15. “What’s goin’ on in that head?”
“WHAT’S GOIN’ ON IN THAT HEAD?”
YASMINE
Igot home after midnight with one clear objective.
Sugar.
Not sleep or reflection. Not a calm, adult review of the choices that had brought me to this point.
Sugar.
The apartment was dark except for the TV flickering over the couch, where CeeCee was asleep under the Moroccan blanket from the armchair.
Her face was slack with exhaustion, almost younger with it, one hand tucked under her cheek, the other resting over the swell of her belly.
On-screen, a man with very strong opinions about open-concept kitchens was explaining himself at low volume.
I crossed to the coffee table first, found the remote, and turned the TV down another two notches before adjusting the blanket where it had slipped off CeeCee’s shoulder. Then I moved to the kitchen, straight to the fridge.
The cheesecake was where I’d left it three nights ago, half-gone in the back. New York-style, from the place on Sixth I’d been driving twenty minutes out of my way for since I was twenty-three. I pulled it out, set it on the counter, and got a fork from the drawer.
I didn’t bother with a plate.
I stood there with the fork in my hand and looked at it for maybe three seconds. Then I dug in, because Christ, I needed it.
After the movie theater debacle and drinks at the bar, Hale had dropped Tabby off first. Then Annie, who hugged him goodbye through the car window, still geeked about getting to drive the Chevelle.
After that, it was just the two of us and the night going quiet, conversation lazy and circling, moving from the movie to Ricochet’s to something Tabby had said that made him laugh. I sat with my knees angled slightly toward him.
He pulled into the garage beneath my building and parked, and neither of us moved.
“What’s goin’ on in that head?” he asked.
In the dim garage light, he was still dressed for a woman who wasn’t me, black T-shirt, chain at his throat. The words slipped free. “Are you going to see her again?”
The engine ticked softly between us before he answered.
“No.”
Relief hit fast and dizzying, so sharp I almost laughed at myself. I knew how insane it was, how completely fucked, but I was moving anyway, climbing across the console as his hand came up to pull me close like he’d been waiting for the signal.
The gearshift dug into my thigh. I didn’t care. I smiled against his lips and he made a pleased sound before hauling me closer, one hand fisting at the nape of my neck.
The steering wheel pressed into my back. His other hand gripped my ass, and I felt him hard against my inner thigh.
We didn’t make it upstairs. We didn’t make it to the back seat either.
He shoved his seat back and got his jeans open, and I brought my knee up and came the rest of the way into his lap like I’d planned it. Maybe some part of me had. He said my name once, low, almost a question, and I answered by sinking down on him.
After that, neither of us said anything that made sense.
It didn’t feel reckless. It felt like catching the light at exactly the right second, like I’d spent all night lying to myself and my body had finally called bullshit.
Inevitable.
Right up until the elevator doors closed and I was alone again, tasting him on my tongue.
Back in the kitchen, I dug out another forkful and chewed slowly.
What the fuck are you doing?
That was the real question burning under my skin. I’d been jealous tonight. Bone-deep, ugly jealous. I’d sat in a dark theater clutching a laminated menu like camouflage while Tabby dissected some woman’s body language and all I could think was mine.
Not in any sane, claimable way.
Just mine.
Did I like him? The question pulsed, louder than the TV murmur, hotter than the phantom press of his hand on my skin.
I liked the way his voice dropped when he said my name, and the way he kissed me tonight like he’d been starving for me and didn’t feel the need to apologize for it.
I liked him enough that standing there, in my own kitchen, with my pregnant sister-in-law asleep ten feet away, I could still feel the ache between my thighs and the stupid, reckless urge to text him two words: Come back.
I closed my eyes. Breathed once. Twice.
Of course you fucking like him, idiot.
Everyone liked Hale. He made it easy. That was sort of the problem, because I could like Hale and keep it neat. But what happened tonight didn’t fit neat.
Not the sex. Before that. Me, asking a question I had no business asking and feeling stupid, giddy joy when he answered.
He was Hale. Mr. Whitlock Hills. Knew every bartender and back road. He would probably die in this town, surrounded by folks who’d known him since he was in diapers. That wasn’t a criticism. It was just true.
And I was Yasmine, who kept not-quite-leaving, for reasons I’d never fully dealt with, and this wasn’t—
My phone rang.
I picked up, my mind still in Hale’s car with my hands in his hair.
“Hello?”
“How could you do this to your brother?”
I blinked and the kitchen reassembled itself around me.
“Mama—”
“First you can’t be bothered to talk to Hale about a job. Now this.” Her voice was thick with tears, but hard too. “How can you choose that woman over your own blood?”
I moved down the hall and pulled the bedroom door shut behind me.
“She needed somewhere to go,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I gave her somewhere.”
“She has a husband and a home.”
“Mama—”
“She’s his wife. They took vows.”
I closed my eyes.
“Did you know?” I asked quietly. “About the money, and what he did with their savings?”
Silence.
“Mama.”
“That’s between them.” She came back cold. “Finances are complicated. It’s easy to judge from the outside.”
“Did you know about the affair?”
The silence stretched longer this time, and in it, I understood.
She knew. She’d known all of it.
“What the fuck,” I said.
“Do not curse at me,” she snapped. “Marriage is about forgiveness. It’s about standing by each other when—”
“He stole from her. He cheated on her. She’s six months pregnant and sleeping on my couch because of him.”
“So she gets to punish him?”
“She gets to protect herself.”
“You always did think you know better than everyone.” Her voice hardened. “And now you’re choosing her over your own family.”
“A few weeks ago when you wanted me to talk to her, she was family. Now she’s not?”
“It’s different.”
“How? She’s carrying your grandchild.”
“It’s different,” she repeated.
“I’m not sending her back,” I said.
“Then don’t expect us to stand behind you.”
“Okay.”
“Yasmine—”
“I said okay, Mama.” I kept my voice even. “You’ve made yourself clear.”
A long pause.
“Your brother is hurting,” she said finally. Softer. Reaching. “He made mistakes. Everyone makes mistakes. But he’s still your brother.”
I thought about Shaun. About every job he’d lost, quit, or burned through, and how none of it had ever been his fault. Every relationship that ended because someone else didn’t understand him. Every time the world had been unfair and our mother had been there to agree.
“Goodnight, Mama.”
“Yasmine—”
I hung up.
I stood in my bedroom in the dark for a long moment.
The dark window caught my reflection. Smudged lipstick. Hair fuzzed around my face. Eyes too bright in the streetlight.
I went back down the hall. The cheesecake was still open on the counter where I’d left it. I put the lid on and slid it back into the fridge without taking another bite.
CeeCee was in the same position, but the renovation show had become a different renovation show. A woman now, equally confident about kitchen layouts.
I sank into the armchair and sat with the phone call still in my chest. My mother’s silence when I’d asked if she knew. Shaun, who I had loved my whole life because I was supposed to and didn’t like.
And then, because I apparently couldn’t help myself even now, the car came back to me. The way Hale had said no like it was easy. The low laugh against my mouth. His hand at my neck.
CeeCee shifted in her sleep and made a small sound before settling again.
I watched her.
My mother’s voice was still in my ear. You’re choosing her over your own blood.
I thought, yes.
I thought, obviously.
And if this ruined things, maybe they needed ruining.