Page 286 of Invisible Bars
“What about her c-clothes and shoes? We don’t wear the same size.”
“I gave ‘em to Auntie Renee,” he said. “She likes to sew. So I told her to turn whatever she didn’t want into curtains or something.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“She already sent me a picture,” he added with a grin, “rockin’ a fur coat and one of them old church hats. Talkin’ 'bout,‘Look who made it to the top, nephew.’”
I shook my head, overwhelmed with a mix of love, disbelief, and a touch of secondhand vengeance for the way my mother used to insist on style.
“I don’t know whether to k-kiss you or pray for your soul,” I teased, half-serious.
Imanio leaned in closer, wrapping his arm around my waist, that mischievous glint in his eye never fading.
“Do both… but wear the jewelry while you do it.”
I smiled softly. “I already am.”
We kissed lightly, and when I pulled back, I let out a shaky breath, my mind swirling with thoughts.
“Honestly… it’s beautiful, but something about it still feels like her spirit is gonna whisper, ‘That doesn’t go with your outfit’ the second I p-p-put it on. Or maybe… if I wear it too long, I might start speaking in her tone and judging people at brunch.”
An unexpected tic slipped out of me. “Satan’s earrings and a side of slaw!”
He chuckled low.
“I might need to sage it first,” I joked, and we shared a laugh that echoed in the quiet room. “But… thank you, baby. You’re the sweetest,” I whispered, my heart swelling with gratitude.
His eyes softened with sincerity.
“Only for you. And I know you may not feel comfortable wearing any of it today… but one day you will."
Chapter Fifty
IMANIO “GATEZ”
Iwas stretched out on the sectional, magazine in hand—Society & Sovereign, the special edition. The house was quiet… rare those days.
Before Naji came along, it was the kind of silence I sat in like it was music—heavy, still, and oddly comforting. But ever since she’d been there, it was anything but.Naji either had music playing—old school R&B, gospel, or those moody little lo-fi beats she swore helped her “reset her soul”—or she was humming, talking to herself, or ticcing loud enough to break the air.
Sometimes, it was chaotic. Sometimes, it was hilarious. But most times… it felt alive.
The magazine I was holding was an exclusive interview inside, featuring Naji and I. It was the same interview Saroya had suggested—something to humanize me for the public. I was against it at first, but that same night I went home, sat Naji down, and ran it across her. I expected her to shoot it down too, but surprisingly, she didn’t.
Instead, she looked at me and replied, “Okay. But I need to feel safe.”
Three days later, Naji and I were seated across from a journalist in an intimate setting, along with two otherindividuals in the room. It felt raw and authentic—there were no press junkets or carefully staged backdrops, just the honesty of the moment.
Our picture was on the front cover.Naji stood in a soft white blouse tucked into high-waisted khaki pants. Naji’s smile wasn’t just pretty; it wasdefiant—gentle but daring the world to misunderstand her.I was beside her in a crisp white button-down and tailored khaki. And my arm around her waist? That wasn’t just for show; that was meclaimingwhat the world couldn’t grasp, couldn’t box in, couldn’t control.
I hadn’t read the interview yet. I’d been flipping through the magazine slowly, on purpose—deliberately avoiding the pages where our story lived, letting the anticipation marinate while I waited for Naji to arrive home. She was out with her sister and Dessign, having lunch and then ran a few errands. Nothing major, but still… it was big.
One night, we were talking, and Naji told me all she used to do was work and go home. Now she was out shopping and living life like there was no tomorrow.
I didn’t get it at first—why it had to be her, out of all the people, who had to witness what I did to Blu. Why she had to be the one I snatched into my world like some dark-ass version of fate? But I do now.
Page by page, I kept scrolling—avoiding our faces until I stopped on one I wasn’t expecting.
Paris.
