Page 23 of Love Letters from a Libra
“Mm-hmm,” she said again, stretching the sound.
I clarified quickly. “Not like that. Nothing happened. Well, not in the way you’re thinking.”
“The ones that get in your head before they get in your bed. Those are the dangerous ones,” Toni replied, suddenly serious.
She was wrong. I sat on the edge of my bed, tired. “Yeah, well, he’s different.”
“That’s what you said about Romeo, Darnell, and what was that yoga teacher’s name? The one with the man bun and the trust fund?”
“Anthony. And Jules is nothing like them.”
“Jules? What’s he do?” I heard her writing his name down so she could look him up later.
“Cybersecurity. He’s some kind of digital detective or something.”
“He’s good with computers. Great. Make sure he hasn’t used those skills to stalk you online before deciding he’s your soulmate.”
I rolled my eyes, even though she couldn’t see me. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, cuz.”
“I’m just looking out for you. You know how you jump in head first before checking to see if there’s water at the bottom.”
The truth stung a little. “I know. I’m being cautious this time.”
“Cautious like staying at his place on, what, a third date?”
“It wasn’t like that,” I insisted, though I wasn’t sure I could explain what it was like even to myself.
Toni sighed, and I pictured her shaking her head. “I get it. Just take it slow. Your mom called me yesterday. By the way, she said you hadn’t been answering her texts.”
The swift change of subject was classic Toni, but the mention of my mother made me wince. “I’ll call her today. Was she all right?”
“You know how she gets when she doesn’t hear from you, spiraling about whether you were upset with her, sick, or working too hard.”
I closed my eyes briefly, the weight of responsibility settling on my shoulders. My mother didn’t cry when my father left. At least not in front of me. She continued to run the household, but I felt it. How she went quiet at night, or how she froze when the phone rang with an unknown number. I learned how to sense her moods, how to be the easy one in the room. Even now, with miles between us, I felt the pull to manage her feelings.
“I’ll call her. I’ve just been busy with the blog and stuff,” I repeated.
“Stuff named Jules?”
I ignored that. “How’s my favorite nephew?” I asked, even though he was my cousin.
“Oh, he’s currently finger painting on the kitchen table despite a perfectly good piece of paper in front of him. Aren’t you, monster? He misses you and says his life lacks cosmic alignment without you.” She giggled.
I laughed. “He absolutely did not say that.”
“I’m translating from toddler speak. Speaking of that, how’s the blog doing?” Toni inquired.
“The blog is doing well. I had a sponsor reach out yesterday about a potential partnership.”
“Your daddy would be proud. Look at you making money off the stars!”
The mention of my father sent a pain through my chest. “Have you talked to him lately?”
“Last week. He said he left you a voicemail, some saxophone solo he thought you’d like.”
“Yeah, he did,” I said softly.
My father was a touring jazz musician who communicated primarily through music rather than words. He’d send a saxophone solo when he missed me. It was a language that took me years to understand, but now it felt as natural as breathing. He lived in New Orleans, only coming into my life dropping short bursts of music and stories before disappearing on tour again. This left my mother and me to piece together something resembling normalcy in his absence.
