my bag on the porch.” I hawked a thumb, then meandered through the doors to grab it.
“Dinner is in the microwave.” She burst into laughter. “Padon. Every time I pop something into it, I imagine Montana stealing my dinners. Them boys. They eat you out of house and home and still want more!”
“Hah … hehehe.” Oh … why did I bother? But I’d mastered the art of smiling at people who fell back onto eggplant-shaped objects—common complaint in the ER. “Thank you for dinner. I’ll do breakfast tomorrow.”
She told me to get settled, then meandered out of the cozy living room. I glanced at the time. Seven p.m. Above the clock on the wall was an image of Jesus; a dearly departed president, and another more, current … not too current … president. And a framed picture of her grandson.
Elijah had Washington’s eyes.
My bottom lip wobbled while Darius jumped at my side, talking nonstop about his new cousins.
Although she offered me another room—same as Montana had, ulterior motives sparkling in his eyes—I’d placed everything in one guest room.
Darius jumped onto the bed, the feathery rose duvet puffing around him.
“Tell me about your fun weekend?” I focused on him as I went to eat dinner.
Later, I imagined how Montana pressed the reset button on our situation-ship. Months ago, I ghosted through life. No desire to be known. Loved.