Chapter 12 Maurice #3
His phone, still in Monique’s hands, buzzed with another incoming text. He froze. She glanced at him and then back at the tide pool. Respecting his privacy even as she borrowed his device.
Maurice should feel grateful for that. Instead, he felt exposed. All those messages sitting there like evidence of everything he hadn’t told her.
“Lunch is ready!”
Tommie’s voice carried across the beach with the help of that stupid portable PA system he’d brought.
Monique sat back, breathing hard, grinning. “That was amazing. Thank you.”
“You get what you wanted?”
“So much more.”
They stood together. Maurice gathered her towel, hat, and bag without thinking, carrying them as they walked back.
Monique flipped through the photos on his phone, occasionally making small, excited sounds. He could listen to her happiness all day long.
Maurice placed the ridiculous hat on her head. She looked up at him, completely unguarded.
That smile.
At the cabana, they claimed a spot at one of the picnic tables, heads together, scrolling through photos.
“I’ll send you everything,” Maurice said.
“That would be dope. Lemme give you my number.” She kept scrolling.
“I already have it,” he confessed. And he’d been desperate to use it as confirmation, maybe, that she was the same person.
Monique paused and looked up from the phone in confusion.
“How?” Her thumb hovered over a photo Maurice had forgotten was there.
A group of men and women holding certificates. Smiling. Proud. Maurice and Deb in the center, arms around shoulders. The banner behind them read Returning Home - Building Futures.
Maurice shrugged. “Group texts. Process of elimination.”
“What?” The space between her eyebrows folded down in a way that told Maurice to brace himself.
But Monique, he’d observed, didn’t often do what he expected. Instead, she looked back at the phone. The graduation picture was still on the screen. Her gaze touched on every smiling face before tilting up and meeting his.
“You work with Deb?” Monique asked slowly, expression unreadable.
Maurice coughed around his bite of sandwich. Took a long drink of water.
“Yeah,” he said carefully. “I work with Deb at Returning Home.”
“Why was that so hard for you to say? You work with Deb doing what?”
Here it was again. The third time. Tell her the truth. His phone buzzed on the table between them. Another text notification slid across the screen where Monique could see it.
DARNELL
Just wanted to say thanks again for believing in me.
Before Maurice could answer, before Monique could read more, Tommie’s voice boomed with reverb around them. Almost everyone slapped their hands over their ears. “Yo! We gotta wrap up! Boat ride tonight—we got two and a half hours to get ready!”
Saved again. But Monique had gone still, her eyes lingering on his phone.
He felt it all—her measuring the distance between where she stood and the truth. His mouth was already moving.
“You’d better make sure your camera batteries are charged. I think you’ll like the bioluminescent bay tour. Then dinner.” Maurice stood, gathering trash, pocketing his phone quickly. “Fancy place Lanie picked.”
Monique picked up her bag. “Two and a half hours. That’s not much time.” She turned away. “Sure.”
They walked back through the gardens in a group, but Maurice hung back with Tommie, coordinating logistics about the evening’s plans. What time. Which dock. How many in the party. Information he had practically memorized before today. He knew what he was pulling, but he couldn’t stop himself.
When he looked up, Monique was already ahead with Cassie and Lanie, the three women talking and laughing. But Monique glanced back once, catching his eye with an expression he couldn’t quite read. Was she questioning? Doubting? Waiting?
Maurice looked away first.
In the lobby, the group dispersed toward the elevators. Maurice watched Monique step inside with the other women. Then the doors closed.
He stood there, phone in hand, and pulled up his messages.
Five texts from Newark. His crew. His discipline.
It was the life Deb helped him build from the ashes of erasure.
All of it. Every year since he was fifteen, gone.
Then Returning Home offered him something he could call his own.
And he still couldn’t tell Mo about any of it.
Three times she’d asked. Three times he’d turned away. And like Peter in the garden, Maurice felt the weight of his denial settle in his chest—not guilt exactly, but the knowledge that with each evasion, he was choosing fear over truth.
His phone buzzed again. Sofia texting to remind him about the specs she’d asked for hours ago.
Maurice typed back.
MAURICE
Give me 30 minutes. I’ll call.
Then he headed toward his room, already mentally cataloging everything he needed to handle before tonight’s boat ride, and all he needed to reconcile within himself before Monique asked another question he should have answered the first time.
The only thing he couldn’t find an answer to was, how many more chances would she give him?