Page 61 of Invisible Bars
“Mm-hmm,” she hummed, leaning back in her chair like a smug auntie at a barbecue. “You’ll believe that lie as long as you keep convincing yourself. But seriously, Imanio…”
Dessign looked at me with something rare in her voice—vulnerability.
“Take care of her. If you’re gonna do this, do it the right way.”
I nodded. “I will.”
Then I glanced at her cane propped in the corner. “You need to do the same.”
She looked confused.
“You’re gonna walk down that aisle, Dess… with or without that cane. But the only way that happens is if you keep showing up. I believe in you, sis… even on the days you don’t.”
“I hate when you get all deep and motivational and shit! Now I got no excuse!”
“Exactly! So get up and walk across the living room like you Beyoncé on tour…witha cane!”
She flipped me off with a grin. “I hate you!”
“Love you too.”
When I heard a car door shut outside, I glanced out the window, only to see that ourmamahad pulled up.
I sighed. “Yo’mama just pulled up, and that’s my cue to leave.”
Dessign groaned loud enough to shake the curtains.
“Ugh! I forgot she was coming over. My nerves can’t take her today,” she grumbled.
“Why is she here?” I questioned.
“She’s taking me to therapy,” Dessign muttered, already irritated. “My car’s in the shop.”
Dessign was the only paralyzed woman I knew who could still whip a car like a NASCAR driver in heels and hoops. She didn’t have no regular chair either… and damn sure not a regular ride.
Her car was one-of-a-kind. Custom built. Push-to-start. Modified gas and brake paddles. Seats made out of Egyptian cotton and Drake’s tears, probably. I paid for her it and her chair. I’m sure if her and Chi were together at the time of the accident, that he would have.
Seconds later, the devil herself strolled into the room like she paid the mortgage.
Giselle Kors.
She wore a sharp Balmain blazer that fit her perfectly, black slacks that probably cost more than my entire outfit, and spiked Louboutins that clacked menacingly on the wooden floor. Diamonds adorned her wrists, and a Hermès scarf was tied around her neck. Her lipstick was a striking red, sharp enough to cut egos in half.
Giselle paused when she saw me and immediately pursed her lips like someone had farted near her vintage perfume.
“Well, good morning, son! I didn’t expectyouto be here,” she said, setting her purse down on the console table.
“Morning,” I replied, uninterested in her presence.
“Wait! It’s Monday? Why aren’t you at work?” She tilted her head, voice sweet but laced with that rich-woman judgment, like she was asking why I wasn’t at school.
I smiled—just enough to be disrespectful.
“I took a personal day.”
What Iwantedto say was:Mind the business that pays you.
“Well, son, you know we can’t afford?—”
