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“What did he say?” she asked.
“He didn’t. He just said you were trippin’.”
Her left eye twitched in annoyance. “Let me just say this as I ride in the back of this Lux Black—and no, I didn’t mean to drop a rap bar,” she teased. “Please let your boy know that it’s best he just walk away from this situation and put it behind him and refrain from bashing me in any way or I will tell you and everybody else just what he did to get booted. Right now, he is still in those graces I told him about, but my patience is as thin as his receding hairline. Cool?”
“Cool. We good?”
“It would take heaven and hell merging for me and you toeverfall out, Number One,” she said. “On some realness. I owe you too much.”
“Nothing owed but friendship,” he said. “And don’t worry about V. L. I got that handled. Thank you for your loyalty, yo.”
“’Til death,” she promised, before ending the call.
“How are you today?” she said to the driver, sliding the phone into her Louis Vuitton tote.
He just eyed her in the rearview mirror and said nothing, like he was pissed.
Or...
Desdemona shook her head at Loren’s influence.
“Excuse me, Paul,” she said to the middle-aged man with flecks of gray in his hair. “Is everything okay?”
He eyed her again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My baby girl is sick, but we got bills and I have to work. So, I’m out here, but I rather be at the hospital. You know?”
“What’s your little girl’s name?” she asked, surprised because she usually hated a talkative driver, but here she was stirring the pot.
“Amiyah,” he said with tears brimming in his eyes.
Tears from a man were a hard thing to see, but not as hard as it was for him to allow them to fall.
“Father God, bless Amiyah with your mercy, your grace, and your healing,” she said, unable to remember the last time she’d prayed and how good it made her feel to do so.
“Amen,” he said, roughly wiping each eye with the back of his hand.
They rode the rest of the way in silence. She was busy thinking Loren would enjoy her story of “Or . . .” when the SUV pulled up outside the extended-stay hotel she was renting for Portia until she was approved for an apartment of her own. Desdemona opened the door and came around the truck to stand at the driver’s door. He lowered the window.
“Go to the hospital and be with your family,” she said, handing him a stack of hundred-dollar bills.
Paul pushed it back to her with a shake of his head. “No, ma’am. I can’t take that. The man in me won’t allow me to take that,” he stressed. “What means more to me is that prayer.”
“But—”
“I have to be able to look myself in the eye every day as a man,” he repeated.
“You’re stubborn, but my father probably would have done the same thing,” Desdemona admitted. “But what if it’s a blessing and not about male and female, but just one good heart giving to another.”
“Thank you but no thank you,” Paul said.
“Okay,” she acquiesced, stepping back from the vehicle. “I’ll be thinking of your daughter.”
“That means everything,” he said, before waving and pulling off.
Stubborn but commendable. She admired him for his conviction.
Desdemona dropped the money back in her tote and looked at the boutique extended-stay hotel where Portia lived. The renovated seven-story townhouse on the Upper West Side housed 120 studio spaces with a community kitchen and laundry. Its brick face was charming with the neighborhood offering a good mix of people, style, culture, and convenience. The tree-lined street never bustled with too much activity. The rate for the very small studio and private bath was inexpensive in comparison to five-star hotels. So far, Portia’s apartment rental applications had been rejected because she had no credit, work experience, and because of her age—even with her emancipation by the courts.
She entered the building and crossed the art deco lobby to the stairs, avoiding the elevator that was small and reminiscent of the house’s first days as a home and not a hotel. She reached the second floor and walked down the tiled hall with its pale-yellow paint to knock on Portia’s door at the end.
