Chapter 4 #4
The way she seemed to step into a completely different version of herself.
When the call ended, Trinity remained standing beside the window for a moment before returning.
Neither mentioned it immediately.
Eventually Cedric smiled.
"You help people through very hard days, don't you?"
The question wasn't accusatory.
It wasn't even probing.
It was understanding.
That somehow made it harder.
Trinity sat beside him again.
Closer this time.
Not farther away.
She rested her head briefly against his shoulder.
A small gesture.
A meaningful one.
"Yes," she said quietly.
"I do."
Cedric wrapped an arm around her.
The warmth returned.
The comfort returned.
Yet somewhere beneath both existed growing curiosity.
And for the first time, Trinity wasn't entirely sure curiosity was the thing she feared most.
Because if Cedric kept responding with kindness, patience, understanding, and affection, eventually she would have no excuse left for avoiding the truth.
Across the Bronx that same evening, Dominique and Jamal were discovering their own version of awkwardness when romance collided with reality. Unlike Trinity, Dominique's problem was not silence.
Her problem was talking.
When nervous, she joked.
When uncomfortable, she joked more.
And Jamal was beginning to notice the pattern.
Which meant she was rapidly running out of places to hide.
Dominique had invited Jamal over for what she called “a simple evening,” but by the time he arrived at her Bronx brownstone, she had changed clothes twice, rearranged the flowers in the foyer once, and hidden a service folder under a stack of magazines as if paper could not betray a woman with enough ambition.
The house looked beautiful, warm with lamps, rich with color, polished wood, framed Trinidadian art, and the kind of layered elegance that told Jamal immediately he had stepped into a home built by a woman who knew exactly who she was.
What he did not know yet was how much of that identity had been quietly edited before he crossed the threshold.
Dominique opened the door in a deep plum lounge dress that softened every line of her without making anything about her seem casual, and Jamal stood on the stoop for one extra second, his smile moving slowly across his face.
“I was going to say good evening,” he said, stepping inside when she moved back, “but now that feels insufficient.” Dominique took his coat because doing something with her hands gave her a moment to recover.
“Good evening works fine when a man says it like he still has home training.” “Then good evening, Dominique,” he said, his voice lowering around her name in a way that made the foyer feel warmer than the heating system could explain.
The first awkward moment came before they made it to the living room.
Jamal paused near the console table where a large arrangement of cream roses and white orchids sat in a silver vase, its card tucked too far beneath the greenery for him to read.
Dominique saw his eyes move to it, and because she had been expecting that glance all evening, her body reacted before her mind could smooth the response.
She reached toward the arrangement as if adjusting one flower, then realized the gesture made her look guilty and dropped her hand to her side.
Jamal noticed, but instead of pouncing on it, he glanced at her with that infuriating softness that made evasion feel almost ungrateful.
“Those are beautiful,” he said. “Another family?” Dominique gave a small laugh that came out too light.
“You make it sound like families are sending me floral tributes from across the city.” He watched her carefully, his humor present but restrained.
“I am only noticing a pattern. You receive more flowers from families than most women receive from men trying to apologize.” Dominique turned toward the living room, hoping movement would keep the conversation from settling too heavily in the foyer.
“Maybe I am simply good at being appreciated.” Jamal followed, his gaze still warm, still patient, and far too observant.
“I have no doubt about that. I am trying to understand what kind of appreciation this is.”
The question should have been simple, but it carried all the weight Dominique had been avoiding.
She led him into the living room, where two cups of tea waited on the coffee table and soft instrumental music moved through the room without demanding attention.
The scene looked romantic enough to make her own nerves seem ridiculous.
Here was a handsome, attentive man standing in her home, looking at her as if she were both a woman he desired and a mystery he respected, and instead of relaxing into the evening, she was mentally cataloging every object that might give too much away.
Jamal took in the room slowly, not with judgment, but with appreciation, his eyes moving over the art, the velvet chairs, the carefully chosen books, the framed family photographs, and the dark garment bag half-visible near the hallway despite Dominique’s earlier attempt to place it out of sight.
When he looked back at her, he did not ask about it, but she knew he had seen it.
“You have a beautiful home,” he said, accepting the tea she handed him.
“It feels like you. Warm, polished, a little dramatic, and probably expensive enough to make me mind my elbows.” Dominique laughed for real this time, grateful for the opening.
“If you break anything, I will invoice you with affection.”
Jamal sat beside her on the sofa rather than across from her, close enough that their knees nearly touched but not so close that the closeness felt assumed.
Dominique liked that about him. He seemed to understand that mature desire had its own manners.
For several minutes they talked about ordinary things, the kind of ordinary things that had become increasingly intimate between them: his afternoon client meeting, her staff issues, Patrice’s unstoppable opinions, a restaurant they wanted to try, the opera performance they were still discussing days later.
Then Jamal set his cup down and turned slightly toward her, his face more serious now.
“Dominique, I am enjoying this,” he said, and his hand moved once between them, not reaching yet, simply acknowledging the space they shared.
“I enjoy you. I enjoy this house. I enjoy the way you make me laugh and then make me think before I have recovered. But I am beginning to feel like there is a door in this house, maybe not a physical one, that you keep standing in front of every time I get close.”
Dominique looked toward the lamp on the side table because looking directly at him made the truth feel too near.
“You and Cedric must be reading from the same emotional architecture book,” she said, trying for humor and landing somewhere closer to confession.
“He said something like that to Trinity, and she has been irritated by his accuracy ever since.” Jamal’s smile flickered, but he did not let the joke carry them away.
“I am not trying to corner you. I am trying to understand whether I am being invited into your life or only into the parts that photograph well.” That sentence reached her in a place even his compliments had not.
Dominique turned back to him, startled by the hurt beneath his steadiness.
Jamal was not accusing her, but he was finally admitting that her withholding affected him too.
She had spent so much time fearing how the truth might wound her that she had not fully considered how partial truth might wound him.
“That is not fair,” she said, though her voice lacked its usual force.
“I am not presenting you with a staged version of myself.” “No,” he said gently. “But you are editing the captions.”
For a moment, Dominique could only stare at him, half annoyed, half exposed, and almost entirely unable to deny it.
She stood because sitting still had become impossible, walking toward the window where Bronx lights glittered beyond the glass and her reflection looked like a woman caught between pride and longing.
“You want a straight answer,” she said, folding her arms as if that could hold her together.
“Yes,” Jamal replied, staying seated because he seemed to understand that following her too quickly would feel like pressure.
“But I want it from you when you choose to give it, not because I forced it out of you.” Dominique closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them, she looked not at the city but at the flowers in the foyer, visible from where she stood.
“I have spent years watching men admire everything easy about me,” she said.
“The hair, the dress, the figure, the smile, the way I can make a room feel lighter if I want to. Then they get near the serious parts and start acting like I switched languages without warning.” Her voice did not break, but it deepened with the emotion she had usually hidden behind comedy.
“I wanted you to know me before you categorized me.”