Page 22 of Certified to Handle You 3

One touch and I could hear her voice. One touch and all that quiet I had been usin’ to hold myself together would be gone. I ain’t press it.

I took a pull from the blunt instead and let the smoke burn my throat. My thumb stayed close to that button, but I kept tellin’ myself not to move. It wasn’t ’cause I ain’t miss her. I missed her bad enough to wake up hard from dreams and get in the shower mad at my own body. I missed her bad enough to sit in my room holdin’ a phone like a nigga ain’t never had control before. But missin’ Sha’Nelle ain’t mean I needed to hand her the same spot in my chest she had already hurt. That was the part I couldn’t play with.

Sha’Nelle could get under my skin without even bein’ in the room. She could send three little texts from a number I ain’t know and have my whole mornin’ movin’ different. That was too much power for one woman to have over me, especially when I was the one left tryna figure out how to sleep normal, wake up normal and touch myself without my mind runnin’ straight back to her.

I looked at the messages one more time.

Unknown number: Please call me.

My hand stayed over the screen, and for a second, I really almost did it. I almost called just to hear how she sounded. I almost let myself forget how bad that shit had felt a few weeks ago when everything came down on me at the same time. Then I thought about what would happen if she cried in my ear. I thought about how quick my anger could turn into me wantin’ to fix us.

I set the phone down next to me and kept my hand on top of it like I had to keep that muthafucka from callin’ her on its own.

“Nah,” I said under my breath.

I leaned my head back against the headboard and smoked until the room got hazy around me.

I finished my blunt with the towel still around my waist, my beard damp and my hand nowhere near that call button.

I never called her back.

Trill-Land, Jungle Estate

To say I was back to being a happy wife would be an understatement.

For the past few weeks, me and Pressure had been finding our way back to each other in ways that felt good to my heart and my spirit.

Therapy had been helping us say things we used to hold in. The prayer room had become one of my favorite places in the house because it gave us somewhere quiet to lay everything down before it followed us into our bed. I had spent so much time being tired, frustrated, overwhelmed and angry after having Isley that I didn’t realize how much of myself had been sitting under all of that until I started feeling like me again.

Pressure never made me feel punished for it. He never walked around throwing it in my face when I had a rough day. He never acted like loving me had become too much work, even when I knew I hadn’t been the easiest woman to love during that season.

He kept our house together. He made sure our children had what they needed. He made sure I had help before I ever had to ask for it. He prayed with me, sat in therapy with me, took me away when I needed room to breathe and kept looking at me like I was still his peace even when I knew I had been bringing him storms. So I started showing up for him different.

At first, it was small things. I would wake up before him and lay out what he needed for the day. His clothes would be pressed and waiting, his watch beside them, his shoes where he could see them and his cologne sitting on the dresser.

I learned the days he needed something clean and simple for business and the days he needed to step out looking like the man everybody knew not to play with.

Pressure noticed everything, even when he didn’t say much. Sometimes he would come out of the bathroom, look at what I had laid out and glance over at me with that look in his eyes that always made me feel like he was touching me before his hands ever reached me.

Then I started cooking more. Not just making sure food was in the house, but cooking for him the way a wife cooks when she knows her husband has been moving all day. Oxtails with rice and peas, smothered turkey wings, baked chicken with gravy, greens with smoked turkey, cabbage, cornbread, candied yams and whatever else I knew would make him sit down for a real meal instead of grabbing something quick and calling it enough.

Pressure loved home-cooked food. He could eat anywhere he wanted, have anything brought to him or have a chef make whatever crossed his mind, but there was something about seeing him at our table with a plate I made that did something to me.

When he came home late, I had his shower and clothes ready. When he was tired, I rubbed his shoulders without asking him if he needed it. When he sat on the edge of the bed with business still sitting on his face, I stood between his legs and kissed his forehead until he wrapped his arms around my waist. The more I cared for him, the more I understood how much he had been carrying without making noise about it.

Pressure was always the person people expected to handle things. In our house, in his family, in his business and in my life, he had always been the man who stepped in and made sure everything kept moving. I wanted him to know he could stop moving sometimes and still be taken care of. Now, I had been waiting on him since before seven.

Pressure was trying to make it home before his game came on, and I already had the house exactly how I wanted it.

Zurie, Prestyn, Kaylon and Isley were on the other side of the mansion with the nannies. They had eaten, they were bathed and everything they needed was already handled. I checked on them twice, kissed Isley’s little cheeks until she started fussing and made sure Zurie knew she could have one of the nannies come find me if she needed me for anything important. Once I knew my children were good, I gave myself permission to focus on my husband.

Pressure’s food had been warming on the stove for almost two hours. I had made blackened snapper with a mango pineapple salsa, coconut rice, garlic butter asparagus and fried plantains on the side. I had a small pot of pepper shrimp warming on the back burner too. It was the kind of plate Pressure would sit down for. It wasn’t too heavy but still full of flavor, and I kept everything warm because I wanted him to eat as soon as he came home.

Upstairs, his gray silk pajamas were laid out across the bed with fresh briefs, his slides near the footboard and his lotion sitting on the nightstand. I had his towel folded in the bathroom, his shampoo and conditioner ready and the washcloths placed where I could reach them. When I heard the front door open, I was already standing here.

Pressure stepped inside looking fine enough to make me forget I had a whole plan. He had on dark pants, and a black shirt that fit him too well. His low cut was fresh, his waves were laid and his beard was thick and lined like he had just left the barber. He looked tired around the eyes, but he still looked like Pressure who was strong, handsome and too fine for his own good.

His eyes landed on me, and his whole face softened in that way it only did when he was home with me. He closed the door behind him, then reached for me without saying anything at first. I walked right into him, and he pulled me close with one arm around my waist and the other hand sliding to the back of my neck.