Chapter 4 #2
I stepped away from Dre and walked toward the front window. “You saw the comment.”
She laughed once, but there wasn’t humor in it. “Wow. Straight to it.”
“I’m not going to insult you by pretending I don’t know why you’re quiet.”
“Do you know?”
“Yes.”
“Then explain.”
I looked out at the street. A car rolled by slow, bass rattling. Across the way, the corner store lights flickered.
“Latrice and I went out a couple times months ago,” I said. “Nothing serious. Nothing current. She wanted more than I did, and she’s been taking that personal ever since.”
“Did you take her to the rooftop?”
I closed my eyes for half a second.
There it was.
The real question.
“I’ve had people on that rooftop before,” I said carefully. “Friends. Business people. A couple dates when the place was under construction.”
“So yes.”
“Not like tonight.”
“That’s convenient.”
“I know how it sounds.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“No, Eric, I don’t think you do.” Her voice cracked just a little, and that bothered me more than if she had yelled. “Because for you, maybe it was just a comment. For me, it was sitting there wondering if I was the only one who thought tonight was special.”
“You weren’t.”
Silence.
I lowered my voice. “Monica, you weren’t.”
She didn’t respond.
“I didn’t bring you up there because it’s my move,” I said. “I brought you there because that’s the one place I’m building from nothing, and I wanted you to see it. I wanted to share that with you.”
“You barely know me.”
“I know.”
“So why would you do all that?”
“Because I wanted to.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the honest one.”
I heard her exhale.
I could picture her sitting on that couch she had mentioned, probably still in that green dress, barefoot, arms folded, face set like she was protecting herself from something I never intended to do.
“Latrice used to be my friend,” she said.
That caught me off guard. “I didn’t know that.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
“What happened?”
“She’s one of those women who act like she’s cheering for you, but really she’s taking notes so she can throw your life back in your face later.”
I stayed quiet.
“She knows what she was doing with that comment,” Monica said.
“I know.”
“And maybe you didn’t do anything wrong. Maybe this is just messy woman stuff. But I don’t like feeling stupid.”
“You’re not stupid.”
“I felt stupid tonight.”
“That wasn’t my intention.”
“I know intentions don’t stop embarrassment.”
She was right.
I could explain all night, but it wouldn’t undo the feeling.
That was the part men got wrong. We thought truth fixed everything because truth made sense. But hurt didn’t always care about sense. Hurt needed patience. Consistency. Time.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She went quiet again.
Not because she expected it.
Because maybe she didn’t.
“For what?” she asked.
“For not thinking about how that post could look. For not handling Latrice before she had room to make you question me. For giving you a beautiful night and letting somebody else put a shadow on it.”
Her breath caught slightly.
Good.
Let her hear me.
“I’m not apologizing for taking you there,” I continued. “Because I meant that. Every part of it. But I am sorry you had to see that mess afterward.”
“You say all the right things.”
“No,” I said. “I say what I mean.”
“That’s what scares me.”
I leaned my shoulder against the window frame. “Why?”
“Because if you were obviously full of it, this would be easier.”
That almost made me smile, but I didn’t.
“This don’t have to be hard,” I said.
“It’s already hard.”
“Because you’re fighting it.”
“I’m protecting myself.”
“I respect that.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. But don’t protect yourself from me by punishing me for somebody else.”
There it was.
The line neither one of us could take back.
She got quiet.
I let it sit.
Not as a weapon.
As truth.
Finally, she said, “I’m not trying to punish you.”
“I know.”
“I just don’t know you yet.”
“Then let me keep showing you.”
“Eric…”
“I’m not asking you to trust me blindly. Ask me questions. Be cautious. Check what you need to check. But don’t disappear on me because somebody else wants attention.”
A soft sound came through the phone. Not a laugh. Not quite.
“Did you delete it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Dre said deleting it would look guilty.”
“I hate that he’s right.”
“I do too.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Respond once. Clear. Public. Then I’m blocking her.”
“You don’t have to do that for me.”
“I’m not doing it only for you. I should’ve done it before.”
“Okay.”
That okay was small, but it was there.
I took it.
“Can I see you tomorrow?” I asked.
She laughed softly. “That was fast.”
“I told you I don’t waste time.”
“I have clients.”
“After.”
“I don’t know.”
“Then don’t decide tonight.”
“I hate when you’re reasonable.”
“I can be unreasonable if you prefer.”
“No, thank you.”
Another quiet pause.
Then she said, “Goodnight, Eric.”
“Goodnight, Monica.”
“And Eric?”
“Yeah?”
“If Latrice comments again, I might forget I’m classy.”
I smiled then. Couldn’t help it.
“I’ll keep bail money ready.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It was a little funny.”
She hung up, but not angry.
I could tell the difference.
I stood there with the phone in my hand, relieved but not comfortable.
Because now I needed to do two things I hated.
Address public mess.
And humble my little brother.
Dre walked over. “She hang up on you with love or violence?”
“Neither.”
“That’s good. Neutral is where forgiveness parks.”
I opened Instagram.
Latrice’s comment still sat there, collecting likes from people who needed jobs.
I typed carefully.
ERIC: Don’t do that. You and I were never serious, and nothing about tonight has anything to do with you. I wish you well, but keep the lies and hints off my page.
Dre read over my shoulder. “Mature. Slight sting. No typos. I approve.”
I posted it.
Then blocked her.
Almost immediately, my phone started buzzing with reactions.
I ignored them all.
Dre grinned. “The aunties gone eat that up with tea.”
“Let them.”
“You know Latrice about to act like a victim.”
“She can act. I’m done watching.”
I locked my phone and headed toward the back office.
“Where you going?” Dre asked.
“To sleep.”
“You sleeping here?”
“Yeah.”
“Because of Marlo?”
“Because of everything.”
Dre nodded, no jokes this time.
He knew me well enough to know when the night had gotten too heavy for laughter.
I stretched out on the office couch around one in the morning, but sleep didn’t come easy. My mind kept bouncing between Monica’s voice and Quan’s mess.
One woman trying not to trust me.
One brother trying not to grow up.
And me in the middle, trying to build something solid on ground that still remembered every bad thing that ever happened there.
Sometime after two, I finally drifted off.
I woke up to banging.
Hard.
Fast.
Not on the office door.
Downstairs.
I sat up, already alert.
The clock on my phone said 5:42 a.m.
More banging.
Then Dre’s voice from below.
“Eric!”
I was on my feet before he called again.
I ran down the stairs and found Dre standing near the front entrance, staring at the glass door.
Red spray paint covered the front window.
Big, ugly letters across the glass.
PAY WHAT HE OWE.
For a few seconds, I didn’t move.
Not because I was shocked.
Because I was angry enough to be still.
Dre looked at me. “Marlo?”
“Maybe.”
My phone buzzed.
Quan.
I answered, voice low. “What?”
“Eric, don’t be mad.”
That was how guilty people said good morning.
“What happened?”
“I went to talk to Marlo.”
My grip tightened around the phone. “After I told you to stay at Ma’s?”
“I was trying to fix it.”
“And?”
“He got mad.”
I looked at the red paint dripping down my glass.
“Yeah,” I said. “I can see that.”
“I ain’t know he was gonna do all that.”
“You don’t know a lot, Quan. That’s the problem.”
Dre stepped outside to look around, phone in hand.
Quan kept talking. “I’m sorry, bruh.”
“Sorry don’t clean windows.”
“I’ll come help.”
“No. Stay away from here.”
“But—”
“Stay away.”
I hung up.
The street was waking up around us. A bus hissed at the corner. A woman in scrubs walked past slowly, reading the words on my window with wide eyes. Somebody across the street pulled out their phone.
Of course.
The block loved nothing more than a fresh problem before breakfast.
Dre came back inside. “No cameras on the front yet?”
“Electrician was supposed to finish that today.”
“Perfect timing.”
I stared at the damage.
This was supposed to be the week everything changed. Final inspection. Soft opening. Grand opening. A clean start.
Now my window looked like evidence.
And Monica—
I didn’t even finish the thought.
Because as if my mind had called her, her car turned the corner.
She slowed when she saw us.
Then pulled over.
Dre looked at me. “Well.”
Monica got out wearing leggings, sneakers, a hoodie, and no makeup. Hair pulled back, face bare, eyes sharp.
Still beautiful.
Still looked like she could hurt my feelings before coffee.
She walked toward the lounge, reading the spray paint.
Then she looked at me.
“What happened?”
I didn’t answer fast enough.
Her eyes moved from my face to the window, then back.
“This got something to do with last night?” she asked.
“No.”
“Eric.”
I exhaled. “It has to do with my brother.”
Her expression shifted.
Not judgment.
Concern.
That almost broke through my anger.
“What brother?” she asked.
“Quan. He owes money to somebody stupid.”
“And they did this?”
“Looks like it.”
She looked at the window again, then at me. “Are you okay?”
I was ready for a lot of questions.
Who did this?Is this dangerous?What are you involved in?Should I leave?Was Latrice right?Is this your life?
But Monica asked if I was okay.
And for a second, I didn’t have my usual answer ready.
Dre suddenly found something to do by the bar.
I looked at Monica.
“I’m mad,” I said.
“That’s not what I asked.”
I swallowed.
She stepped closer, voice softer. “Are you okay?”
There it was again.
The thing I had felt at Big Ray’s.
Peace with a mouth on it.
“No,” I admitted. “Not really.”
She nodded like that answer mattered.
Then she looked at the spray paint, pulled her phone from her hoodie pocket, and said, “Okay. First, we take pictures. Then you call whoever does your insurance. Then we get this cleaned before the neighborhood turns it into a documentary.”
I blinked.
She was already moving.
Taking pictures. Angles. Close-ups. Wide shots. Muttering under her breath about men, mess, and business owners needing cameras before chairs.
Dre looked at me and mouthed, Wife.
I glared at him.
Monica turned around. “And you.”
Dre pointed at himself. “Me?”
“Yes. Go get gloves, trash bags, paper towels, whatever. Don’t just stand there looking like comedy relief.”
Dre’s mouth fell open. “I like her.”
“I don’t care. Move.”
He moved.
I watched her take over my disaster like she had been assigned by heaven and had complaints about the working conditions.
Something in my chest loosened.
She came back to me and held out her hand. “Keys.”
“To what?”
“The lounge. I need to see if the paint bled inside.”
“You asking for my keys?”
“No, Eric. I’m standing here doing interpretive dance.”
I almost smiled.
Almost.
I handed her the keys.
Her fingers brushed mine.
She paused, just for half a second.
Then she looked up at me.
“I don’t know if you’re safe or dangerous,” she said quietly.
I stepped closer.
Close enough that the noise from the street faded. Close enough that I could see the worry behind her attitude.
“For you?” I said. “Safe.”
Her eyes held mine.
“For anybody trying you?” I added. “Dangerous.”
She didn’t smile.
But she didn’t step back either.