Page 180 of Invisible Bars
When Imanio pulled back, he helped me into the seat like I was something rare then closed the door. I clutched the phone in my hand and stared out the window at Imanio—still standing there, still watching. I didn’t even make it out of the neighborhood before I texted him.
Me: I miss you already.
I pushed through the employee entrance of The Lexington Aquatic Pavilion, the faint scent of chlorine and lemon disinfectant hitting my nose like a familiar welcome. I didn’t even make it past the supply closet before voices started calling out.
“There she goes!”
“Look who decided to swim back into work.”
“Girl, we were about to blow your phone up.”
I gave a small smile. “I just needed a break. That’s all. Just… air, you know?”
They didn’t press. That’s why I loved it there. My coworkers were goofy, overworked, and some full of side-eye—but they didn’t treat me like a burden or a spectacle. They didn’t flinch, tease, or pity me when my tics came out; they just let me be.
I spent the morning restocking towels, swim caps, and goggles, and organizing the back shelves. Then I helped break down a shipment of pool noodles. It felt good to sweat for normal reasons.
The day dragged by slower than usual, and since I was done with my work for the day, I got off an hour earlier. Since I had time to spare, my detail driver wasn’t scheduled to come pick me up until the time I was originally supposed to get off, and I couldn’t call Imanio to inform him that I had gotten off early due to my phone needing to be charged, I just decided to do something useful in the meantime. I debated going back inside of my job to wait, but my throat was dry, and my thoughts were spiraling. I was sure a cup of hot tea would fix at least one of those things.
When I stepped outside, my eyes naturally drifted across the street to the little café nestled beside the bookstore—the same one I’d been dying to try for years but never had the courage to enter.
Truth be told, for the past three years, I hadn’t stepped foot in many places beyond the walls of work or the cold sterility of my necessary doctor appointments—neurologist and gynecologist, nothing extra. Everything else—my clothes, toiletries, skincare, even tampons—came from online orders.When it came to food, I rotated between DoorDash, Walmart pickups, home-cooked meals, or whatever Blu brought home.
After everything I’d heard about him—things too dark to fully process—it was still hard to accept that Blu had been involved in such horrific things. But no matter what, I could never deny one thing: he always had my back. Always.
The reason I dared to take that leap that day—to walk across that street and push open the door of a place that once terrified me—was because, since I’d been with Imanio, something in me had started to shift. The group of supportive people surrounding him—but most of all, Imanio—had gradually helped me emerge from my shell… bit by bit… moment by moment. Their encouragement and kindness made me believe that maybe,just maybe, I didn’t have to keep hiding from the world any longer. The thought stirred both excitement and anxiety within me.
"Just in and out," I murmured under my breath, steeling myself as I took a deep breath and began to cross the street, determined to face whatever lay beyond my comfort zone.
The place was dimly lit and smelled like lavender and oat milk. I stepped up to the counter, clutching the strap of my tote like it held my last shred of dignity.
A white guy, maybe in his mid-twenties, stood behind the register. He eyed me like he’d seen me on the news but couldn’t figure out if it was for something good or messy.
“Hello, what can I get for you today?” he greeted, chipper and polite.
“Hi,” I replied, barely above a whisper.
My eyes drifted to the menu board behind him, scanning the neat rows of options. They had everything—peppermint,chamomile, hibiscus. Normally, I would’ve gone straight for peppermint, my safe choice, but that day I was trying to push myself past the usual. One name stood out, bold against the list, almost daring me to pick it.
“I w-want to try the… lemon balm tea.”
“Sure thing. What size?”
“Medium, please?”
“You got it,” he said with a nod, tapping at the register, then gave me the total.
I pulled out the card Imanio had given me and handed it over without thinking.
The guy took it, squinted, then blinked like he was trying to clear a fog from his memory.
He leaned over the counter, eyebrows raised. “Wait… this saysImanio Kors. As intheImanio Kors?”
“Yes,” I confirmed, swallowing. “He’s… he’s my husband.”
He sniggered, then caught himself, like it slipped out before his brain approved it.
For a second, I forgot how popular Imanio really was—how his name carried weight, how his face was everywhere and how nobody knew we weren’t married—at least not the people outside our bubble.
