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“How?”
“There’s some shit in my life that I don’t want her anywhere close to.”
Victor’s look could drill holes. “Dee doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who wants some damn martyr protecting her.”
“I’m not trying to be a martyr.”
“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.”
“I’m done talking, Victor.”
“You’re done talking?” His laugh is mirthless. “You haven’t said a goddamn thing.”
“I have my reasons.”
“You’re a real case.” He shoves me back. “I shouldn’t have to remind you after everything you and Dee went through that making the choice for someone else will come back and bite you in your dumb ass.”
His words slam into me with nuclear force.
But I can’t heed them.
Dee
Though I’m probably the lastperson Dwayde wants to see, I knock on his door. When there’s no answer, I turn the knob and peek inside. Dwayde is sitting on the double bed, clumsily made, but attempted. He balances an open sketchbook on his bent knees, making short strokes with a pencil. Rufus is curled up into a plump ball, sleeping.
“May I come in?”
He spares me an unwelcoming glance. “I don’t want to talk about them anymore.”
“Then we won’t.”
“What do you want then?” His eyes narrow as if he thinks it’s a trick.
“Just to check in before I go.”
“I guess that’s your job.”
I would sigh over his cynicism if I didn’t understand that he sees me as a lawyer in a suit trying to get information he doesn’t want to give, rather than the woman in jeans that had played video games with him on Sunday.
“This is more than just a job to me.” It had been from the start. “You’re precious to the people I love. And we’re family now.”
For a moment, I have the pleasure of seeing his guard slip. “I guess you can come in.”
“Thank you.” I step inside and take a survey of his room. White California shutters contrast cobalt blue walls covered in basketball posters and a few hip-hop artists I vaguely recognize. A wooden dresser sits in one corner, cluttered on top with clothes, game consoles, and wires; a book shelf beside it holds more knickknacks and gadgets than books, and across from the bed is a drawing table with paints, drawing pencils, and the charcoal set I bought him.
“I like your space.” It’s bright and lived-in. Not impersonal and bare the way I’d kept mine at his age, wherever I happened to be. This is home.
Overlapping sketches are tacked onto a corkboard above his desk. I stroll over to get a closer look, awed by the talented finesse of such a young hand. Most are of Rufus and family members.
“These are great, Dwayde.” I move the edge of one drawing to study a sketch of Papa T, lounging on the porch swing, a cigar in one hand, the laugh lines and peaceful expression captured perfectly. “When did you do this one?”
“Before he got sick.”
“You must miss him,” I say through a pang of grief.
“Yeah.”
“It’s so life-like. All the details.”
