Page 53 of It Must Be Love

Last Christmas Darren had bought me a dress that had a designer label on it. It was not black. It was also still wrapped in the bag it came in and was hanging way back in my little closet. I pulled it out, and I wondered if I'd still fit regardless of Darren's training. The past year had been tough. I hadn't been eating properly or sleeping all that well. The first six months after my father died, I just went to work, went to the Krav Maga Institute, babysat Magnus, and stayed home in sad pajamas indiscriminately using my DoorDash app.

I pulled the dress out and put it on the bed. I unzipped it and grimaced. It was a maxi dress with a slim skirt, a fitted bodice, and two bows on the shoulder to hold it in place. It was red. Like fire engines, the color of the sole of expensive shoes, slutty porn star lips red.

It was almost too summery I thought critically. I couldn't wear that in December in Boston.

I texted Darren about it, and he replied: You keep your apartment warm, and it's not like you're going out wearing it.

I had some burns on my hands, but they had mostly disappeared unless you looked carefully. They had not required skin grafts, and the scarring had been minimal; the same for my arms, which allowed me to leave them bare. It was my lower back and legs that were no-show areas. The truth was that I'd been lucky because I hadn't ruptured a spleen or had internal bleeding. I had had first, second, and even third-degree burns across my body. There had been a scar on the side of my neck, but that had mostly faded. The one on my face was also not too bad. This was one of the few advantages of my African heritage—my melanin could hide the many sins of my skin.

I put the dress on with shaking hands and looked at myself in the mirror. It was like seeing a stranger.

I took a photo and sent it to Darren.

Darren: Reggie says he'll do you. Nancy says she'll do you, too.

I chuckled. Nancy was with Reggie, a former linebacker's very sexy wife. I wrote back: What's Nancy doing there?

Darren: She had COVID last month, so she thinks she's the shit. She gets it again; she's gonna kill Reggie.

Me: Amias will think I dressed up for him.

Darren: No shit! Really?

Me: Are you being sarcastic?

Darren: Yeah, Sparky.

Me: I'm wearing yoga pants. This is too hard.

Darren: You wear your skanky pants, girl; you can find a new trainer.

I sent him a finger emoji and set my phone down.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

I decided to go all out. I blow dried my hair. I decided I wouldn't wear any special makeup. Just mascara and lip-gloss like I always did. And maybe a little concealer to hide the dark circles, and that acne scar from like a month ago and….

I put on black ballet flats and decided not to look in the mirror anymore so as to not hyperventilate. In any case, as a rule, I only had mirrors that I could look into waist up. I didn't need to see my legs. No one needed to see my legs.

Chapter 20

Amias

Ionce dated a big-time Hollywood actor. I dated a few models. I dated some heiresses. I had one-night stands with a variety of women. I'd never been nervous seeing any of them—and yet, as I stood outside Naya's apartment door, I wanted to smell my armpits because I was uneasy as hell.

My anxiety was on several levels. First, I was scared I'd fuck up by saying the wrong thing, and since I'd said so many wrong things to Naya, there was a distinct possibility that could happen again. Second, I was afraid she'd dislike me when she got to know me. A crush was great when you thought someone was a certain way, but if she had to spend time with me socially and not in a work meeting, maybe she'd think I was just the arrogant asshole CEO, and this would be our last date. Third, I didn't know how I felt about her, and I was scared shitless it was more than what I felt for Ann because I'd never worried about saying the wrong thing to Ann, much less caring if I did.

The only thing I wasn't worried about was the wine. I'd sent a photograph to Darren of the twelve wines I'd bought, and he sent back a thumbs-up emoji and then texted: If she's drunk you don't touch her.

Yeah, because that was the kind of douchebag I was. Damn it! Is that what he thought I'd do? Get her drunk and take advantage of her? I hoped he was joking; otherwise, that did not speak well of how Naya had described me to her friend, which I was certain she had.

I set one of the wine bags down, pressed the doorbell and took deep, calming breaths.

She opened the door, and I realized no matter how many deep breaths I'd taken, it wouldn't have mattered because I was out of air. Holy mother of god! The woman was beautiful. I'd never seen her in anything but work clothes, but this woman in a red fucking dress was…wow!

She looked shy, and her eyes were looking at my shoes.

"Come on in," she mumbled.