Page 7 of Love You Like That

“You hungry?” I offered.

He looked around, eyes skating over my decor like he was cataloging it. “No. Just wanted to see how things are coming along with clinical.”

“Fine,” I said, walking toward the kitchen. “Busy. Tiring.”

“Any setbacks?”

“No.”

“Still on pace to graduate early?”

I glanced at him, wondering if he ever knew how much pressure weighed in that question. “Trying to be,” I said.

He nodded once. “Good. You know the board for Hollis Medical is watching.”

“I know, Daddy.”

He looked at me and his brow dipped. “Something’s different.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’re glowing, Yavanni.”

I stared at him for a beat, debating. Then said, “New moisturizer.”

“What’s his name?”

“Daddy.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is he in medicine?”

“No.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “Is he… respectable?”

My stomach clenched. I hated that word. “Daddy, I have to finish getting ready.”

“Mm.” That sound said it all. He adjusted his cufflinks and turned toward the door. “You’re a Sinclair. Don’t forget what that means and what comes with that.”

When he left, I stood in the silence, letting it thicken. Then I walked to the mirror in my living room and studied myself. I didn’t look like a woman unsure. I looked like a woman choosing something different.

An hour later, I was dressed in a brown halter top, ankle-length cream skirt that moved when I walked, layered bracelets and anklets, gold hoops, and fresh liner and gloss. My locs were styled half up, half down with a soft beat on the face. Of course,Oneby Jennifer Lopez was kissed at the pulse.

I grabbed my phone and texted Ezra.

On my way.

Then I grabbed my canvas tote, and left my apartment, pushing aside whatever fear was left in me.

Is t o o di nfront of my closet like something brand new was about to come out the shit. Like maybe a version of myself that gave a damn about outfit pics and color schemes was hiding behind the hoodies and dark clothes. I could dress; that wasn’t the issue. I just never gave a fuck about labels and shit. I was fly but simple.

I ended up pulling one shirt out, stared at it, then tossed it on the bed. I did the same thing with another and another. Most of my wardrobe was in grayscale anyway. All black, charcoal and the occasional deep green or tan when I was feeling wild.Comfort. That’s how I moved. But now I was staring at the rack like this was prom and I needed a miracle stylist.

Get a grip, E.

Finally, I grabbed something. It was a black tee, army fatigue cargo shorts and a pair of New Balances. I put on my Cuban and other chains and sprayed some cologne.Sauvage.Label or not, that was my shit. From the couch, I pulled the gray throw blanket then grabbed some red plastic cups from the kitchen and stared at everything in my hands.

“Bro, you really tryna impress this woman,” I muttered, half-laughing at myself.

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