Chapter

Thirty-Two

I stared out the window of my office, though, trust me, this wasn’t the same as looking at the view when I was home. Here, there wasn’t much to see except for the parking lot that served the office buildings in the business park. But I wasn’t looking out for the view. I was just staring out the window. Staring because I couldn’t concentrate.

This morning, I’d arrived at the Woman’s Place, my spa business in Redondo Beach, even earlier than my normal seven o’clock time. Today, I walked in at just before six and did my regular workout: an hour jog around the track and thirty minutes in the weight room. I’d skipped the sauna; I was afraid that I might fall asleep in there.

But here I was, almost four hours from when I’d first arrived, and I hadn’t accomplished a thing. All because my dream had followed me from the night right into this day.

Having vivid dreams and remembering every moment wasn’t something that was new for me. At night, I dreamed, and in the morning, I remembered. That’s just how it’d always been with me.

In the recent past, though, say the last six years, my dreams could best be defined as nightmares. A couple of times a week, I relived the horror of the final moments of my marriage. When I’d returned from a business trip early, to make up for the argument I’d had with my husband before I’d left, I was sure Anthony would be thrilled to see me, but as it turned out, he was not.

The nightmares I had were always the same, and always so true to what happened. In my dreams, I walked into the room, over to my bed, and then screamed. Then Anthony and Sabrina appeared. And they screamed. Anthony, my husband. Sabrina, my sister. The three of us screaming, though I was the only one screaming while fully clothed.

Then Anthony stopped screaming, and started shouting, “I’m sorry, it was just this one time.”

Every time, I woke up at that moment. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because what came after didn’t matter. Even though Anthony had uttered that exact apology to me, it didn’t matter what he said. My marriage was over right at that moment in that bedroom.

I lived those minutes over and over in my head, and I sometimes wondered if maybe that was why I couldn’t let go of that betrayal in my heart. But what could I do about it? You couldn’t stop your dreams, could you?

Though it seemed like I didn’t have to worry about those nightmares anymore. Because since Christmas, my old nightmares had been kicked aside for this new dream with that divine-fine D’Angelo.

I couldn’t stop dreaming about him and I wasn’t quite sure why. It wasn’t like there was anything going on between us. I meant what I said when I told him no on Christmas, though that hadn’t stopped him from trying that night . . .

I’d paused at the entrance to the living room and watched D’Angelo as he studied the pictures on the mantel. The photos, mostly of me and Sabrina growing up, were in chronological order, and when D’Angelo picked up the frame with my high school graduation picture, I cleared my throat and stepped all the way into the living room.

He turned around with my photo still in his hand. “Your dad’s okay?”

I nodded. “Yeah, he’s sleeping. I woke him up for a moment, told him that we had cleaned up everything. But it was a long day, filled with lots of excitement for him, so I told him to just rest and I’d see him tomorrow.”

“Cool. So where’re you headed?” D’Angelo asked me.

“Home.”

He paused as if he was waiting for me to say more. But I said nothing as I put on my bomber jacket and slipped my purse strap onto my shoulder.

He said, “Well, let me give you a ride.”

“No thanks, I have my car.”

He shrugged as if that made no difference. “I’ll have your car towed to your house.”

I laughed. “Now, that’s funny. Why would I do that?”

“Because . . .” he began, stepping so close to me that we were almost one. But I wasn’t about to let him intimidate me. So, I stood my ground and looked straight up into his eyes as he looked down into mine. He continued, “Because you don’t want this night to end. You don’t want to let me out of your sight, and you want to spend just a little more time with me.”

Okay, this man right here . . . he was trying to take my breath away. But I guess he didn’t realize that I was not the one. I was gonna keep my breath and everything else. I did take two steps back, though, before I said, “You can just walk me to my car . . .”

And that’s what D’Angelo did. Just walked me the twenty feet from my dad’s front door to my car. He opened the door for me, watched as I slipped inside, made sure the doors were locked, and then he walked away.

But while I was driving home my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number when I answered, but I knew the voice.

“Just wanted to see if you changed you mind about going out with me,” he’d said.

I laughed. “In ten minutes? I left you ten minutes ago and you think I’ve changed my mind?”

“It only takes a second to change your mind. Especially when you’re switching to what’s right.”

I was still laughing, but then I frowned. “Hey, how did you get my number?”

He laughed. “You must’ve forgotten who you’re talking to. I’m D’Angelo Stewart. Act like you know!” The next thing I heard was a click; the call had been ended.

I’d taken a deep, deep breath and released it, just like I was doing now.

I was so glad when my intercom buzzed, taking me away and bringing me back at the same time. I pressed the button on my phone, and my assistant announced, “There’s someone here to see you.”

I frowned and waited for Sarah to complete her sentence. She was beyond competent; it wasn’t like her to just give me part of the information. But when she said nothing more, I asked, “Who is it?”

“Well . . .” She lowered her voice. “He asked me not to say . . .”

I was about to go off. Sarah worked for me, not for some stranger who showed up at my door. And, I didn’t play games like this, especially not at my place of business. But then it hit me. It was D’Angelo. And that made me smile.

“Okay, go ahead and let him come in.” I did my best to wipe away my smile. I didn’t want D’Angelo walking in here and seeing me grinning like a fool.

But then the door opened and I didn’t have to worry about smiling at all. Because it wasn’t D’Angelo. It was his brother.

“What’re you doing here?” I asked my ex-husband.

Anthony said, “Wow, that’s some greeting.”

If he expected me to go back and amend what I’d said, he would be standing for a long time. I raised my eyebrows, like I just wanted him to answer the question.

He got the message. “I was just in the neighborhood,” he said. “And I wanted to talk to you about a couple of things.” He pointed to the chair. “Mind if I sit down?”

I didn’t respond at first. Not that I was being totally rude, but I wanted to study Anthony for just a little while longer and it was easier to do that if he were standing.

Both of the Stewart boys were fine, there was no doubt about that. They just wore their sexiness in different ways. While D’Angelo had swag, Anthony was more refined. I always said Anthony was like a tall glass of chocolate decadence with his mocha-colored skin and his light brown eyes. The lines on his face were strong and defined—high cheeks and his square jaw. And then there were his muscles, though Anthony couldn’t rival his brother. D’Angelo was a football player, straight ripped like Terrell Owens. Anthony was more of a basketball player—what LeBron James might look like in twenty years. Still in shape, but you know what I’m sayin’.

“Have a seat,” I finally said.

He nodded and glanced around my office. “I didn’t get a chance to walk around outside, but this place looks great,” he said. “I’m really proud of what you’ve done with your business.”

“Our business,” I said. “I wouldn’t have ever gotten started without you.”

That made Anthony smile. I guess because he didn’t expect me to say something so kind. But I wasn’t being polite; I was telling the truth and giving due credit.

“So . . .” he said.

“So,” I said. That was all he was going to get out of me. I hadn’t come by his office.

“Well, first, I wanted to thank you for the bassinet that you sent for the baby. That was really generous.”

I nodded, thinking that their baby was two weeks old now. “How are Sabrina and my”—I paused and corrected myself—“the baby?”

A shadow passed over Anthony’s eyes as if he was disappointed that I hadn’t said “my niece.” But still he nodded, and he grinned and he beamed just like a new father. “They’re good. Sabrina’s a little run-down, but I know that’s just her being a new mom.” He shook his head. “But Ciara . . . she’s just gorgeous.”

“Ciara.” I paused and placed my hand over my heart that had just skipped a beat. I didn’t know why. It wasn’t the first time that I’d heard their baby’s name. My father had told me the day she was born. But for some reason, it got to me today. I said, “Ciara. That’s a beautiful name.”

“Thanks. We’re so happy that she’s here. I hope you’ll come by to see her.”

His words were exactly the same as my sister’s. Not that I’d spoken to Sabrina, but every day since Ciara was born, Sabrina called, left a message, and asked me to come by to see the baby. The truth was that’s why I’d sent the gift; I thought that would be enough to stop the calls. But it wasn’t.

He added, “And Sabrina would love to see you, too.”

I didn’t know what he expected me to say, so I just nodded. Anthony let a few more seconds pass, and then he nodded, too, as if he knew that subject was closed.

He said, “Sabrina and I know you’ve been doing all the heavy lifting with Dad.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re the one who’s been with him during his chemo treatments.”

“I’m cool with that. He’s my dad and Sabrina was pregnant. And now, with the baby . . .” I waved my hand. “I’m fine and Dad’s good, too.”

“Well, thanks for saying that. But we want to start helping now, too. So, if you take him for the treatments, I’ll be there when he gets home. This way, you can get back to the office, or do whatever you have to do.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know, but we really want to be more involved. We want to help out, that’s all.”

I nodded because there was really no way to tell them no. How could I keep them away from my father? Just because I didn’t want to be around Anthony, Sabrina, and their baby didn’t mean that I would ever deprive my dad. “Okay. His next treatment is a week from today, so if you want to come over after that, I usually get him home around two.”

“I’ll be there,” Anthony said. “When we saw him the other day, he told us that the chemo was taking a lot out of him.”

“Yeah, but he’s good, you know. He’s filled with faith, and hope, and I love that.”

“I’ve always loved your father,” my ex said. “I’ve learned a lot from him.”

Okay, this was starting to sound like friendly chitchat, and we weren’t friends and I didn’t do chitchat.

“Well,” I said. That was my hint that this little meeting was over.

“Well,” he said. But he sat like he had more to say.

I didn’t have time for this; didn’t have time to sit and wait for him to come up with more words that meant nothing to me. “Is there anything else you want to talk to me about?”

“Yeah, there is.”

A beat. Another beat. And I waited. I was just about to tell him to get out when he finally started talking.

He said, “My brother, D’Angelo, have you talked to him?”

“Yeah, why?” I asked, wondering if there was something wrong. Had something happened to D’Angelo? Maybe that’s why I’d been dreaming about him, maybe it was some kind of prophecy. A warning. Now that I thought about it, I hadn’t spoken to him in about a week.

Anthony pressed his lips together and frowned. His glance moved from me to the floor, then back to me. Then, finally, he said, “Kendall, I really don’t think you should be involved with my brother.”

Now my eyes narrowed. “By ‘involved,’ you mean?”

“I mean anything. I don’t think you should go out with him, I don’t think you should talk to him. Nothing.”

Ain’t this a blip! For a moment I saw myself jumping up, leaping over my desk, and wrapping my hands around Anthony’s throat. But that would’ve been some mess if my assistant came into my office and saw me beating down my ex-husband.

So, I just pressed my back into the chair to stop myself from doing that. “I already told you,” I began, referring to the moment when he’d said this same crap to me on Christmas. “I told you that you didn’t have any right to tell me what to do. So which part of you-gave-that-up-when-you-slept-with-my-sister don’t you understand?”

He blew out a long breath. “This is different.”

I chuckled at his audacity.

“D’Angelo is not a good guy.”

“And you are?”

“I wish you would just listen to me.”

“And I wish you would just get the . . .” Now I was the one who released a long breath. “Get out of here, Anthony.”

“I’m only thinking of you.”

“Why start now?” And then I stood up. Because it looked like I was going to have to escort my ex out.

As I rose from my chair, Anthony did, too. As if he wondered if he was going to have to brace himself for a fight. But I just walked past him. Walked right to the closed door and opened it.

He took the hint and stepped toward me. When he paused at the door, I looked him dead in his eyes, daring him to say another word.

But he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut, and when he walked through the door, I closed it behind him.

Then I stomped to my desk. And I stomped back to the door. I was a hot-tamale kind of mad! Really? That man thought he could say anything to me? I hadn’t even talked to him or my sister in the last six years. They were only in my life because of Dad’s diagnosis. I only saw them for the first time in six years because Dad wanted us all there for this Christmas. Without that, I would’ve gone to my grave never speaking another word to either one of them bammas.

“Ugh!” I screeched.

And what was so ridiculous about this whole thing was that D’Angelo had been trying to get me to go out with him. Ever since Christmas, he’d asked me out at least a dozen times, and though I talked to him a lot by phone, I always nixed the idea. All this time I’d said no, but now I grabbed my office phone and pressed the button where I’d had his number stored.

“What’s up, pretty lady,” D’Angelo said the moment he answered. “You good?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said as I blazed a trail from my desk to the door and then back.

“So, what do you need today?” he asked. “A new house in Malibu? Or do you need me to help you find someone else? What do you need, ’cause whatever it is, I got you, pretty lady.”

I was still fighting mad, but just hearing this sweet man calmed me down a little bit. “Is it really like that?” I asked him. “Do you think I only call you when I need something?”

“I don’t think it, I know it. That’s just how it is. When you have a need, you call. But I don’t mind. I know my purpose and I play my role. I can satisfy all of your needs, and at least I get to talk to you occasionally.”

“But we talk all the time.”

“Because, I call you.” He paused. “You never noticed that? Really?”

“So you’re saying I only call when I want something?”

“Yup!” I could imagine him nodding.

“Well, to keep my streak going, I’m calling because I want something.”

“Shoot!”

“Will you have dinner with me?”

The pause that followed was so long that I wanted to say something like Never mind. That was just an early April Fools’ joke. Instantly, I was embarrassed, but still I said, “Hello?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was just picking my jaw up from the floor.”

I laughed.

“But that’s what’s up. I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he said.

“No, I said dinner, D. Not lunch.” Even though when I glanced at the clock it was just barely ten thirty. It was even too early for lunch.

“I know. Dinner. But I’m gonna come over there and we’re gonna spend the day together because I’m not gonna let you change your mind.”

“No, I can’t. Really . . .” But then I realized that D’Angelo was gone. He was on his way.

I sighed, then I smiled. I hadn’t been able to get any work done anyway. I might as well hook up and hang out with D’Angelo.

Sitting back in my chair, I nodded. Anthony had done what his brother hadn’t been able to do . . . he convinced me to go out on a date with D’Angelo. Even if it was just this once.

 • • •

Like he said he was going to do, D’Angelo swooped into my office, and even though I tried to front like I really couldn’t leave, he either didn’t buy my story or didn’t care.

“You have a million-dollar empire going here,” he said. “You’re thinking of franchising. If someone who has built all of this can’t take a day off from work . . .”

His words were meant to flatter me, but what I wanted to know was how did he know all of that? A good part of it was public record—so that meant that he’d Googled me. But the part about the franchising . . . I shook my head. I guess I had to get used to hanging out with a friend who used to be a major player in the drug trade in South Central L.A. and who now ran secret missions for some militia group.

“So, are you ready?” he asked me.

He stood in front of my office door, looking like a bouncer, with his legs spread into a wide stance and his arms crossed in front of his muscular chest that couldn’t even be hidden beneath his leather jacket. And, of course, he wore his dark glasses so that I could hardly see his eyes, but I knew that he was watching me.

I looked down at the jogging suit that I was wearing. “I’m not dressed to go out,” I said, pointing to what was very often my office uniform. I owned a day spa and a gym; this was all I needed if I wasn’t having a meeting.

“That suit cost you what? Two, three hundred? You look fine enough.” He paused. “And, I mean fine in all ways.” Then he held out his large hand with his long fingers and I wondered for a moment what was I doing? Then I remembered, this was because Anthony had come stomping into my world telling me what to do.

Plus, I really did want to thank D’Angelo for all that he’d done.

So, I took his hand, and he led me from my office. I didn’t even stop to respond to my gawking assistant, who’d never seen me talk to a guy, let alone leave my office in the middle of the morning holding someone’s hand. I chuckled as I imagined Sarah running to the front door and pressing her face against the glass as she watched me climb into D’Angelo’s Lamborghini, which he’d parked illegally right in front, blocking the entrance. Her mouth had to be wide open by now.

As we sped off to a destination unknown, at least to me, I settled into the soft leather that seemed to mold itself to my butt. And then D’Angelo pressed one of the buttons on the dashboard that looked like some kind of aircraft flight-control system and said, “Remember this.”

He cranked up the speakers; first, I heard the scratching and then the voice of Dr. Dre:

You are now about to witness the strength of street knowledge.

And then Ice Cube:

Straight Outta Compton . . .

“Oh, my goodness,” I said. “This was our anthem at school!”

D’Angelo nodded his head at me and to the beat. “Yup, when N.W.A. hit the streets . . .” He spoke so that I could hear his words over the bass.

And I couldn’t help it. As much as I’d learned to really dislike these songs with all of this cursing and calling women out of their names, my head bobbed to the old-school rap song that made all kinds of memories rush back to me.

I was a junior in high school, doing really well, thinking about college and how I was gonna get outta Compton. But every day with my friends, we jammed to this song that became our anthem, and for the next couple of years I was filled with pride for the city where I’d grown up. It hadn’t always been that way for me, after I’d heard a television news anchorman call Compton “L.A.’s armpit.”

“You know I don’t like music like this anymore,” I said, even though my head was still bobbing and my shoulders were still bouncing.

He laughed. “I hear ya! We can do better than this.”

He punched another button and next came, “‘Oooo, baby, baby. Baby, baby . . . get up on this!’”

Now, as we sped down the 405 Freeway, we jammed to Salt-n-Pepa. It was like D’Angelo had gone all the way to my high school life, bringing back the best of those days. By the time he slowed down the car, he and I had turned Michael Jackson’s solo into a collaboration. Now a trio sang and D’Angelo and I bellowed out, “‘I’m starting with the man in the mirror . . .’”

I hadn’t even noticed that we’d stopped in front of Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles in Long Beach.

“It’s a little late for breakfast, don’t you think?” I asked D’Angelo.

“Stop playin’. It’s never too early or late for Roscoe’s.”

Then he just got out of his car. Now, mind you, we weren’t in a parking space. We were double-parked in the middle of the street.

“You’re just gonna leave your car here?” I asked him as he held my hand and helped me to rise up from the low ride.

He shrugged. “Yeah, someone’ll come and get it.”

“But they don’t have valet here.”

“They do for me,” he said, and opened the restaurant’s door.

When we stepped inside, one of the waiters rushed over, and without a word, D’Angelo tossed him his keys. Then we were led to the room in the back that I’d understood was used only for special occasions. But clearly, there was something special about D’Angelo.

When the waitress placed our Obama Specials—three chicken wings and a waffle—in front of us, D’Angelo took hold of my hand. “Mind if I bless the food?”

“Go ahead,” I said, trying not to show my surprise. As he said grace, I tried to figure out who was this man?

“All of these blessings, we ask in Your Son Jesus’ name, amen.”

“Amen,” I said, and looked up. Clearly, there was so much more to D’Angelo Stewart than just what was obvious, and I told him that.

“Talking to God was the last thing that I expected from someone who I imagined spent more time shooting a pistol than reading a Bible.”

He laughed as though I was kidding . . . I wasn’t.

He said, “I’ve taken many roads in life, and they’ve all led to God for me.”

“Even when you had a gun in your hand?” I asked. Not that I’d ever heard of any specific shootings that involved D’Angelo.

He said, “Especially when I have a gun in my hand.”

I wanted him to expound on that a bit. Tell me what he was into. But the next thing that came out of his mouth was a question for me. “So, do you miss living in Compton?”

That was a hard left turn to get out of telling me more, but I was gonna play . . . for the moment. “Not at all.”

“Me neither,” he said, and then we chatted about our old neighborhood, our high school, and how so much had changed.

“If you ever wanna go back there to live, then you better know what I know,” D’Angelo said. “You better learn some Spanish.”

Less than an hour later, we were back in the sports car (that was waiting for us right outside the restaurant exactly where D’Angelo had left it), and while we sped toward downtown L.A., we jammed now to everything from Public Enemy to Teena Marie. And this time, when D’Angelo slowed the car down, he was the one singing with Keith Sweat, “ ‘You and I together,’ ” D’Angelo began. He took my hand and serenaded me, “ ‘Dream that seemed for real, if it’s a dream, please don’t wake me up . . .’ ”

I cleared my throat and looked away from him. “Where are we now?” I asked. Not that I didn’t know . . . we were at LA Live; I just didn’t know where we were going in this new entertainment complex that had totally revived what used to be the slums of L.A.

“Have you ever been to the Grammy Museum?”

“No!” I said, kinda excited about this.

Just like before, D’Angelo left his car in the middle of the street, and once we stepped inside, he gave his keys to someone who greeted him by name. Then D’Angelo took me by the hand and explained that the museum had four floors, so we wouldn’t explore them all today.

As we waited for the elevator, he leaned into me and whispered, “But I’ll bring you back here anytime you want, pretty lady.” He was so close, I felt his breath.

I stepped back and inhaled. He stepped back and chuckled. And then we rode up to the Motown room, where we studied all kinds of sixties and seventies photos, put on headsets and listened to original recordings, and then sat and watched a film on the life of Berry Gordy and the history of Motown.

I couldn’t imagine where D’Angelo was going to take me from there, but after another car ride, filled with more music from my teen years, we ended up at Universal CityWalk, strolling and browsing through the little shops. When D’Angelo said, “Let’s go in there,” and pointed to Bubba Gump’s, I shook my head.

“We just ate.”

“That was hours ago.”

“But if I keep up with you like this, I will have reached my caloric limit for the whole week.”

He looked me up and down as we stepped into the restaurant. “You’re fine and everything, but I want my woman to be more than a bone.”

“I’m not—”

He put his fingers over my lips before I could protest fully. “I already know what you’re gonna say. You’re gonna tell me that I’m not moving fast enough and you’re ready to jump into bed right now. But I think we should take this slow, okay?”

I looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. Then I just busted out laughing, because what else could I do?

D’Angelo ordered the duck luck coconut shrimp, and when I ordered the pear and berry salad, he shook his head. “I thought I done told you how I like my women.”

“Well then, you need to tell that to your women.”

He laughed, then said, “What do you think about our day so far?”

“So far? How can there possibly be any more?”

“I can go as long as you can, pretty lady.”

I wasn’t sure that D’Angelo was still talking about our day, but decided to stay on subject. “It’s been cool; I’ve had a great time. You like music as much as I do.”

“Yup.”

“You eat more than I do, though.”

He chuckled. “I’m a growing boy.”

I had so many comebacks to that because this man was so far from being a boy it wasn’t even funny. “Well, I’ve had a good time,” I said. “Thank you for taking me away for a couple of hours.”

“You say that like this is gonna be over soon.”

I looked at my watch. “Well, it’s almost four and I’ve been away for the whole day.”

“I thought you invited me out to dinner?”

I laughed. “I did. I guess we’re just having dinner a little early.”

“Okay, I’ll let you get away with that this time ’cause I know you’re a workaholic and it was hard to do what you did today.”

“Yes, it was.”

“So, tell me about your house, do you like it?”

“D, I love it. Thank you so, so much for finding that for me.”

He shrugged. “No big deal. Someone called me, I thought of you, and I figured it would give me some points.” He paused. “Did it work?”

As they sat our plates in front of us, I nodded. “You have so many friendship points right now, it’s not even funny.”

He laughed. “Love how you snuck that right in there. Friendship.”

“Yup, ’cause there’s nothing better than that.”

“I can think of something that’s a little bit better.”

Then, like he’d done at Roscoe’s, he lowered his head and blessed our food, as if not a morsel passed through his lips before he raised it to God. When I looked up, he was smiling at me.

“What?” I asked as I picked up my fork.

“I was just wondering . . . what made you finally decide to go out with me?”

I thought about how Anthony had barged into my office with his demands, but I wasn’t going to tell D’Angelo about that. I said, “I got tired of hearing you asking me to go out.”

D’Angelo didn’t miss a beat. He shook his head. “That can’t be it. I stopped asking you a long time ago.”

I frowned. “No, you didn’t. We talked a few days ago and you asked.”

“That was a long time ago to me,” he said. We laughed, but then he asked again, “What changed your mind?”

I put down my fork. “I decided that you’re a real nice guy. And you’ve done so much for me. And, I thought it would be good for us to hang out and for me to say thank you.”

“That’s all this is?”

I nodded. “What else would it be?”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t have anything to do with my brother, does it?”

My fork dropped out of my hand, and I moved quickly to recover, but I knew my body language had given it all away. How in the world did this guy know these things? I mean, I was beginning to understand that he had CIA-type connections, but how did he know my business?

My answer to him was, “What would make you think that?”

“You changed your mind so suddenly. The only thing I can think of is that you did this to get back at Anthony.”

“Nope,” I said, shaking my head. “I told you; I’ve forgiven them, so no need to get back at anyone.”

“No you haven’t.”

“What?”

“You haven’t forgiven him,” he said as if he’d searched my heart and that was a fact.

“How can you say that?” I said, beginning to feel a bit annoyed. D’Angelo sounded like my father, and my pastor, and my friends. Everyone was always talking about forgiveness as if I was the one who’d done something wrong. The onus of the breakdown of our relationship seemed to fall solely on me.

“Because I can see it. You may say that you’ve forgiven them with your mouth. You say that over and over again. But in your heart, nothing’s changed. Because when your heart changes, your actions change.”

I frowned.

“Let me ask you this . . . have you been to see our niece yet?”

“Ciara?”

“Do we have another one?”

“Okay, let me explain this to you. I was married to Anthony,” I said, though, of course, D’Angelo knew this already. But I was thinking that maybe a history lesson was necessary here to get him off my case. “And he cheated on me with my sister.”

“Oh, don’t get it twisted; I told you before that what they did was dirty to the tenth degree. I’m just sayin’ that you haven’t cleaned that dirt up off of you.”

“And so what if I haven’t?” I said, folding my arms across my chest. He had passed my annoyance threshold. I was sick of him, of my father, of Pastor Ford, of Sheridan and everyone else who preached forgiveness to the victim.

“Don’t get mad at me. I’m just trying to help you out ’cause right now you have this wall up around your heart. And it’s so thick that no love can get in and none can get out. You can’t even find a way to love your own niece.”

I glared at him.

“It’s so thick, you’ll never be able to feel love again. You won’t even know when it’s staring you right in the face.”

I tightened my arms across my chest even more, but he didn’t seem at all fazed by my attitude.

“Like I said, I’m just trying to help you out.”

There was only one way that he could help me now. I pushed my plate aside.

D’Angelo looked over at me. “You’re not hungry.”

“Not anymore.” I gave him a sista-girl glare. You know, the one that was meant to burn right through to his soul.

And even with that, all he did was shrug. “So, you ready to go?”

“I can’t get out of here fast enough.”

He nodded, then raised his hand for the waiter to return. He asked the young man to pack up our dishes and then he pulled out his cell phone. “Yo, what’s up?” he said.

Now, all day long, D’Angelo had impressed me with the way he’d ignored all calls. His phone had rung all day, but he’d hardly ever glanced to see who was calling. But now I guess I didn’t deserve that kind of treatment anymore.

I couldn’t tell if he was talking to a male or a female, and it made me mad that I even cared. His conversation was innocuous enough, sounded more like business than personal. And when the waiter brought back our packed-up meals and the check, D’Angelo signed right away. Now he seemed like the one who was in a hurry to leave and I wondered how a day so great had flipped so quickly.

There was no music on the long ride back to Redondo Beach. And there were few words. When he pulled up in front of the Woman’s Place, he slid out from his side and opened the door for me.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“No, thank you, pretty lady.” He kissed my cheek softly. “I’ll see you around.”

Without another word, he jumped back into his car, and two seconds later I heard the beat and then “Straight Outta Compton” . . .

I watched as his car rolled out of the parking lot and sadness draped over me like a cloak. Every time he’d been in my presence and we parted, he talked about when we would get together. I guess he’d had this one time. And one time was enough for him.

Well, it was enough for me, too. This wasn’t going anywhere; I didn’t even want it to. I’d done the good deed, thanked him for helping me out. Now it was over, and if he wanted, we never had to talk again. That would be cool with me.