Page 226 of The Wright Man

I fell asleep in his arms, finally believing I was worthy of the love that lived there.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Maleek

"Why does this box have deep conditioners from the Obama era?" I asked, squinting down into the half-collapsed cardboard like it carried the plague. There had to be at least twenty half-empty jars and bottles in there—some covered in dust, some practically fossilized. One even had a label so faded it looked handwritten.

Angelica didn't even glance up from her spot on the floor, where she was sorting through another box with chopsticks still in her hand. "Same reason why you got tactical gear in the kitchen drawers, sir. Because I want it there."

I looked at her, deadpan. "That is not the same."

"It's exactly the same," she said, grabbing a spring roll and popping it into her mouth like she'd just won the debate.

We were posted up in Mama's old room, our room now—at least it would be once we finished clearing it out and bought a damn bed. Right now it was all boxes and Thai takeout, furniture we hadn't decided what to do with, and years of memories shoved into corners. The overhead light was on, and we heard the chirping of crickets in the night outside. It felt like home and change all at once. Familiar, but flipped.

Angelica pulled out a raggedy old halter top and held it up. "This shirt actually might be from Bush's second term. Should I toss it or nah?"

I gave her a look. "You gon' wear it?"

"…No."

"Toss it."

She rolled her eyes. "Not everyone can live in compression shirts and sweatpants, Maleek."

"I got t-shirts too," I muttered, tossing one of the crustier jars into the trash bag. "And a whole rotation of hoodies. Watch your tone."

She snorted. "Minimalist king."

"Hoarding-ass queen," I shot back, tilting my head toward the growing mountain of shit she was "thinking about keeping."

We were halfway through fake-arguing about who was going to be more annoying to share a bathroom with when she stood and stretched, arms overhead, shirt rising just enough to flash the thickest part of those brown thighs I had to physically stop myself from reaching for. She pointed toward the far side of the room, where her shoes were already trying to colonize every free inch of space. "Just so you know, once we move a bed in here, your old room is becoming my walk-in closet."

I gave her the slowest, most dramatic side-eye known to man. "Your closet?"

"I'm gonna need room for my shoes, Maleek. And my clothes are not gonna fit in here. Not unless you want me hanging dresses from the ceiling fan."

I scoffed. "You could throw some shit away."

"And you could kiss my ass."

"Gladly," I murmured under my breath, loud enough for her to catch.

She froze mid-sip of her Thai tea, fighting a smirk. "Don't start."

I shrugged. "Just sayin'. You brought it up."

She threw a crumpled napkin at my head, and I let it hit me just to watch her laugh.

We kept unpacking, our movements easy, unhurried. There was no rush. No looming storm. Just us. A couple of spring rolls left in the bag, the smell of ginger and lemongrass lingering in the air, and the occasional bump of our knees as we moved around the small space we were turning into something that was ours.

At some point, I opened an old shoebox labeled OLD STUFF in black Sharpie, the kind of label that meant it could be anything from tax returns to porn. Turned out to be old photos and random keepsakes. I sat back on my heels, flipping through the stack.

Angelica scooted closer, peering over my shoulder. "Oh my God… is that your eighth grade yearbook photo?!" She snatched it out of my hand, cackling. "You had a whole Gumby fade!"

"I looked good as fuck, don't disrespect me," I muttered, but I was smiling too.

"You looked like your mama lined you up with a butter knife."