Chapter 8
Eric
Loved Her Like I Meant It
Monica said she wasn’t running anymore, and I believed her.
But I also knew better than to confuse staying with surrendering.
A woman like Monica did not hand over her heart because a man kissed her under string lights and said pretty things in a deep voice. She had been through too much for that. She needed consistency. Patience. Proof that didn’t disappear when the music stopped and the room got quiet.
So when she agreed to come home with me, I didn’t treat it like a victory.
I treated it like trust.
And trust was sacred.
We left Loyalty around midnight, after Dre had hugged half the city, Mrs. Pearl had taken leftovers “for safety,” and Tameka had pulled Monica into a corner for what looked like a wellness check but sounded more like a cross-examination.
“You got your phone?” Tameka asked.
“Yes.”
“Location on?”
“Yes.”
“You sure you want to go?”
Monica glanced over at me, then back at Tameka. “Yes.”
Tameka’s face softened, but her mouth still had security guard energy. “Call me if anything feel off.”
“I will.”
“And don’t let him feed you no struggle snacks. He got businesses.”
Monica laughed. “Goodnight, Tameka.”
Kee-Kee hugged her next, whispering something in her ear that made Monica look both embarrassed and emotional. Mrs. Pearl just pointed at me.
“Eric.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“She is not a rental car. Don’t test-drive nothing you ain’t ready to maintain.”
Monica gasped. “Mrs. Pearl!”
Dre choked on his drink.
I pressed my lips together, fighting a smile. “Understood.”
Mrs. Pearl nodded. “Good. And send me a picture of your kitchen. I can tell a lot about a man by his countertops.”
“No, he will not,” Monica said, grabbing her purse.
Mrs. Pearl shrugged. “I tried.”
Outside, the air was warm and soft. The block had settled into that late-night hum, when the noise got lower but the city still breathed.
Cars rolled by slow, streetlights shining on chrome rims and cracked sidewalks.
Somebody laughed outside Big Ray’s. Music floated from a parked car, old-school R&B spilling into the night like it had permission.
Monica walked beside me to my truck, quiet.
Not uncomfortable.
Just thoughtful.
I opened her door.
She looked up at me. “You know I can open doors, right?”
“I know.”
“You just like doing it?”
“Yes.”
She studied me. “Why?”
I leaned against the door and looked down at her. “Because I was raised right. And because I like the way you try not to smile when I do.”
Her lips twitched immediately.
“There it is,” I said.
She rolled her eyes. “You are too observant.”
“Only with what matters.”
She climbed in before I could see how much that landed.
I walked around the truck, smiling to myself.
When I got in, she was buckling her seat belt and pretending to be fascinated by the dashboard.
“You nervous?” I asked.
Her head snapped toward me. “No.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
“I’m not.”
“Okay.”
“Why you saying okay like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you don’t believe me but you’re being mature about it.”
I started the truck. “That is exactly what I’m doing.”
She sucked her teeth and looked out the window. “I am not nervous. I’m alert.”
“Alert.”
“Yes.”
“Sounds official.”
“It is. Women have to stay alert. Men be inviting you over and then their sheets look like they been through a custody battle.”
I laughed. “My sheets are clean.”
“They better be. I’ve had a long night and I will leave.”
“I believe you.”
“And if your bathroom has no hand soap, I’m calling Tameka.”
“I have hand soap.”
“And a trash can?”
“Yes, Monica.”
“With a liner?”
I glanced at her. “Who hurt you?”
“Men with decorative towels and no hygiene.”
I laughed again, and she smiled out the window like she was trying to hide it.
That was Monica.
Sharp mouth. Soft heart. Standards built from disappointment and common sense.
I drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console. I wanted to hold her hand, but I didn’t reach for it. Not because I didn’t want to. Because I wanted her to choose closeness, not feel pulled into it.
A few minutes later, her fingers slid into mine.
I looked down.
Then at her.
She stared straight ahead. “Don’t make it a thing.”
I squeezed her hand once. “I won’t.”
“You already did with your face.”
“My face is minding its business.”
“Your face is planning a wedding.”
I smiled. “Maybe just the reception.”
She laughed softly, and the sound filled the truck better than any song could.
By the time we reached my house, the neighborhood was quiet. Porch lights glowed. Lawns trimmed. Cars parked neatly in driveways. It was the kind of street I used to ride through as a kid and wonder who lived inside those houses with two-car garages and quiet nights.
Now I lived in one.
Some days, it still surprised me.
I pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine.
Monica looked at the house, then at me. “This is cute.”
“Cute?”
“Don’t get sensitive. Cute is a compliment.”
“I thought cute was safe.”
She smiled, remembering. “This cute got square footage.”
I got out and opened her door. She took my hand and stepped down slowly, looking around like she was taking everything in.
The brick exterior. The porch. The flower beds my mama still complained I didn’t maintain well enough. The soft yellow light above the front door.
“You live alone?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“No secret roommate? No cousin on the couch? No woman’s bonnet in the bathroom?”
“No.”
“I’m checking.”
“I know.”
“I watch documentaries.”
“I can tell.”
I unlocked the front door and stepped aside so she could walk in first.
She entered slowly, eyes moving over the space.
My house wasn’t fancy in the way people tried to be fancy online. It was clean, warm, comfortable. Dark wood floors. Cream walls. Big gray sectional. Black-and-gold art on the walls. A few plants my mama had forced on me and then named because she said I lacked emotional commitment to greenery.
The kitchen opened into the living room, with a large island, marble countertops, and pendant lights hanging overhead.
Monica stopped by the island and ran her fingers lightly over the counter.
“Mrs. Pearl would approve,” she said.
“I’ll let her know.”
“No, you will not. She’ll ask for a video tour.”
“Probably.”
She looked toward the living room. “It smells good in here.”
“Thank you.”
“Like man, soap, and financial responsibility.”
I laughed. “That’s a candle.”
“Keep buying it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyes narrowed. “There you go.”
“What?”
“That voice.”
I stepped closer. “What voice?”
“The one that makes yes, ma’am sound like a bad decision.”
I smiled. “You think I’m a bad decision?”
She looked up at me, and the teasing in her face softened into something warmer.
“I think you’re the kind of decision that changes things.”
My chest got quiet.
That was one thing about Monica. She could joke for ten minutes straight, then say something so honest it made the room stop moving.
I reached for her hand. “Hungry?”
She blinked like she needed the shift. “You feeding me again?”
“I didn’t cook earlier.”
“You cook?”
“Some.”
“Define some.”
“Enough to survive and impress company.”
“I am company?”
“No.”
Her eyes came to mine.
I held her gaze. “You’re Monica.”
She looked away first, but I saw the smile.
“Smooth,” she muttered.
“Honest.”
“Same thing with you.”
I washed my hands and pulled out what I had prepped earlier before the opening. Shrimp, pasta, garlic cream sauce, salad, and bread. Nothing too heavy, but enough. I wasn’t planning to bring her here tonight, but some part of me had hoped.
Monica sat at the island watching me move around the kitchen.
“You really cook,” she said.
“I told you.”
“I know, but men be saying they cook and mean they can season air fryer wings.”
“I can do that too.”
“Versatile.”
I glanced at her. “You want wine? Juice? Water?”
“Water first.”
“First?”
“Don’t judge me.”
“I’m not.”
“You were about to.”
“I was waiting to see where the night took us.”
Her cheeks warmed.
I liked that.
Not because I wanted to make her nervous.
Because Monica blushing felt like sunrise after a storm.
I set a glass of water in front of her. “Here.”
She took it. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She watched me for another minute while I stirred the sauce. “Can I ask you something?”
“Always.”
“When did you buy this house?”
“Three years ago.”
“You proud of it?”
I looked around. “Yeah.”
“You should be.”
The way she said it made me pause.
No performance. No flattery. Just simple affirmation.
“I am,” I said. “But sometimes it still feels like I’m visiting somebody else’s life.”
She nodded slowly. “I know that feeling.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. Sometimes I look at my lash room, my clients, my little apartment, and I’m like, who let me be a grown woman with invoices?”
I smiled.
She sipped her water. “But you built this. The shop. The lounge. This house. That matters.”
I looked at her for a second too long.
“What?” she asked.
“You keep doing that.”
“What?”
“Seeing the parts I don’t say out loud.”
Her face softened. “Maybe because I know what it feels like to want somebody to notice the fight, not just the finish.”
I turned the heat down on the stove.
For a moment, the only sound was the sauce bubbling softly and the faint hum of the refrigerator.
“My daddy died before he saw any of this,” I said.
Monica went still.
I hadn’t planned to say that.
But with her, the words kept finding ways out.
“He always told me to make my name mean something,” I continued. “Back then I thought he meant reputation. Respect. Money. Now I think he meant what people feel when they hear it.”
Monica slid off the stool and came around the island.
She didn’t say anything.
She just wrapped her arms around my waist and rested her cheek against my chest.
It was such a simple thing.
A hug.
But I swear, for a second, I forgot how to breathe.