Page 227 of The Wright Man

I chuckled, grabbing another photo—this one a rough anime sketch I'd drawn on notebook paper, half-folded and smudged. Goku with locs. "Damn… forgot I even did this."

"You used to hand these out like business cards," she said, reaching into the box. "Wait—was this from that block party? That summer Kareem got his first tattoo?"

"Yeah. That was the night Tina punched Theo in the nuts."

"Deserved," she said instantly.

Then she pulled out another photo, and her smile softened. "Oh…"

It was Mama, sitting on the porch, braiding both of our heads. I was maybe nine, scowling as usual. Angelica was grinning wide with one missing tooth, beads clacking at the ends of her braids.

Another one followed—Kareem in his too-big hoodie, showing Angelica how to throw a proper punch in the backyard, her tiny fists balled up and serious as hell. She had on glittery shoes and one broken braid hanging down.

She went quiet, tracing a thumb over the edge of the picture. Her lashes fluttered, and for a second I saw that gleam in her eye, soft and glassy, like the memories had crept up on her before she could brace herself.

But she smiled anyway. "Leek, we were babies."

I didn't say anything right away. I just watched her. The way her face held every version of herself at once—loud, brilliant, big-hearted Angelica… and the little girl who used to sit between Mama's knees on Saturday mornings, letting her braid her scalp with love and coconut oil.

I felt something shift in my chest. Something quiet but permanent.

This was my partner.

Not just the girl I'd protected since we were kids. Not just the one I loved more than my own breath. This was my woman. My person. And we were building something real. Right here in this room, with Thai food and shoeboxes and memories spread out like open pages of a story we'd been writing since the day we met.

She looked up at me, eyes still glossy, but the smile hadn't wavered. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I said softly. "I'm good."

Better than good.

And I didn't need to say it out loud for her to know.

I spotted a box half-hidden under a pile of scarves and shoes, scrawled with her handwriting in thick black Sharpie:

College Shit (DO NOT OPEN).

Which, naturally, meant I needed to open it.

"What's this?" I called out, grinning as I slid the box toward me.

Angelica's head snapped around so fast her bonnet bounced. "Put that down, Maleek."

I looked up at her slowly, already smirking. "You put a sign on it. That's an invitation."

She scrambled across the floor like she was trying to tackle me, but I held it out of reach and popped the lid off anyway.

"You're annoying," she muttered, half-laughing, half-scolding as she swatted at my shoulder. "That's private!"

"It's ancient," I said, digging past the first layer of foam board and creased papers. "If it survived three moves and a marriage to a troll, it's fair game."

She crossed her arms and sat back, watching me like she was debating whether to let me live or not.

The box smelled like old perfume and dorm room dust—floral, a little musty, but familiar in the same way that all her things were. Inside was exactly the kind of mess I expected: a faded school pennant, a couple of glittery notebooks, and a rolled-up poster of Erykah Badu from her dorm wall. One of the corners was chewed, probably from a mouse she never told me about.

Underneath that was a stack of photos—her and Gavin, mostly. Prom, homecoming, one from her college dorm room. I held one up and squinted with a playful grimace that said "Yikes."

She rolled her eyes. "We're burning those."