Page 42 of The Black Wife Blessing

"Thank you," she whispers, her voice soft, barely audible. I can feel her breath against my ear, the warmth of it sending a shiver down my spine.

"For what?" I ask, my voice gentle.

She smiles, a small, tender smile that tugs at my heart. "For everything. For this. For being you."

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I'm not used to this, to someone thanking me for just being me. It's always been about what I can do, what I can provide. But Monica, she sees me. She sees the real me.

I lean down, capturing her lips in a soft, gentle kiss. It's a thank you, a you're welcome, an I see you too. She kisses me back, her lips soft, her touch tender. It's a kiss full of promises, full of possibilities.

I roll off her, pulling her into my side. She snuggles up against me, her head on my chest, her arm draped across mystomach. I can feel her breath, the rise and fall of her chest, the beat of her heart. It's intimate, personal. It's real.

Right there, it dawns upon me. Monica is everything I've ever wanted in a woman. Everything and more.

29

MONICA

Islump into my car seat, legs aching after a twelve-hour shift at Taste of Heaven. The kitchen was in absolute chaos tonight—two servers called in sick, and we had a surprise visit from a food critic. My feet are screaming for mercy, but somehow, I can't stop smiling.

Because I'm going to see Henry.

"Get it together, Monica," I mutter, flipping down the sun visor to check my reflection in the tiny mirror.

Jesus. My hair's a disaster, frizzy curls escaping in every direction from what used to be a neat bun. I yank the elastic out and shake my hair loose, running my fingers through the tangles. The restaurant's heat and steam have left my face shiny, and there's a smudge of what looks like béarnaise sauce on my cheek.

I grab tissues from the glove compartment and wipe away the day's evidence from my face. Henry's seen me looking worse—covered in flour, sweating over a hot stove—but tonight feels different. Since that last time we were together, something's shifted between us. The fake engagement doesn't feel so fake anymore.

I dig through my purse for my emergency makeup kit, dabbing concealer under my eyes to hide the exhaustion. A touch of mascara, a swipe of tinted lip balm.

"Mrs. Blackwood," I whisper, testing the name on my lips again. It still gives me butterflies, even though it's just for show. Or at least it was supposed to be.

My phone buzzes with a text from Henry: "Coming home?"

I type back quickly: "On my way. Just freshening up."

"You always look perfect to me."

My heart does that stupid little flip it always does when he says things like that. I check my reflection one more time. The woman staring back at me looks happier than she has in years—despite Benjamin, despite the threats, despite everything.

I start the car, suddenly not feeling tired at all. Henry is waiting, and somehow that's all that matters.

I turn out of the restaurant parking lot, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the upbeat song on the radio. The night air flows through my cracked window, cooling my skin after hours in the hot kitchen.

The streets are emptier than usual. A blessing after the day I've had. I press down on the accelerator, eager to get to Henry's place—our place, I guess, for now.

A yellow light appears ahead. I ease my foot onto the brake pedal.

Nothing happens.

My car continues forward at the same speed. I press harder.

Still nothing.

"What the hell?" My heart jumps into my throat as I pump the brake pedal frantically. The pedal goes straight to the floor with no resistance. No slowing. No stopping.

The yellow light turns red.

"No, no, no!" I swerve into the turning lane, narrowly missing an SUV entering the intersection. The driver lays on their horn as I blow past.

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