Page 31 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 4

“I got this,” he said, “sorta.”

I let him have that one and just sat there with him, watching him work, feeling more settled than I had all day. He got the side rail on eventually—loudly, with commentary—and sat back, looking proud of himself in a way that made my chest hurt a little, in the good way this time.

“I want to take you somewhere,” he said, out of nowhere, still looking at the crib like he was daring it to fall apart on him. And it just might because it looked like it was barely standing.

“You take me places all the time.”

“Not like this.” He looked over at me. “I want to take you on our first date.”

I actually laughed. “Our first date? Amai, we’ve been through wars together. We’ve made a baby. We’ve had entire arguments in front of your father with guns in the room. What do you mean first date?”

“I mean, I never took you on one,” he said, and there wasn’t a joke in it. “Everything with us happened backward. I want to do one thing the normal way. I owe you that.”

Something in me softened at that, in a way I didn’t fight.

“Okay,” I said. “What did you have in mind?”

“Nothing you’d expect.” He wiped his hands on his jeans. “No restaurant. I want to do something real. Something this city actually is, not something you can get anywhere.”

“That’s suspiciously vague.”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t have anything nice enough for a surprise,” I said, glancing down at myself—leggings, an old T-shirt of his I’d claimed weeks ago, my hair thrown up because fighting it that morning hadn’t seemed worth it. “Whatever you’re picturing, I promise you I don’t own it.”

“I’ll have the stylist bring options.”

“Of course you will.”

“You want to look nice, don’t you?”

“I could get used to this rich thing, you know.” I gestured at the half-built crib, the bags of clothes by the door, the whole ridiculous life I’d landed in. “Stylists on standby. Custom dates. A man arguing with furniture on my behalf.”

He laughed—really laughed, head back, and it was a good sound, one I didn’t hear enough.

“Get used to it,” he said. “It’s not going anywhere.”

I looked at him for a second longer than I needed to, turning that sentence over, wondering how much of it was about the money and how much of it was about him. Underneath the laughing, underneath the crib parts and the boutique bags and the plans for a first date after everything we’d already survived, Rahsaan was still out there somewhere. My house was still off-limits. None of that had gone anywhere either.

But for right now, in this room, with him cursing at furniture on my behalf, I let myself have the good part first.

After placing a few stuffed animals in the crib, and it tumbling to the floor, we decided it best that Amai pay someone to put all the baby furniture together. I assured him that he had plenty of other talents, and I wouldn’t judge him by his furniture assembly expertise.

The stylist showed up shortly after with options, and I loved them all, so Amai told her to leave them.

Amai let me shower and get dressed in peace for once. I swear that man was like velcro when he wasn’t chasing Rahsaan down. I enjoyed it most days. I mean, who wouldn’t want a fine ass nigga like Amai obessed with them? I just needed to breathe sometimes. That’s all.

The dress was doing what it was supposed to do.

I’d stood in front of the mirror longer than I had any business standing, turning sideways and then back again, trying to figure out whether the deep plunge in the neckline was too much or exactly right. My body wasn’t my old body anymore—that was just a fact I’d been learning to live inside rather than fight. The belly was there, round and undeniable, and the stylist Amai had sent understood proportion in a way I hadn’t expected. Purple satin, not the showy kind—the kind that moved like it was made of water. The neckline was bold without being a statement. The heels were maybe two inches, enough to elongate without requiring a commitment I couldn’t keep with a center of gravity that had been permanently renegotiated.

I looked like myself. A version of myself I hadn’t seen in a while.

I picked up my clutch from the dresser and opened the bedroom door.

The voices reached me before anything else.

I stopped at the top of the staircase and looked down through the banister.