Page 43 of Love Letters from a Libra
But what if love isn’t discovered, what if it’s built, not ordained by cosmic alignments, but created through choices, small daily decisions to see and to be seen, to stay present when the retreat feels safer, to forgive imperfection while still maintaining boundaries.
I stepped away to pour a cup of coffee. Back at the laptop, I continued writing the words, coming out with unexpected clarity.
The stars didn’t write this love; we did.I stared at the sentence, and the truth of it resonated in my chest. I wasn’t abandoning my belief in cosmic connections. My beliefs were evolving. Still, we created the stories. We filled in theconstellations with our own meanings, just like I did as a child seeing teapots, where others saw archers.
Notes App– You feel like a milestone I hadn’t planned for. I’m good with that.
I adjustedmy tie for the third time, looking at myself in the mirror. There was a slight tension I couldn’t smooth away, no matter how perfectly the Windsor knot set against my collar. Three months of dating Zanaa, and somehow, meeting her family felt more consequential than any six-figure security contract I’d ever signed.I picked up my phone to shoot a quick text.
Me:
Yo, wish me luck. I get to meet the fam today.
Carlos:
You got this. Stay strong.
I tucked my phone into my pocket. My hands betrayed me with a slight dampness as I adjusted my cuffs. This wasn’t about network vulnerabilities or data encryption. It was about convincing generations of Scales’ women that I was worthy of the one who was currently pacing in my bedroom.
“You look fine. More than fine, like you’re about to negotiate a merger, not eat Mama Tilda’s famous peach cobbler,” Zanaa remarked and glanced in my direction.
I turned from the mirror, taking in the sight of her. Even anxious, she was stunning, her curves wrapped in a floral dress that somehow managed to look both proper for Sunday brunch and completely distracting.
Her hair was arranged in an elaborate twist adorned with small golden clips. But it was her hands that gave away her nervousness. Her fingers constantly adjusted the moonstone ring she never took off, twisting it around and around like prayer beads.
“Your hands say otherwise. Should I be worried? Are they going to subject me to some kind of cosmic compatibility test? Do I need to bring wine or a birth chart?” I asked, crossing the room.
The joke landed exactly as intended. Her tension broke with laughter that lit up her entire face. “All you need to bring are your manners and maybe a bulletproof vest. Toni has questions.” She laughed.
“Is that your cousin or your aunt?” I asked, though I’d been briefed extensively on the Scales family hierarchy in preparation for today.
“My cousin’s protective instinct is only matched by my aunt’s interrogation skills. They’re basically the same person separated by twenty years and slightly different tastes in men.” Zanaa slipped her phone into her purse.
“I can handle it. I’ve sat through eight-hour depositions and congressional hearings on data privacy,” I assured her, though my tie suddenly felt too tight.
“This will be worse but also better because there will be peach cobbler at the end,” she warned, smiling.
The drive to her family home took us through neighborhoods in various stages of transformation, and gentrified blocks gave way to the streets that still held their original character. Zanaa pointed out landmarks from her childhood as we drove, like the corner store where she bought penny candy, the stoop where she had her first kiss, and the church where her grandmother still sang in the choir every Sunday.
I absorbed those details, adding them to my mental map of who she was. For all our intimacy over the past months, there were still territories we were beginning to explore. This was one of them, the foundations that shaped her before I knew her, the people who knew her first and the best.
“They are going to love you eventually. Just be yourself.” She pointed, directing me to park in front of a well-maintained home with window boxes full of purple and yellow pansies.
“As opposed to the evil twin I sometimes send on dates?” I raised an eyebrow. Zanaa’s hand found my cheek, her palm warm against my skin.
“The one who sometimes disappears when things get real. Leave him at home today,” she joked.
The directness of her statement caught me off guard, but I nodded, covering her hand with mine. “He’s retired permanently.”
Her smile told me she believed me, or at least she chose to. Either way, it felt like a victory.
We entered the house, where some form of baking must’ve been happening because it smelled delicious. The decor spoke of old-school, black Southern sensibilities. Family photos in frames lined the walls, crochet doilies protected the polished wood surfaces, and gospel music played softly from somewhere deeper in the house. The air smelled of cinnamon and butter, reminding my stomach immediately that I’d skipped breakfast due to nerves.
“There she is! And this must be the famous Jules?” A woman’s voice rang out, and suddenly, Zanaa was enveloped in an embrace by someone who could only be her mother. She had the same eyes and the same curve of the jaw, though her hair was cropped short and streaked with elegant silver.
Before I could respond, we were surrounded. A tall, elegant woman who must be Aunt Camille circled me like a benevolent hawk. Her assessing gaze took in everything from my hair to my shoes. A younger woman, Toni, I assumed, hung back, arms crossed, her expression somewhere between curious and skeptical, and an elderly woman with the most beautiful silver locs I’d ever seen sat in a plush armchair, watching the proceedings with eyes of wisdom and a knowing smile.
“Jules, this is my mother, Patricia, my cousin Toni, my aunt Camille, and my grandmother, Mama Tilda.”
