Page 22 of Heated
So I do.
And by the time I wrap up the story, Miriam is uncharacteristically silent.
“Why are you offended that he agreed to the NDA?” she quietly asks, voicing the question that has been bouncing around my head like a paintball, splattering me with my guilt, my doubts, my misplaced desires.
“I don’t know.” I stare straight ahead at the road, unable to meet her gaze even for a few seconds. I’m her big sister. The responsible sister. The one who avoided any hint of trouble or conflict. And yet here I am. “It’s hypocritical of me, right? I’m insulted and maybe even a little hurt that he would believe I’d tell anyone. I think ... I think I wanted him to trust me.”
“But he doesn’t know you. Not really. And what he does believe he knows is a lie. A lie you didn’t originate but perpetuated.”
Frustration, hot and blinding, flashes inside me, but just as fast, it fades.
“I know,” I whisper. “I guess I wanted him toseeme. Past who he thinks I am—who I allowed him to think I am. I wanted him to, to ...” I huff out a short dry laugh. “God, I don’t know.”
“You wanted to be different for him.”
The truth of that, no matter how unnerving, rattles in my mind and my bones and then settles in for a restless nap.
“You did right to offer the NDA,” Miriam says, reaching over and squeezing my hand. “It redraws a line that you crossed. Because he might not be a client, but you becoming involved with him in any way is definitely a conflict of interest. You do know you can’t see him again, Zora?”
“Yes, I do. Another reason I’m crazy to be annoyed that he accepted the NDA. Besides ...”
The words stick in my throat, as if caught in a pit of quicksand. But it doesn’t matter that I can’t utter them. They swirl in my head and have been since the moment I first laid eyes on his picture.
“Besides what?” Miriam growls. Another poke with that finger that should be registered as a deadly weapon. This time in the thigh. “You better not be thinking what I think you’re thinking. Because if you’re thinking that, I’ll be forced to think of new and creative ways to beat your ass without leaving bruises. And weallknow what happens when I start thinking.”
I snort. “Yeah, please. Don’t do that. One global infrastructure collapse a decade is enough.”
“Good. Then you can cease and desist any comparisons to other women where all of your gorgeous qualities end up in the deficit column.”
It doesn’t always suck having a sister who knows you well. This isn’t one of those times ... but it is.Get out of my headtramples my tongue, but so doesThank you. I needed that.
Too bad I don’t believe her. And her words, though kind and unconditionally loving and supportive, don’t silence the ones in my head. In my soul.
Even if Cyrus and I had met under different circumstances other than a third-party dumping on his doorstep, I still wouldn’t be the type of woman he’d glimpse across a crowded gala ballroom, causing him to say to himself, “Now there’s a woman I must have” and then pursue me.
Valerie Summers is that woman.
Slender. Flawless. Rich. Connected.
White.
I’m none of those things.
I boast curves that I long ago accepted and now embrace. I’m far from perfect. But fuck it. That’s why they invented makeup, Spanx, and edibles. Even labeling myselfmiddle classis incredibly optimistic, but I’m comfortable. The only connections I have are the ones I pay my cable company for.
And well, I’m definitely not white.
While I’ve had to fight the good fight regarding my body and hair with not only employers, exes, and society but also myself aboutconforming to a socially acceptable ideal of beauty, I’ve never entertained those insecurities about being a Black woman.
So Cyrus Hart might prefer thin, wealthy, blonde, and a B cup. But if that preference includes a particular race, too, I’d rather not know he would’ve rejected me out of hand simply because of the amount of melanin in my skin.
Ignorance is not only bliss, but in my case, it’s a crutch. It allows me to walk away believing that beauty doesn’t conceal a rotten center.
“What’re you going to do?” Miriam asks, breaking into my thoughts. “Are you going to let the client know about Cyrus? That you’ve had contact with him outside of the contracted meeting?”
I’m already shaking my head before she finishes the last question. “No. There’s no need. The client has moved on to another relationship, and just from comments Cyrus has made, I doubt they’re in contact any longer. And since today will be the last time Cyrus and I will need to communicate, I don’t see why I should disturb her with this.”
“You just justified the hell out of why you shouldn’t come clean with her.”
