Epilogue
Monica
Still Loved From the Block
Eighteen months later, I learned something very important about love.
Love was patient.
Love was kind.
Love also left socks on the bedroom floor and acted confused when you pointed at them like they were evidence in a criminal trial.
“Eric,” I called from the hallway, holding up one black sock between two fingers. “What is this?”
From the kitchen, he answered, “A sock.”
I closed my eyes.
Lord, keep me near the cross and away from Dateline.
“I know it’s a sock,” I said. “Why is it in the hallway?”
“It probably got tired.”
I walked into the kitchen and found him standing at the stove, flipping pancakes like he was somebody’s attractive problem. He had on gray sweats, a white T-shirt, and that calm face he always wore when he knew he was getting on my nerves but believed his shoulders could save him.
Unfortunately, his shoulders had a strong legal defense.
I lifted the sock higher. “Eric Darnell Miller.”
He glanced over. “You government-naming me before breakfast?”
“I will birth-certificate you if you keep playing.”
He smiled.
There it was.
That smile that had been ruining my better judgment since Big Ray’s and lemon pepper wings.
“Bring it here,” he said.
“What?”
“The sock.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”
“So I can correct my mistake and kiss my woman.”
“You think kissing solves everything?”
“No.”
He turned off the stove, walked over to me, took the sock from my hand, and tossed it into the laundry room without looking.
Then he wrapped his arms around my waist.
“But it solves enough.”
I tried to keep my face serious.
I failed before his mouth even touched mine.
That was the annoying thing about being loved right. You could plan a full attitude, season it, plate it, and before you got to serve it, that man would kiss your forehead and ruin the whole meal.
Eric kissed me slow and sweet, one hand at my back, the other resting on the curve of my hip like he still couldn’t believe I was there.
Eighteen months.
And he still touched me like that.
Like trust was something he was grateful for, not entitled to.
When he pulled back, I pointed at him. “You are still in trouble.”
“I know.”
“And don’t burn my pancakes trying to seduce your way out of accountability.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“There go that voice.”
He grinned. “What voice?”
“The one that got me living here with a man who abandoned socks.”
He laughed and went back to the stove.
I leaned against the island, watching him.
Our kitchen.
That still did something to me.
Not his kitchen anymore.
Ours.
It had taken me four months to fully move in.
Not because Eric rushed me. He didn’t. He made space, then let me decide what to do with it.
A drawer became a side of the closet. A side of the closet became half.
Half became a color-coded takeover that had him standing in the doorway one afternoon saying, “Do I still live here?”
I told him yes, but his hoodies were community property now.
He accepted the terms.
My fake plant came too.
Eric hated that thing.
He said it looked judgmental.
I told him it had been with me longer than he had and deserved respect.
So now the fake plant sat by the living room window in a gold pot, looking down on our life like a nosy auntie who knew all the tea.
Greta, my car with anxiety, had officially retired six months ago after one final dramatic noise in the grocery store parking lot. Eric surprised me with a newer SUV and told me it was not a gift, it was “a safety upgrade.”
I told him safety upgrades still came with monthly payments.
He told me mine had already been handled.
I told him he was bossy.
He said, “Safe.”
I cried in the passenger seat and then threatened him for making me emotional in public.
Balance.
That was our relationship.
Softness and sarcasm.
Love and side-eyes.
Breakfast and accountability socks.
My phone buzzed on the counter.
I looked down and smiled.
TAMEKA: Don’t forget we got the bridal shower consult at 11. And tell your man I said he still owe me for emotional labor from y’all beginning.
I typed back.
ME: He said invoice Dre.
TAMEKA: Dre pays in lies and flirtation. No thank you.
I laughed.
Tameka’s salon had expanded into the empty unit next door, and my event business had grown right along with it.
We had turned the upstairs apartment into a beauty suite and consultation room after I moved in with Eric.
I still did lashes, but now I had two part-time assistants, a booked calendar, and more event requests than I could complain about without sounding blessed.
And Loyalty?
Baby, Loyalty was thriving.
Comedy nights on Thursdays.
Live R&B on Fridays.
Grown and Sexy Saturdays.
Sunday brunches that had aunties reserving tables like it was church with chicken and waffles.
Eric had built exactly what he said he would. A place on the block that felt good. Safe. Fly. Ours without being raggedy. Hood enough to have flavor, grown enough to have napkins that matched.
Quan worked full-time at King’s Auto Spa now and part-time at Loyalty when Eric needed him.
He still had his young moments, but he was trying.
Really trying. He had apologized to me again on his own, months after everything happened, and I respected that.
Growth didn’t always come loud. Sometimes it came in showing up on time with work shoes on.
Dre was still Dre.
Unfortunately.
He now hosted Loyalty’s open mic night and called himself “the Minister of Vibes.” Nobody approved that title, but he printed it on a shirt, so we were stuck with it.
Mrs. Pearl still claimed she manifested me and Eric.
She told anybody who would listen, “I saw mortgage paperwork in that man’s eyes from day one.”
She was not completely wrong.
Kee-Kee loved Eric now, which meant she only threatened him on holidays and when he forgot to send her leftovers from the lounge.
My mama had met him too.
That day still sat in my heart like a candle.
She was having one of her good days. She remembered me. Really remembered me. Called me “my Mo” and touched my face like she was making sure I had taken care of myself. When Eric came in holding flowers, she looked him up and down and said, “You love my baby?”
Eric didn’t hesitate.
“Yes, ma’am. I do.”
My mama nodded.
“Then don’t make her hard again.”
I cried that night in Eric’s truck.
He didn’t try to fix it.
He just held my hand while I cried, drove slow, and reminded me that softness was safe with him.
That was when I knew I was all the way gone.
Not because of the big romantic moments, even though Eric had plenty of those.
I knew because of the quiet ones.
The way he warmed my car before I left early.
The way he saved the last piece of cheesecake even when he wanted it.
The way he could tell when I was overwhelmed before I said anything.
The way he still asked, “You good?” and waited for the real answer.
The way he apologized fast and loved steady.
The way he never treated my fear like an inconvenience, even when I was tired of carrying it myself.
That was love.
Not perfect.
But honest.
And honest had healed places in me pretty had never reached.
“Baby,” Eric said, placing a plate in front of me.
I looked down.
Pancakes. Eggs. Turkey bacon. Fruit. A little drizzle of syrup in the shape of a crooked heart.
I stared at it. “What is this?”
“A heart.”
“That is a kidney.”
He leaned over my shoulder. “It leaned during execution.”
“Your love got scoliosis.”
He kissed my cheek. “Eat.”
I sat at the island and took a bite.
Still good.
Still manipulative.
“This is why I stay,” I said.
He laughed. “For pancakes?”
“And clean countertops.”
“Not my charm?”
“Your charm is community property. Everybody know you fine.”
He stepped between my knees and rested his hands on the island on either side of me.
“But you know I’m yours.”
My chewing slowed.
Even after all this time, he could still say something and make the room change.
I looked up at him.
“Yeah,” I said softly. “I know.”
His thumb brushed my chin. “You ready for tonight?”
I swallowed.
Tonight.
Our eighteen-month anniversary dinner.
Eric had been secretive all week, which meant either romance or foolishness. With him, it was usually romance. With Dre involved, foolishness was always a threat.
“You still won’t tell me where we’re going?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“I hate surprises.”
“You hate bad surprises.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Do not quote me back to me.”
He smiled. “Wear something comfortable.”
“That’s suspicious.”
“Comfortable cute.”
I gasped. “You remembered.”
“I remember what matters.”
My heart did that same foolish flutter it had done the first time he said it.
I would never admit that out loud.
Instead, I said, “You better not have me outside in heels.”
“I won’t.”
“You better not involve horses.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Horses?”
“I’m just naming fears.”
“No horses.”
“No flash mobs.”
“No public singing.”
“No public singing.”
“No Latrice popping out of a cake.”
His face went flat. “Monica.”
“I’m checking.”
“Latrice got married to a truck driver in Oklahoma.”
“And that’s beautiful for Oklahoma.”
He laughed and kissed me again.
That evening, I wore a cream sweater dress with gold hoops, soft curls, and boots Eric approved of because apparently “comfortable cute” had become a household policy. He wore black jeans, a black sweater, and a coat that made him look like he owned three buildings and a secret.
Which, technically, he did own two buildings and knew too much.
We drove through the city with old-school R&B playing low. His hand rested on my thigh, warm and familiar. Outside, streetlights blurred gold against the dark.
When he turned onto 23rd Block, I looked at him.
“Eric.”
He just smiled.
“No,” I said. “Are we going to Big Ray’s?”
“Not exactly.”
My chest tightened in the sweetest way.
He parked near Loyalty, but instead of going inside through the front, he led me around back and up the familiar stairs.
The rooftop.