My phone rings just as I’m waiting for the elevator. It’s my mother.
“Hey, Mom! I’ve only got about five minutes before my next thing. What’s up?” I keep my voice casual as I mentally brace myself. If I mention that Croix is here, the interrogation will begin.
My mother doesn't just ask questions. She conducts a grand inquiry that inevitably leads to her asking God—at top volume and usually right in front of me—why her daughter is still single. Naturally, anything involving Croix is usually off-limits. Especially these days.
“You’re still at work? My baby just works so hard!”
“I am, Mom. Working. What did you need?”
“Your brother, Morris, is getting a promotion, and I wanted to plan him a party. What do you think?”
I stare at the phone as if she can see my disbelief. “Um...shouldn't you be asking his wife?”
My mother is a chronic helicopter parent. She doesn't know any other way to exist. She’s the type who “means well” while meddling so aggressively, that anyone outside the family would have likely filed a restraining order by now. She insists on being involved in every detail of our lives, whether we invited her in or not.
“She told me she would figure something out,” Mom huffs, “but I can’t be waiting around for that girl to buy him some store-bought cake at the last minute!”
“Mom, if that’s what Morris wants, why does it matter to you?”
“Because that is not how things are done! Not at our house, at least.”
“Are you forgetting that he owns hisownhome? He doesn’t have to abide by your house rules. Neither does Olivia. You know? His wife?”
“You know what I mean, Penny.”
“Okay, Mom. Remember when I said I only had five minutes?”
“What do you have going on anyway? Is that Croix still coming around? When can I meet him?”
“Bye, Mom! Talk soon, okay? Love you!”
I hang up before she can catch the sound of his Irish accent nearby. I love her. We’re actually best friends. But every time Ilet her in on the smallest detail about Croix, she acts as if I’m squandering some massive opportunity by not rushing to the altar.
Even though he is undeniably sexy, I don’t fall all over Croix the way other women do. He has an Irish accent that somehow turns the most innocent sentence into foreplay, and a messy man bun—usually a dealbreaker for me—that actually works on him. And Lord, the tattoos. He’s inked like a walking memoir of high heat and heartbreak, and I used to daydream about how long it would take to lick him to the end of the rainbow.
But ultimately, he’s just nice to look at and fun to be around. Perhaps I’ve never really considered him a boyfriend because he’s so much more than that. He’s one of my best friends.
In the six months since we began this, Croix and I have woven something understated yet profound—a connection built in the hushed spaces that made us inseparable once the cameras dimmed.
We’ve become each other’s retreat, a haven from the pressure of our public lives. His filled with flashing lights and highlight reels, mine stacked with patient charts, press conferences and boardroom tension. Our worlds may look different on the surface, but they also mirror each other in the ways that matter.
Despite our different backgrounds—him Irish, me Black—we’ve always understood one another with an effortless ease. We’ve spent late nights dissecting the weight of coming from communities historically treated as less-than, and the grit it took to rise above it. And even though we haven’t met each other’s families, we take pride in the beautiful mess of it all—and the fact that we believe families should never stop showing up for each other.
The food is a different story. I’m not exactly a fan of bacon and cabbage, but thanks to me, this man has developed a deep, soulful love for ribs. He rarely eats pork, but one SundayI brought home a plate of leftovers from my auntie’s—ribs, cornbread, and collard greens simmered with ham hocks—and talked him into a bite. He damn near cried. The man swore he saw the face of God.
He’s been chasing that high ever since, asking at least once a week if I’ve got “any of those holy greens” stashed away. Lucky for him, my collard greens actually beat my aunt’s. Though I use smoked turkey instead.
We’ve binge-watchedLiving SingleandSightUnseenover the phone while he’s away for matches. I taught him how to play Spades—poorly—and he taught me why Irish beer is apparently the only beer that matters. We laugh, we talk, and we hold each other down in ways few others understand.
So, as simple as it should be to walk away from something that doesn’t quite fit, how do I do that without losing someone who feels like they were planted in my life on purpose? Even if I don’t exactly understand what that purpose is yet.
As I walk toward the cafeteria, I spot Croix standing near the entrance with a takeout bag in hand—attempting, and epicallyfailing, to do the Running Man.
The man is also a 12-year-old trapped in a six-foot-two tattooed body, and maybe that’s part of why I love him, too. He keeps me laughing. Especially on the days when things are a little too much.
“Why are you an idiot?” I call out, unable to keep a straight face.
He shrugs. “Pretty sure it has something to do with Mercury being in retrograde or something.”
