Page 115 of Invisible Bars
The interview wrapped with a soft wave of applause from the crew.
Cameras powered down. Lights dimmed.
Giselle stood up slowly, clapping delicately like she’d just watched the birth of a legacy. After smoothing out her blouse, she practicallyskippedover to me in heels that didn’t even scuff.
“You did so well, son! I’mso proudof you!” she gushed, hands clasped like she was about to burst into tears she didn’t actually feel. “Even your response to that last question—flawless!”
I raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “You didn’t have a card for that one, did you?”
Her smile tightened just a touch. “Well, I was going to hold one up—something simple like‘timing is everything’or‘legacy needs love’—but I trusted you.”
“You mean youpanicked,” I said, loosening my tie. “Just admit it.”
She rolled her eyes but stayed smiling.
“Okay, I didn’t have one for that! So yes, I did panic… a little! I seriously didn’t think she was going to dive into your personal life! Then again, one can never be sure what interests these interviewers these days. I’ll be prepared next time.” She patted my shoulder. “But card or not, you handled itperfectly! That pause you gave? Sexy! You gave themjustenough mystery… and peoplelovemystery; it makes youmarketable.The people will eat it up!”
“Yeah,” I muttered, grabbing my phone off the chair. “That’s what I’ve always dreamed of being…marketable.”
“Besides, I already have your future wife picked out. You remember Paris, right?”
My annoyance flared.
The girl’s name alone made my head throb. Paris Lattimore—daughter of Winston Lattimore, one of the richest commercial brokers in the city.
A real estate legacy.
That’s all my mama saw: legacy on top of legacy, like a tax-free merger wrapped in lace.
Paris was tall, pretty in a generic way, and about as interesting as unbuttered toast. Her idea of fun was discussingtax codesand asking waiters if their foie gras was grass-fed. We had one date…one. And halfway through her saying, “I just find people who curse on social media so… low class,” I knew she was never gonna make it. Giselle was still holding on to that dream like Paris was dipped in royalty and angel glitter.
I shrugged into my jacket and gave her a look. “Giselle, I’ve told you over and over again—stop trying to match me with women who think seasoning is a personality.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Paris got the sex appeal of a tax return. Just because her daddy got buildings doesn’t mean I want to build withher.”
Giselle scoffed, clutching her bag like I had personally offended her sense of legacy.
“She comes from good stock, Imanio!”
“So does beef jerky,” I countered, coolly.
“Winston’s connections could?—”
“Iamthe connection,” I interjected. “I don’t need her money, daddy, her loveorpussy. And I sure as hell don’t need to play Monopoly with my love life just to keep up appearances.”
Giselle stared at me, lips pressed thin.
I straightened my collar, then looked her dead in the face with a calmness that made it hit harder.
“The next time you want to play Cupid for me, pick somebody who doesn’t make me want to fake a heart attack mid-date. Andif you just want to play matchmaker for fun, go bother somebody who’s desperate… ’Cause thatniggaain’t me.”
I watched her flinch at the wordniggalike it physically burned her ears. And I said it onpurpose.Because no matter how many silk blouses she wore, how many country clubs she fake-laughed through, or how many times she corrected people on the pronunciation of“Kors”—Giselle was still the same woman who cooked “beanie weenies”, then brag like she invented the recipe. She could reinvent herself for the world, but not for me.
Giselle clenched her jaw, eyes sharp like I’d just scuffed my father’s legacy with muddy boots.
“I’ve told you about using that word,” she gritted, her voice tight with disapproval.
