Page 98 of Body Language
I cut the engine and looked over at her.
“So…” I started, leaning back in my seat.
Her shoulders relaxed like she was ready for whatever slick shit I was about to say.
“There was this girl…”
Her head turned fast, attitude slipping right out of her face like she hadn’t seen that one coming. Those eyes locked on me, sharp and curious.
“My first love. We met in high school. You know, that type of love where you really think you’re gone marry each other, grow old together, the whole movie script.”
She didn’t say anything, but I could feel her watching me.
“We had it all planned out. College, careers, kids. Everything. Then one day she told me she was pregnant. She hadn’t told her parents yet, so I hadn’t told mine. We were still figuring out how to even be grown enough for that. And before we could… she got in an accident.”
I stopped for a second, jaw tightening. “Killed her. And the baby.”
The car felt smaller all of a sudden, like the walls were pressing in. “My family… they knew I was grieving her. But they didn’t know the whole story. They didn’t know I lost both of them that day. I kept that part to myself, because I didn’t want the pity or the questions.”
I finally turned to look at her. “Since then, I’ve never given anybody the title of girlfriend. Not because I didn’t want to… but because giving it meant letting her go. And I couldn’t. Not for a long time.”
Her expression softened, but I kept going.
“With Arlette… I ain’t like her like that. Not the way you think. But when she had her accident and lost the baby, it hit me in a way I can’t explain. It pulled me right back to that night. Made me feel like I had to step up for her in ways I couldn’t for my first love, like I was making up for the past. It was fucked up, but it was how my mind worked.”
I dragged a hand over my beard. “That’s the truth about why I haven’t made shit official yet. I’m scared, Niv. Scared of forgetting her. And even more scared of losing you.”
Her lips parted, like she was about to say something, but I beat her to it.
“Because the shit I feel for you?” My voice dropped. “I didn’t even feel it with her. And if losing her hurt me like it did… I can’t imagine what it’ll do to me if you ever walk away.”
“It’s okay. I never want you to forget her… she was a part of you.”
She watched me, waiting to see if I’d fold. I didn’t. I just shut up and let her talk.
“Since you told me the truth,” she said, “I’ll tell you why I don’t move without a title.”
Her eyes went somewhere past the windshield.
“I was sixteen. He was… grown. He kept my lights on, filled my fridge, bought me shoes. I thought I was safe because I was provided for.” She huffed. “One night, he put a duffel in my closet. Said it was clothes, and told me don’t touch it. So, I didn’t.”
She swallowed. “A week later, there’s banging on the door at six in the morning. Not a knock, banging. Two cops, a third behind them with gloves. Hux is half-asleep in a Ninja Turtles tee, scared. Mama’s on the couch half high, acting lost. They said they had a warrant because paperwork ties my name to a storage unit and a P.O. box that wasn’t even mine. Guess who set it up? Guess who used my phone number and my mama’s address?
My hand flexed on the steering wheel.
“They went through my underwear drawer. Dumped my backpack out like I was a grown man moving weight. Pulled that duffel from my closet, and it wasn’t clothes. It was cash and pills he stashed.” She shook her head. “You ever had a cop hold your bra up with two fingers in front of your little brother? You everhad your neighbors watch you get put in handcuffs on your own porch while somebody whispers ‘I knew she’d end up like that’ like you planned it?”
My stomach went cold.
“Ty’s uncle is the only reason I don’t have a record. He showed receipts—my school schedule, my timecards, proved I never went near that storage unit. But for three weeks, I was the girl who might be a felon. The guidance counselor wouldn’t look me in the eye. My manager at McDonalds ‘lost’ my hours. CPS did a ‘wellness check’ because there was another minor in the home.” She looked at me. “Do you know what it feels like to have a stranger take pictures of the mold in your shower and the food in your fridge like they’re deciding if your family is worth keeping together?”
I didn’t breathe.
“That day, I wrote rules,” she said. “No man parks anything in my house, my name, or my peace. No situationships. If I can’t introduce you with a title, you don’t get access to my address. If there’s no claim, there’s no claim on me. Because when shit hits the fan, the only thing the world recognizes is paper. Titles. Contracts. Accountability with a signature.”
She tilted her head, eyes cutting into me. “People think ‘titles’ are romantic. It’s not. It’s governance. It’s who the hospital calls. Who’s on the lease. Who has keys, codes, and obligations on record. No title means plausible deniability. I don’t date deniability, Kendrix.”
Silence sat heavy between us.
