Page 77 of The Wright Man

I told her everything.

About Okinawa. About drowning myself in work—mission after mission, no leave, no breaks—because stillness hurt too much. About meeting Riq and Sticks and how GhostFit was born from long, tired conversations in sand-colored tents and late-night weight rooms. About the money I stacked. The house I came back to. The dream we were finally making real.

She didn't rush me. Didn't fill the pauses. Just sat with her tea half-raised and forgotten, watching me like she was memorizing something. Once, when I got to the part about Kareem, she set the glass down and reached across the table and covered my hand with hers — didn't say a word, just held it for a second. Then let go like she wasn't sure she should've done it.

When I finally stopped talking, her expression softened into something that felt like sunlight through a window.

"You're gonna change so many lives," she said, and the pride in her voice hit me dead in the chest.

I looked down, tried to play it cool, but my mouth twitched into a smile anyway. "That's the plan."

Angelica nodded, eyes still on mine, like she was seeing the whole future laid out ahead of me—and rooting for it. For me.

She tilted her head, lips tugging into a soft, teasing smile. "I used to wonder what you were gonna do with all that rage, you know," she said. "Thought maybe you'd end up a boxer or a professional table-flipper. But this?" Her eyes flicked toward me, warm and proud. "This is perfect. You turned it into something real. Something good."

I didn't say anything. Just watched her, that quiet pride in her voice settling somewhere deep in my chest.

She held my gaze a second longer, then added gently, "Ms. Dana would be so proud of you, Maleek."

That damn lump in my throat came back with a vengeance.

The waitress came by to drop the check, and Angelica snatched it like she'd been waiting for the opportunity to square up.

"Oh, absolutely not," she said, reaching into her purse.

"Ain't no way, Reed." I said, shaking my head and snatching it right back. "You just said I had anger issues. Better let me pay before I knock some shit over."

I handed the check and my card back to the waitress.

Angelica laughed. "You are so dramatic."

"Just say thank you, woman."

The waitress returned with the receipt, and we stood to leave, still bantering as we crossed back toward Dana's Chair. Our steps fell in sync like they always had, the rhythm of it second nature. She bumped my shoulder. I bumped hers harder. It was easy. Familiar. Good.

We stopped just shy of the salon entrance, where the sun hit her skin like it had a personal grudge against my self-control.

Behind the glass, every stylist and client was suddenly the world's worst actor—pretending to tidy up stations or check their phones while very obviously peeking in our direction.

One woman near the back ducked behind a wig head like that made her invisible.

We ignored them. Mostly.

Angelica looked up at me, her braids catching just enough wind to tickle her jaw. Her lip gloss still intact, eyes a little bright — the kind of bright that looked like she was trying very hard to hold something steady.

I turned to her, chest tight. I didn't raise my voice. Didn't need to.

"I'm home for good now," I said, letting each word land like I meant it. Because I did. "And I'm not spending another day without my best friend."

Her eyes flicked down, then up again. Her smile almost dropped me to my knees.

"I want that too," she whispered. And damn if it didn't sound like a confession.

I didn't even think. I pulled her in.

What started as a hug turned into something else—something heavier, deeper. My hands slid along the curve of her back. She wrapped her arms around my shoulders, fingers spreading across my neck, curling slightly in the baby hairs at the back.

Her hands tightened. My grip did too. The air between us thickened until it felt like trying to breathe through velvet. Then she whispered it—barely a sound, like her throat betrayed her.