Chapter 5 #2
“Because if you look at my car and find something wrong, then I have to deal with reality.”
“You prefer denial?”
“It’s free.”
He shook his head and walked outside.
I followed him, already irritated because he was right. My car had been making a little sound. A tiny sound. A whisper. A mechanical throat clear.
Nothing major.
Probably.
Eric crouched near my front tire, then looked underneath the car.
I stood over him. “Don’t judge her. She’s been through a lot.”
“What’s her name?”
“My car?”
“Yeah.”
“Greta.”
He looked up at me. “Greta?”
“She gives old auntie energy.”
“She needs brakes.”
I gasped. “You don’t know that.”
He stood, wiping his hands on a towel. “I do.”
“You looked for two seconds.”
“I own a detail shop. I know cars.”
“That’s cleaning cars.”
“I also know when brakes sound like they praying.”
I groaned. “How much?”
“I’ll have my guy check it.”
“No.”
“Monica.”
“No. I am not about to be in debt to a man I met at a wing spot.”
“You won’t be in debt.”
“That is exactly what men say before they start acting like you owe them your weekends and your emotional availability.”
His face changed.
Not offended.
Serious.
“I’m not that kind of man.”
The words landed softly but firmly.
I felt my defenses shift, embarrassed by how quickly they had jumped up.
“I know,” I said, quieter. “I’m just…”
“Used to strings.”
I looked away.
Yeah.
That.
Eric stepped closer but gave me space. “Let me make sure you’re safe. That’s it.”
I looked back at him.
“You keep using that word,” I said.
“Safe?”
“Yeah.”
“Because it matters.”
“Most men want to feel needed.”
“I’d rather you feel safe.”
I didn’t have a joke ready.
That was inconvenient.
So I did what any emotionally avoidant woman with medium hoops and a full schedule would do.
I changed the subject.
“I have to go.”
He nodded, but his eyes were smiling. “I’ll follow you.”
“You are very persistent.”
“Intentional.”
“Bossy.”
“Safe,” he corrected.
I got in my car before my face did something soft and humiliating.
He followed me back to the salon, and yes, Greta did make the sound again. This time louder. Like she was trying to tell on herself.
When I parked, Eric pulled in behind me. Before I could get out, he was already at my door.
“Your brakes are getting checked today,” he said.
“Good morning to you too.”
“Monica.”
I looked up at him from the driver’s seat. “Eric.”
“You can argue while safe.”
“That sounds like something you put on a throw pillow.”
“I’ll buy you one.”
“You’re getting on my nerves.”
“But am I wrong?”
I hated that I smiled.
He saw it.
Of course he did.
“Come here,” he said softly.
I should have said no.
Not because I didn’t want to.
Because I wanted to too much.
But I stepped out, and he closed my car door behind me. We stood between our vehicles in front of the salon, close enough for the morning sun to make everything feel more intimate than it had any business being.
He reached out and brushed a tiny smear of red paint from my sleeve.
His fingers grazed my arm.
My body noticed like it had been waiting all morning to file a report.
“You got paint on you,” he said.
“I was doing community service.”
“For me?”
“For the glass.”
“You always deflect?”
“You always notice?”
“Yes.”
“That’s rude.”
His eyes dropped to my mouth for half a second.
My heart tripped over itself.
“Monica,” he said.
“Don’t say my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you know what it does.”
His face softened, but there was heat in his eyes now. Not disrespectful. Not rushed.
Just honest.
“I’m trying to behave,” he said.
“You said that last night.”
“I meant it then too.”
“Do you need a reward?”
The words left my mouth before I could catch them.
Eric froze.
I froze.
Somewhere in the distance, a bird probably fainted.
His eyebrows lifted slowly. “You flirting with me, Monica?”
“No.”
“That sounded like flirting.”
“That sounded like a medical question.”
“For who?”
“Myself, apparently.”
He laughed low, but he didn’t step closer. He just looked at me with that quiet confidence, like he knew I was cracking and had no intention of rushing the break.
The salon door opened.
Tameka stuck her head out.
“Monica, your client is here!” she yelled.
Then she saw Eric standing close to me.
Her eyes widened.
“Oh. Excuse me. I didn’t know we were having a parking lot romance.”
“We are not,” I said.
Eric smiled. “Morning, Tameka.”
“Mmm-hmm. Morning, Mr. Intentional.”
I glared at her. “Go inside.”
“I am inside. My head is outside.”
“Tameka.”
She disappeared, but not before saying, “Don’t let me interrupt safety.”
I covered my face.
Eric laughed.
“I have to work,” I said.
“I know.”
“Thank you for breakfast vandalism bonding.”
“Anytime.”
“That was not an invitation.”
“I know.”
He reached for my hand and squeezed it once. “I’ll call you later.”
“Okay.”
“And I’m sending somebody for Greta.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Eric.”
“Monica.”
I stared at him.
He stared back.
I lost.
“Fine. But I’m paying.”
“We’ll talk about that.”
“No, we won’t.”
“We already are.”
“You are impossible.”
“And safe.”
I rolled my eyes, but my chest warmed anyway.
Inside the salon, Tameka was practically vibrating.
I walked past her without making eye contact.
“Nope,” I said.
“I didn’t say nothing.”
“Your spirit did.”
“Girl, your spirit came in here holding hands.”
“We were not holding hands.”
“You wanted to.”
I went into my lash room and started setting up. “I am a professional woman. I do not have time for this.”
“You had time to scrub graffiti for a man.”
“It was an emergency.”
“It was a red flag, technically.”
I paused.
She leaned against the doorway, her face softening. “Mo.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I sat down on my stool and looked at her.
The humor drained out of me for a second.
“I know it looks messy.”
“It is messy.”
“He told me the truth.”
“About his brother?”
“Yeah.”
“And Latrice?”
“Yeah.”
Tameka crossed her arms. “Do you believe him?”
I thought about that.
Not the way he looked. Not the rooftop. Not the forehead kiss. Not the way he said safe like it was a promise.
I thought about how he didn’t get defensive when I was hurt. How he apologized without making himself the victim. How he looked exhausted this morning but still made room for my questions.
“I think I do,” I said.
Tameka nodded slowly. “Then don’t punish him for Terrence.”
I flinched a little.
She saw it but didn’t apologize.
That was Tameka. She loved me enough to tell the truth without wrapping it in a blanket.
“I’m not,” I said.
“You sure?”
“No.”
She came over and squeezed my shoulder. “That’s honest.”
My client walked in, saving me from feelings.
Again.
The day went by in a blur.
Eric sent lunch to the salon at one o’clock.
Not just to me.
To everybody.
Tacos, salads, fruit trays, sweet tea, lemonade, and a little container marked Monica with grilled chicken, rice, vegetables, and a slice of lemon pound cake.
There was a note.
For the woman who forgets to eat when she’s busy.—Eric
Tameka read it over my shoulder and clutched her chest.
“Lord, I see what you’ve done for others.”
Mrs. Pearl walked in from the back and peered into the bag. “He sent fruit too? That man thinking about your digestive system. That’s commitment.”
“I hate y’all,” I said, but I was smiling.
My whole face hurt from it.
That was the problem.
Eric was not just fine.
Fine I could manage.
Fine I could ignore with enough prayer and blocked notifications.
But thoughtful?
Thoughtful was dangerous.
Thoughtful slipped under the door. It made you wonder what it would feel like to not have to ask. It made you stand in the middle of a salon holding a container of lemon pound cake like somebody had handed you proof that you were worth remembering.
By six, my clients were done, my feet were aching, and I was emotionally overstimulated by a man who had managed to send lunch and tow my car to his shop without making me feel handled.
Well.
Mostly.
A mechanic from King’s Auto Spa had picked up Greta, looked genuinely concerned when he heard her squeak, and promised to call me before doing anything. Eric texted once.
ERIC: Greta is in good hands.
I replied:
ME: She better be. She has anxiety.
ERIC: I noticed.
ME: That was rude.
ERIC: Accurate.
I smiled like an idiot and hated myself for it.
Around seven-thirty, I went upstairs to my apartment, showered, and put on leggings and an oversized T-shirt. I was just about to sit down with my laptop and pretend to answer event emails when there was a knock at my door.
I froze.
Nobody knocked on my apartment door unless it was Tameka, Mrs. Pearl, or somebody confused and about to be corrected.
I looked through the peephole.
Eric.
Of course.
I opened the door slowly. “You just popping up now?”
He lifted a white takeout bag. “I called. You didn’t answer.”
I looked toward my couch and saw my phone buried under a throw pillow.
“Oh.”
“I can leave it at the door.”
I leaned against the doorway. “What is it?”
“Dinner.”
“You already sent lunch.”
“And you worked late.”
“You feeding me like a rescue cat.”
His mouth curved. “You keep hissing, so…”
I gasped. “Wow.”
He laughed, and the sound filled the hallway.
I stepped back before thinking too hard. “Come in.”
His eyes flicked to mine, checking.
“You sure?”
No.
“Yes.”
He walked in, and suddenly my apartment felt smaller. Not because he was doing anything. He just had presence. He looked around, taking in my cream couch, gold pillows, fake plant, event boxes, and the laundry basket I kicked slightly behind the chair with my foot.
He saw that too.
His lips twitched.
“Say something,” I warned, “and you walking home.”
“I ain’t see nothing.”
“Good.”
He set the food on the counter. “Greta needs front brakes and rotors.”
I groaned and leaned against the counter. “How much?”
“It’s handled.”
“No.”
“Monica—”
“No, Eric. I told you I’m paying.”
He turned toward me. “And I told you we’d talk about it.”