Chapter 4 Roman #2
“What’s her mama’s name?” I asked without turning. Silence. “Right. Exactly. If you can’t tell me the mama’s name, your behind is staying home. We not doing crowd roulette.”
“Ugh. You be doing the most.”
“I do the most because I love you the most,” I said, and it wasn’t even a line. It came out plain because it was plain. “Find a movie. Keep it down.”
I went to my room, shut my door, stripped, and stepped into the shower.
Hot water beat across the back of my neck like it owed me interest. My mind replayed timestamps like a football coach reviewing game film.
I thought about how long her hand sat in that soft tremble after the spill.
How quickly she straightened when I lifted her chin.
How her laugh found its balance again next to her friend.
How she looked me in my eyes in that café and didn’t flinch, just watched, measured, and considered.
When I got out of the shower, towel slung low, I checked my phone before I could pretend I wouldn’t. I had one new message.
Future Wifey—My Constellation :
I made it home safely. Thanks for caring.
Me:
Always, baby.
I stared at the name again, the audacity, the way it fit as if it belonged. Warmth circled my chest slowly, steadily. My thumbs moved.
The dots appeared, disappeared, then came back. I smiled. She was debating. Sensible women check for alarms before they open doors, and they don’t mistake charm for character.
I hit FaceTime. I didn’t expect her to answer on the first ring, but she did.
The screen was filled with warm brown and soft light. Her curls were loose now. A jersey dress had been swapped for a big T-shirt that was trying to decide if it was a dress or a nightgown. Her pretty face was bare. Her freckles said hello like old friends. My breath misbehaved.
“Hey,” she said, and there was that voice—teacher smooth and stern when necessary. “You really FaceTimed me.”
“You really answered. I see we both taking risks tonight,” I said, smirking at her pretty ass.
She rolled her eyes like she wanted to hide the grin. “You’re bold.”
“I’m sure. You good?” I corrected her softly and kept the conversation flowing.
“I’m good. Thank you for walking us to the car. That was . . . nice.” She tucked a curl behind her ear.
“Not nice but expected,” I said.
Her eyes did that quick flicker—surprised, then pleased. “Okay, sir.”
“Say that again and see if I don’t drive over there,” I told her lazily, teasing.
She pressed her lips together to smother a smile and failed. Her dimples were snitches. “You are impossible.”
“Or you just need practice. Talk to me, beautiful. What do you do when you not spilling drinks on fine ass strangers?”
She sucked her teeth, but she was smiling so hard she couldn’t even pretend to be offended.
“First of all, fine ass strangers is crazy,” she muttered, shaking her head like I was a problem she didn’t have time to solve. She laughed again, full now, and it made her shoulders loosen. Her eyes creased at the corners like happiness was a habit.
“I teach,” she said, like that one word explained everything.
And then, like a dam broke, she spilled out, talking with her whole chest. “High school English. Juniors specifically. But I also tutor the incoming freshmen and sophomores as well.” She rolled her eyes so dramatically I almost applauded her performance. “Junior papers are trying to end me.”
I snorted. “They got you in a chokehold like that?”
“Roman.” She said my name sharp, like a warning. “I read the same sentence three different ways, and it still don’t mean nothing.” She fanned herself dramatically. “They’ll write, ‘The symbolism was symbolizing,’ and I have to remember I got bills and a calling, so I can’t walk out mid-period.”
I laughed again, already drifting, watching her passion spill past her composure. She was beautiful like that. I wasn’t just hearing her; I was witnessing her.
“But I love them,” she added, eyes soft. “Behind the nonsense, they’re smart—full of stories. They just don’t know how to put it on paper yet. School and their tests make it feel like, if you can’t write it perfectly, you have nothing worth saying.”
She leaned in. “So, I run small groups after school, like really run them. I take my time with the kids who freeze up organizing their thoughts, the ones who think they’re dumb because they process slower.
I tell them, ‘You’re not stupid; you just haven’t practiced yet, but I got you.
’ Then we break it down thought by thought, sentence by sentence. ”
She talked with her hands, drawing invisible paragraphs in the air—gorgeous and passionate. I could’ve listened for hours. She kept going.
“And me and my best friend? We’ve been sketching a real tutorial center, not no sad library corner with a wobbly chair.”
I laughed under my breath. My eyes were stuck on her mouth because she said everything like she meant it.
“I’m serious,” she said, laughing. “Solid chairs—no wobble. And a wall of kids’ victories: best essays, first A’s, most improved .
. . proof they could do it once somebody stayed long enough to show them.
” Her voice dipped, got tender. “Because the world is already loud enough when it’s tearing them down, and I want their wins to be louder. ”
“That’s fire,” I said, meaning it. “Name it. Put it on paper. The world gotta respond when you give it a clear address.”
She studied me through the screen like she was measuring the weight of my words. “You always talk like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re giving TED Talks at the gas station.”
I smiled. “Hood intellectual, baby. I speak two languages.”
“And what’s the other?” she asked, more playful than doubtful.
“Protection. It doesn’t always need words.”
Quiet stretched comfortably. She tucked one knee up, and I realized I was staring—not undressing, but admiring, like memorizing a skyline.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she said, her cheeks going soft pink. “You’re making me shy.”
“I like shy on you. Makes the freckles louder, my little Constellation.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Constellation?”
“Mm.” I let it sit between us. “Your face does maps when you blush.”
She tried to hide behind her hand and then dropped it, giving up. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And right,” I said. “Both can be true.”
She asked what I did beyond the pool, and I told her about the community center, kids hungry for something they couldn’t name, how water gave them their edges back.
I told her I’d applied for the high school posting because I needed something solid, something that matched what I gave.
I told her about my sisters, Reagan and Reece—fifteen and full.
Reagan arguing with eyelashes and grace, Reece writing poems that made silence stand up and clap.
She asked about their birthday and nodded like she was saving them in her spirit.
“Are they home now?” she asked, curious but cautious, someone who knew kids were a soft subject.
“Yeah. I told them about you. They did way too much.”
She laughed, covering her smile with her knuckles. “What’d they say?”
“When can we meet her?” I mimicked, my voice higher. “I told them to chill before I make them meet algebra again.”
Her grin reached her eyes this time, and the screen warmed. “You really told your sisters about me already?”
“I really saved you as Future Wifey already,” I said, unblinking. “Transparency’s my baseline, beautiful.”
Her throat moved, the smallest swallow. “You don’t get nervous being that direct?”
“I get more nervous when I don’t tell the truth, but if you want me softer, I can do gentle. I can do patient. I can do slow if that’s what keeps your peace safe.”
I watched her face for flinches, doubt, or relief. She didn’t rush; she sat with it, studying me quietly and thoughtfully. I let her. It wasn’t a performance, but an offering. And it told me everything. She listened with her whole self and didn’t hand out access carelessly. I respected that.
“What’s your favorite thing to teach?” I asked, pivoting before the moment got too heavy for a first call.
Her whole face changed. She lit up, sitting forward, eyes bright like she loved her work even when it wore her out. “Syntax and tone. It’s like music. How a sentence feels changes what it means.”
“Facts. Say ‘come here’ three ways, and I’ll meet you three different places.”
“Oh?” She folded her arms, amused. “Show me.”
I leaned back and looked at the camera like it was her.
“Come here,” I said, even and warm—open, inviting. “Come here,” I added, sharper—a command you’d feel in your spine. No cruelty, just certainty. Then I lowered it, let a smile tug. “Come here,” I murmured like a promise.
Her inhale was a tell she couldn’t hide. I didn’t grin. I let the electricity cool into comfort because I wasn’t here to overwhelm her. I was here to build.
“You play too much,” she whispered, cheeks glowing.
“I don’t play with people,” I said. “I engage. Big difference.”
She shook her head. “Hood intellectual.”
“Guilty.”
She told me about her grandmother—Nana Nan of The Pour House. I laughed.
“She’s sweet, but she looks like she’ll cut folks with side-eyes for crowding the pastry case.”
“She definitely will,” Solé said fondly. “But she’s soft on the inside.”
“She got good taste,” I said. “Raised you.”
We talked about dreams, the ones you don’t say aloud too often because they feel fragile.
She told me more about wanting to build a quiet empire for kids—tutoring centers, scholarships, summer writing camps where they would write essays for fun.
I told her I wanted a record board at a high school pool with my kids’ names on it for a decade straight.
I told her I wanted my sisters to leave this city with choices, not bruises.
“And you?” she asked, voice gentler. “What do you want that doesn’t include taking care of everybody else?”
I could’ve offered jokes. I didn’t. “I want a home that exhales when I walk in,” I said. “Warm food, soft laughter, and a woman whose peace I protect with my whole life and who trusts me enough to rest.”
She didn’t speak right away. When she did, it was soft. “You talk scary honest.”
“Scary honest is how you keep from ending up sorry honest. But we can lighten up. Favorite color?”
“Lavender and red,” she said, smiling. “Both.”
“Figures. You wear both well.”
“Favorite indulgence?” she asked.
“You,” I said before my mind could censor my mouth. I let the beat sit, let honesty stay there and breathe.
Then I cleared my throat like I could smooth it out. “I mean . . . sweet tea with too much lemon.” My eyes stayed on hers. “But it might be you.”
She covered her face and laughed, the sound tumbling out unguarded. That sound did something to me. It made my shoulders drop. It made me want to earn that laugh on the hard days, the tired days, the days life tried to steal her softness.
Time stopped checking the clock. We drifted like old friends—movies we lied about seeing, the worst a student ever called us (her “mannish,” me “intimidating but coachable”), the best smell in The Pour House (cinnamon rolls), and whether God laughs (He does).
At some point, she lay on her side, phone propped, cheek in her palm. I lay back in a fresh T-shirt, and we mirrored each other without trying—two tired people resting in a conversation like a small sanctuary.
“You’re staring again,” she said eventually, a soft accusation.
“I’m building muscle memory. So when I see you in person again, I don’t waste time trying to memorize you.”
“What makes you think you’re seeing me again?” she teased, but there wasn’t a wall in it.
“I’m competent,” I said confidently.
Silence passed sweetly for a second. She hid another smile, then let it go.
“You make me nervous,” she confessed, barely above breath. “In a way that doesn’t feel . . . dangerous.”
“I’ll take care of the dangerous. You handle the nervous. We’ll meet in the middle.”
Her eyes softened as if I’d just tucked a blanket over them. “Okay, Roman.”
“Say my name like that again.”
She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth said yes.
A yawn stole her whole face—cute, quiet, real. She didn’t try to be pretty; she just existed. That told me she felt safe.
“Go to sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said.
“You don’t even know my schedule.”
“I know I’m making time, and I’ll work around yours.”
She chewed her lip, and I watched her think. “Don’t—don’t move too fast.”
“I move at the speed of trust. You set the pace. I’ll keep stride,” I answered honestly.
“Thank you,” she said and meant it.
“For what?”
“For not making me feel like a prize you gotta unbox the first night,” she said. “For . . . talking to me.”
I let a smile stretch slowly. “I like your voice.”
“I like yours,” she said, even quieter. “It sounds like a porch.”
I laughed in delight. “A porch? That’s some English teacher shit for real, shorty. Explain.”
“Yeah. It’s where people sit when they feel safe, where they tell the truth when it’s dark and the air’s soft.”
“Then I’ll be the porch. Bring your chair.”
She shook her head, freckle-galaxy bright, and my decision settled deeper. I’d do whatever it took to keep that look on her face—patience, proof, presence. I had it in stock.
We said good night like teenagers who didn’t want to hang up. She told me to text when I hit my pillow, like I wasn’t already on it. I told her to dream easy. The screen went black, and my room felt different, like a window I didn’t know was painted shut just opened.
I lay there in the dark, quiet humming like a faraway highway. Somewhere, my sisters rustled; somewhere, tomorrow waited loudly. Tonight, I just existed for a minute.
“Hell yeah. I’m happy I went to that game,” I said toward the ceiling, smiling like a fool and not caring.
My father’s laugh answered in the space you save for the ones that matter. I could almost hear that satisfied exhale he’d do when the puzzle piece fit. I know exactly what you were talking about now, Pops, I finished inside, and I swear he nodded.
Some nights were forks in the road that looked like basketball tickets. I closed my eyes and let the new route take me.