Page 149 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

She leads me down the hallway, holding onto me like I’m a source of strength and not some strange man she just met.

If she knew my track record with grieving women in hospitals, she probably wouldn’t be so keen.

We reach the door. Jamal is lying in bed, his leg propped up in a thick cast, a bandage wrapped around his head. He looks exhausted, but when he sees me, he sits up a little straighter and nods upward at me like everything is cool. Showing no weakness, like we’re taught to do.

I approach the bed, reaching out to dap him up. After, Monique moves past me to hug him and kiss his cheek.

“Are you hungry?” she asks softly.

“I told you I’m okay,” he says. “Quit fussing over me.”

“Impossible,” she says, smiling so brightly, I’m sure he feels no pain when he looks at her. “Tell me what you need, baby.”

His whole face softens, all the faux protest gone. “I’m alright. Long as you’re here.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

I feel like I’m peeking through their bedroom window, so I take a few steps back, giving them space. I watch as her hands flutter over him like she’s afraid to touch, scared she’ll hurt him, but needing to feel him all the same. She leans over, pressing a kiss to his forehead, whispering something I can’t hear. The way she looks at him—like there’s nobody else in the world and nowhere else she’d rather be—twists like a knife in my chest.

I want that.

And I want to give that.

Love that doesn’t waiver. Love that stays, whether you’re on a high or at your lowest low.

And I lowkey have somebody already.

She takes care of me in her own way. She damn sure doesn’t waiver. The way she goes about it might be unorthodox, but that woman is ten toes down for me. That’s one thing I know for sure.

I also know she still holds back.

Even when she clings to me, gives herself to me, there’s a wall up. She still doesn’t feel completely safe with me.

I guess it makes sense. I broke up with her. Blocked her. Damn near moved her in. But I haven’t committed to her. She knows I’m not all in, so she acts accordingly.

I imagine being the object of her love is even more intense when she’s all in.

“Aye.”

Jamal pulls me out of my thoughts.

“You know I’m finna milk this shit for all the time off I can get.”

That gets a laugh out of me. “Do you, bruh. I ain’t no snitch.”

I stay for a little while longer, leaving with the feeling that Jamal will be alright. Monique is a good woman. She loves that man’s dirty drawers. What else does he need?

I, on the other hand, have a fine ass, devoted, loyal woman in my house, and I’m tripping over her being a little OD sometimes.

On my way out, I stop by the gift shop and spend way too much fucking money on flowers. In the car, I start the engine, but I don’t move. I’m still too deep in thought. Too fucking pussy to make a move.

So I make one.

“Hey, Ace.”

Mama’s voice is slurred. I check the clock; she’s probably on her third of fourth glass of Bordeaux by now.

“Hey. We need to talk.”

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