Page 40 of Love You Like That

“Walkin’ out now.”

“They’re lined up outside. Local press is there, plus the company sent a film crew.”

“Cool,” I said, grabbing my keys.

Ty paused, then lowered his voice. “I know today’s big for you, E. So… whatever you’re carrying? Use it. Don’t run from it.”

I hung up without replying, letting his words settle somewhere between my ribs.

T h es t r e e t so fHarlem were alive. The people were out, a mix of black, brown and beautiful. Hoodies andheels. Locs and lashes. Kids on scooters. OGs playing chess at the corner.

I turned onto Malcolm X Boulevard and let the bass from Common bleed out my speakers. The bookstore appeared ahead and, true enough, a line stretched around the corner. My name glowed on a sandwich board sign:EZRA LOWE: INK TO BONE — LIVE READING + SIGNING.

Inside, the energy shifted the moment I walked in. People stood shoulder to shoulder. Black faces glowing in warm light as they held books and phones in the air. There were snaps, cheers and claps. I nodded, soaking it in. I was grateful.

Ty guided me to the mic set up near the back wall. My book cover was enlarged behind me. It was a portrait of myself in grayscale, shirtless, locs framing my face, eyes shut like I was mid-confession. I greeted the crowd and then took the mic. Quickly, the room fell quiet and I closed my eyes and let it flow.

"They say men don’t cry, so I bled instead. Words for wounds, poems for what I should’ve said. She was peace in a storm I kept spinning. Tried to hold her in my palms, but they kept thinning. We built love from silence and flame.

Tore it down, but I still whisper her name. She ain’t mine, but she was never a phase. Just a verse I still write on my off days. So if you ever see her, brown skin, soft voice. Tell her I’m still hers… if she ever had a choice." The snaps came slow at first before the thunderous claps. I bowed my head and exhaled.

At the signing table, there were books of mine stacked sharpies, and bottled water. People filed up one by one and each story was more humbling than the last.

“You saved my life, Saint.”

“Your words sound like my diary.”

“I left him because of your poem about worth.”

I signed every copy and welcomed every picture. Let the gratitude wash over me. And then, I looked up and my breath stopped. Nothing prepared me for the sight of her.

Yaya wore a long pea coat with a brown sweater dress that hugged her curves with grace and her locs pulled up into two large buns. Her gold hoops caught the light but it wasn’t the look that hit me. It was the stillness in her eyes. That deep, slow, knowing stillness. The kind that saw straight through fame and followers. The kind that once knew my heart better than I did.

She stepped forward slowly, holdingInk to Boneagainst her chest. My hand trembled over the Sharpie as she softly said, “Hey.” She had a hand on her belly. Her round belly. It was obvious she was pregnant.

My pulse drummed louder as I signed her book. The world seemed to shrink around her. “Hey,” I managed, voice rough with shock, emotion, everything unsaid. My eyes flicked to her stomach. She caught the glance, eyes softening.

“It’s good to see you,” she said quietly, sensing my internal storm. “You look good, Ezra.”

“So do you,” I replied softly, emotion thick.

“Thanks.” Her voice trembled a bit. “We can… talk after.”

I nodded slowly, unable to form words. “Stick around.”

She stepped aside, giving space for the next person in line, but lingered nearby, her fingers running over book spines, eyes occasionally meeting mine.

The rest of the signing was a blur. Autographs, smiles, pictures. But my attention stayed fixed on Yaya. Her energy filled the bookstore. Finally, the event ended and the lights dimmed as the crowd thinned. She was still there, standing nearthe poetry shelf, book in hand, lost in thought. I approached slowly, heart thundering.

“You stayed.”

She turned toward me, her smile softening again, nervousness flickering in her eyes. “I told you I would.”

We walked out together, stepping into Harlem’s nighttime hum. The air was warm, scented with the city’s soul that was street food, perfume and smoke. We faced each other on the sidewalk, silence settling heavily between us, carrying everything unsaid.

Just as I opened my mouth to speak, to ask about her, the pregnancy, the last six months, Ty interrupted, rushing toward me, phone glued to his ear.

“Ezra, yo! We gotta bounce. The guest appearance at the day party, remember? You’re already running late.”

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