Page 6 of Love You Like That

The reply came quickly.

Where?

Florence Hill Park. I’ll bring the vibes.

She didn’t respond right away and I set my phone down, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I was doing too much. Then, my phone buzzed.

Deal.

I don’t know how long I sat there after that. I didn’t write. Shit, I didn’t even eat. I just laid there, imagining hearing her voice again.

Iw a sa l r e a d ysweating before the sun fully stretched. Clinical days were like that. Nonstop movement, early call times, and aching feet stuffed into nursing clogs that felt like bricks by hour four. I was running vitals on a colicky newborn when the mother who was barely twenty burst into tears because her boyfriend hadn’t shown up.Again.

I gave her tissues, a juice cup, and a soft, “You’re not alone.”

If I was being honest, though, I felt like I was lying. Not because I didn’t mean it but because I wasn’t always sure it was true. People were alone all the time, floating in pressure, in painand in expectations. That’s why Ezra’s poem hit me the way it did. That line that went,“for the girl with pain in her laugh”. It felt personal like he cracked my chest open and peeked in without even touching me.

“You alright, Yavanni?”

I looked up to see Sarah, my clinical partner, standing across from me at the meds cart with her eyebrows raised. “Yeah,” I nodded, tying off my patient’s chart. “Just need caffeine and a nap.”

She chuckled. “Story of our lives.”

We wrapped by three-thirty. My locs were tied under a scarf and my skin was dewy in a way that wasn’t cute unless on a beach, and my left sock was fighting for its life. But despite all that, I was floating. Because in a few hours, I was seeinghimagain.

On my way out of the hospital parking lot, my phone lit up with our group text:

Dianna:BITCH! What time you meeting Mr. Poetic???

Erin:Should we track your location?

I smirked and typed fast with one hand as I merged onto the freeway.

Around 7. And don’t be crazy.

The typing dots bounced immediately.

Dianna:Yavanni Sinclair, the woman who schedules breathing time, is casually dating a hood poet now?

Erin:I’m screaminggg! Drop the pin later. If you go missing, I’m telling your mama.

Y’all are dramatic. I’ll text when I get there.

I made it home by five. My building sat like a modern temple in the heart of the city with glass and steel. Luxury Black girl living. I’d fallen in love with it the second I walked through the door. My apartment held sunlight and everything was earthy and soft.

My living room smelled like eucalyptus and there were tall plants hugging the corners while the walls were dotted with framed art from Black women artists. Soft bodies, bold color, nudes and revolution in one. Gold accents everywhere.

The coffee table books were stacked with titles likeMedical ApartheidandThe Souls of Black Folk, nestled beside crystals and candles namedMoon ChildandProtect Your Peace.I loved my space. My parents couldn't understand where this side of mecame from and I used to think I was adopted until I realized I was just... me.

I dropped my bag by the door, kicked off my clogs, and moved through the space, undoing my scarf, and letting my locs fall free. They were long and thick, past my bra strap, with fresh honey-brown tips I’d dyed last month on impulse.

In the bathroom, I let the water run from the shower hot until the mirror fogged. As I stepped in, I let the heat hit my back and closed my eyes and all I saw was him. Ezra, leaning close. That voice. That one good eye trained on me like he could read what I hadn’t said out loud.

I washed slowly, dragging the loofah over my skin like it could help settle my nerves. But it didn’t. I was humming. Floating. Grinning. I was halfway through moisturizing, skin slick with shea butter and jasmine oil, when the doorbell rang. I wasn’t expecting anyone though. I threw on a kimono and went to peek through the peephole.

“Shit.” Opening the door, I plastered on a smile. “Hi Daddy. You, uh... you didn’t text.”

He stepped in, suit crisp, cologne strong and familiar. His salt-and-pepper beard was perfectly trimmed. Every move hemade was deliberate and controlled. “I was in the area,” he said, kissing my cheek. “Thought I’d stop in.” Translation: he was checking on me.

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