Page 34 of Cuffed By Your Love
But he wasn’t finished. He slid the banana across the counter as if it were a microphone and leaned in. “Be real with me, though. You really feeling her, huh? Like… for real, for real?”
I paused and thought about the way Jonay tilted her head when she was amused, as well as how her voice held grief and grit in equal measure.
“Yeah,” I said. “But it’s not just feeling her. It’s feeling guilty for wanting her.”
Dre’s smirk faded slightly. “Ah, there it is. That ghost of Tempest still riding shotgun in your heart.”
I nodded. “Every time I look at Jonay, there’s a voice in the back of my head saying, ‘Damn, how are you moving on when you couldn’t even protect the last woman who loved you?’”
“Yo, cuz,” Dre said, his tone serious now. “You’re not moving on like you forgot Tempest. You’re moving forward like you’re still alive. There is no betrayal in wanting peace again. Besides, what happened to Temp wasn’t on you, fam. You can’t controlthe choices of unpredictable muthafuckas. If that’s the case, your job wouldn’t exist, real shit.”
I exhaled and rubbed the back of my neck. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It’s not.” He shrugged. “But neither is drinking regret every day like it’s your favorite liquor. If this deputy chick, Jonay, makes you laugh again? Makes you feel again? That ain’t weak, my boy. That’s resurrection.”
I gave him a tight nod, then looked down at my phone again, thumb hovering.
“Did she text you?”
“Nah, not yet,” I replied.
“Then why are you over there smiling like a retired thug with a second chance?”
I laughed and tossed the towel at him again, and he ducked, laughing. “Get the fuck out my house, nigga.”
Where others inked confessions onto paper, I let the rising warmth whisper mine into the air. The steam in my bathroom moved like spirits—swirling, rising, and clinging to the mirror as if it didn’t want to let go. Candlelight flickered against the tiles while Sade played softly on my Bluetooth speaker. Her voice floated through the room like jasmine smoke, soft, slow, and meant to be inhaled. I wasn’t trying to be poetic, but grief certainly had a rhythm. Tonight, it felt slow, and it was hitting hard.
Before I even stepped into the tub, I moved through my hygiene routine like a ritual.
I leaned back in the tub, the water hot enough to wash away my regrets. One arm rested over the edge, a half-empty glass ofañejo tequila perched on a folded towel like a sacred object. My tattoos emerged from the water, inked maps of pain, lessons, and promises I hadn’t fully confronted. The one on my rib read, “Love is war. I’m a soldier.” I got it a week after Tempest’s funeral. I could barely endure the needle without crying, and it damn sure wasn’t the pain from the needle that brought the tears.
I gazed up at the ceiling, hoping it might provide some answers.
“I’m still here, Temp,” I muttered, letting the condensation drip down my temple, like tears I hadn’t given permission to fall. “I’m still trying to figure out how to love again without feeling like I’m betraying you.”
At that moment, I received a notification on my phone, which was resting on the sink.
Jonay.
I gently wiped my hand on the towel and picked it up. There was no small talk, just:
Deputy Gorgeous:
You ever wonder if peace just forgot about you on purpose?
I sat up slightly, and my lip twitched.
Me:
Every damn day. But maybe it just shows up in different clothes sometimes.
Deputy Gorgeous:
Like what, Elias? A hoodie and trauma?
Me:
Nah, like brunch and bad timing, or a laugh that catches you off guard.
