“Not yet,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Last I heard, she and Declan were fighting again over a costume or something.”
Tatum huffs. “Oh, the newlyweds are fighting again. Shocker.”
“Right,” I say with a smile, keeping my tone light. “Even if the whole thing isn’t real, I think Declan’s just tired of keeping their relationship a secret.”
It’s more than that. A lot more than that from what Declan has revealed in our sessions. But the fact that he’s tired of being a secret is the only thing Icansay since Marlow gave us that much herself. But even that little sliver of truth feels like walking a tightrope. I’m carrying too much—truths that aren’t mine to share, feelings I’ve buried so deep I can’t tell where they end and the lies begin.
Tatum nods slowly, swirling the drink in her hand. “Yeah,” she says thoughtfully. “I think Declan really believes that if they stop hiding—if they go public—Marlow might finally drop the armor and let something real happen. Because as long as she has to keep it a secret, she’ll never let herself feel it.”
She doesn’t know it, but Tatum is absolutely right.
I shake my head, exhaling a breath as I scan the crowd. “Honestly, I’m shocked one of them hasn’t committed murder yet.”
“Or mounted the other in one of the supply closets at work,” Tatum says with a wicked grin.
I lift my drink in mock salute. “Right? Forget murder—I can’t believe sex hasn’t happened. We’re both down a hundred bucks and for what? So she can stay hot, bothered and bitchy?”
Tatum leans in, dropping her voice. “You don’t think she’s lying, do you? About not sleeping with him?”
“Please,” I scoff. “Marlow’s way too wound up to be getting dicked down on the regular.”
“Touché,” Tatum laughs.
I tilt my head, narrowing my eyes at her. “And where’s your date tonight?”
She grins and waves a perfectly manicured hand like she’s brushing off a speck of dust. “Oh, honey. I am not a ‘bring sand to the beach’ type of girl. I like to see what’s on the buffet before I commit to an entrée, if you know what I mean.”
I snort, nearly choking on my drink. “Oh, I know what your nasty self means.”
One thing I learned about Tatum right away? She doesn’t do filters. She speaks her mind, owns her space, and lets her freak flag fly without a second thought. Her Black and Asian roots give her a kind of boldness that’s rare—fearless but intentional, sharp but deeply rooted. Especially for a Black woman in a world that keeps asking us to shrink.
She’s the head of marketing for a major sports organization, walks into boardrooms like she owns them, and doesn’t waste her time with boys who play games. That kind of confidence is magnetic. It makes me respect her—and if I’m being honest, maybe even want to be her—just a little.
Tatum and I are nearly doubled over in laughter when it happens again.
That shift. The one that always gives him away before he even speaks.
The air tightens. My skin prickles just before…
“Good evening, ladies.”
Grant fucking Mills.
“Good evening, Mr. Mills!” Tatum sings. “We were just talking about your daughter!”
“Good evening, Mr. Mills,” I echo, softly. More careful, more controlled.
He gives a polite nod. “Please, call me Grant.”
Tatum is still the one talking—but Grant isn’t looking at her. His eyes are on me. Only me. And the rest of the room might as well disappear.
I see it hit him when he notices the costume. His gaze lingers, slowly taking it all in before his voice drops just above a whisper. “I loved that movie.”
I make an effort to chew my gum. “Me too,” I say, something soft and unsteady in my tone. “I used to watchPoetic Justiceevery day after school. Might’ve even started in middle school,” I add, the words slipping out before I can filter them.
Grant reaches up and takes the end of one of my braids between his fingers. His thumb brushes it—gentle, like it might break.
“The outfit doesn’t do you justice,” he murmurs. “But I like it on you all the same.”
