Love In Due Season: Ch. 1

Beginnings

Lailah pressed her palms flat against the counter, waiting for the old coffeemaker to sputter itself awake. The kitchen was too small for two grown women, and every morning she felt it—the quiet weight of living in someone else’s house. Grateful, yes. But not free.

“Elijah,” she called, glancing toward the hallway. “Shoes on. Bus’ll be here in ten.”

Her son’s muffled voice drifted back, something about not being able to find his backpack. She sighed, shaking her head with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Thirteen years old and still losing the same bag.

She opened the fridge, pushing aside her sister’s neatly labeled leftovers until she found the carton of eggs she’d bought yesterday. Just enough for a quick scramble. Not much, but better than letting Elijah go to school on an empty stomach.

By the time he shuffled into the kitchen, hoodie half-zipped, she already had a plate on the table. He was taller than he’d been even a month ago, it seemed. Legs like stilts, hands too big for his wrists. Growing faster than she could keep up.

“Eat,” she said, sliding the plate toward him.

“Yes, ma’am.” He dug in, but not before glancing at her. “You eat?”

“I’ll grab something later,” she answered automatically. She always said it, whether or not it was true.

He didn’t push. Just shrugged and kept eating. That was the kind of boy he was—observant, quiet, carrying more than she wished he had to.

When he finished, she tugged the hood of his sweatshirt up and kissed the top of his head. “Go on. Bus is coming.”

As he headed out, she whispered the same prayer she had every morning since moving here: Lord, cover him. Keep him safe. Give him peace. The words felt thinner than they used to, worn down by years of repetition, but she said them anyway. Habit. Hope. Maybe both.

The bus rumbled to a stop outside, brakes squealing. Elijah waved once before climbing aboard. Lailah watched him disappear, coffee finally dripping into the pot behind her.

Her phone buzzed on the counter—Selena’s name lighting up the screen.

She exhaled through her nose, already bracing herself. Selena only called this early when she was about to talk Lailah into something.

“Girl, you awake?”

Selena’s voice shot through the phone before Lailah could even manage hello.

“I’ve been up since five,” Lailah muttered, cradling the mug of coffee she’d finally poured. “School job, remember? Kids don’t teach themselves.”

“Mm-hmm,” Selena drawled. “But that little check they hand you every other Friday? That’s not teaching you nothin’ either.”

Lailah rolled her eyes, sinking into the chair at the kitchen table. She knew that tone. Selena was winding up. “What do you want?”

“I signed you up,” Selena announced, triumphant.

Lailah sat up straighter. “Excuse me?”

“For a shift. Event server. It’s tonight.”

“Selena—”

“Don’t Selena me. My cousin’s friend CJ manages a company called JR Events. They do all the high-end weddings around here. He’s short staffed this weekend and asked if I knew anybody dependable. Black slacks, black shirt, hair pulled back. They tip well. Easy money, Lailah. Good money. And you don’t even have to cook it.”

Lailah pinched the bridge of her nose. “I have Elijah. I don’t get home until after five as it is—”

“Your sister’s there, isn’t she? He’ll be fine. One night won’t hurt.”

“It’s not about him being fine,” Lailah snapped, then softened. “I’m just… tired, Sel.”

Her friend’s tone gentled for half a beat. “I know. But listen—don’t you want more than tired? More than this?”

Lailah’s gaze flicked toward the hallway that led to her sister’s closed bedroom door. Every corner of this house whispered a reminder: you don’t belong here. It was temporary, she told herself daily. Just until she saved enough for her own place. Still, temporary felt permanent when you were living out of half a closet and an extra dresser.

Selena’s voice pulled her back. “This is just one night. Carry some trays, smile a little, go home with extra cash in your pocket. That’s grocery money, light bill money, savings-for-your-own-apartment money.”

Lailah sipped her coffee, silent.

Selena pressed her advantage. “And let’s be honest—you need something new. You’ve been hiding in survival mode so long, you forgot what else there is.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“You are,” Selena said simply, not unkind. “And I get it. You been through some things. But just because the past was hard doesn’t mean the future can’t be better.”

The words struck deeper than Lailah wanted to admit.

Finally, she exhaled. “What time?”

Selena whooped. “Yes! Knew you couldn’t tell me no forever. Six o’clock. I’ll pick you up at five-thirty. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you don’t look like somebody’s tired mama.”

“I am somebody’s tired mama.”

“Not tonight. Tonight you’re a professional server. Head up, shoulders back. Trust me, Lailah—you’ll be fine.”

Lailah ended the call with a weary laugh, shaking her head. Selena could talk anybody into anything. But still, as she looked around the little kitchen—her sister’s notes stuck to the fridge, Elijah’s half-finished homework on the table—she wondered if Selena was right. Maybe she did need something new.

Even if it was just one night.

By the time Selena’s car pulled into the long, winding driveway, Lailah was already regretting every life choice that had led to this moment.

The venue rose like something out of a Southern magazine spread—white columns, sprawling porch, magnolia trees glowing under strings of golden lights. Guests in suits and gowns were already stepping out of cars at the circular drive, laughter and music spilling into the warm evening air.

“This ain’t no church basement potluck,” Lailah muttered under her breath.

Selena grinned, teeth flashing in the dashboard light. “Exactly. That’s why you need to be here. Money flows different in places like this.”

Lailah tugged at the hem of her borrowed black blouse, suddenly aware of every wrinkle. She smoothed a hand over her black slacks, wishing she had bought new shoes instead of wearing the same pair she used at the school job.

“You’ll be fine,” Selena said, reading her silence. “Just keep your chin up and remember—you belong anywhere you walk into.”

They parked in the staff lot and followed the line of servers through a side entrance. Inside, the hum of activity hit her all at once: trays clattering, voices calling orders, the clink of glassware.

CJ, the manager Selena had mentioned, stood near the service entrance, clipboard in hand, giving out trays and last minute directions. Lailah copied the younger servers, balancing the tray carefully. Her arms trembled at first, but muscle memory from years of carrying laundry baskets and grocery bags steadied her grip.

When the door swung open and she stepped into the reception hall, she nearly forgot to breathe.

The room sparkled with chandeliers and candlelit tables, roses spilling from centerpieces, polished wood floors reflecting every light. A string quartet played near the corner, their notes weaving through the laughter and clinking glasses. The air was thick with perfume, wine, and the mouthwatering scent of roasted meat drifting from the kitchen.

It felt like stepping into another world—one she had no business in.

Still, she moved among the crowd, offering glasses with a polite smile. A few guests met her eyes warmly, murmuring “thank you” as they took their flutes. That surprised her. Back home, people barely looked up.

By her third trip, the nerves had quieted enough that she could breathe again. Her hands steadied, her steps fell into rhythm. For a fleeting moment, she felt competent. Almost invisible, but competent.

And then, on her way back to the kitchen, the door swung open—and she saw him.

The kitchen was a different world entirely.

Heat radiated from the stoves, steam curling into the air, knives flashing under the fluorescent lights. The place ran like a machine—everybody moving in rhythm, weaving around each other without colliding.

And at the center of it all stood the man who clearly made it run.

He wasn’t barking orders like the clipboard guy at the door. His voice was even, steady, cutting through the chaos without raising above it. One glance from him sent a junior cook scurrying to adjust a plate; a nod from him brought another server rushing forward with fresh trays. It was control without noise, authority without arrogance.

Lailah paused, just long enough to take him in.

Tall, broad-shouldered, sleeves rolled up on a crisp white chef’s coat. His skin glistened with the heat of the ovens, but he moved unbothered, focused. His hands—strong, sure—adjusted garnish on a platter of seared salmon as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Their eyes met for half a second when she stepped inside.

He didn’t leer. Didn’t smirk. Just a nod—acknowledgment, respect, as though she was another piece of this finely tuned orchestra.

Her throat tightened unexpectedly. She dropped her gaze, gripping the empty tray tighter as she slipped past him to the staging table.

Don’t read into it, she told herself. He’s just doing his job. Same as you.

Still, she couldn’t shake the quiet weight of that look.

“Back to the floor,” the clipboard man snapped, shoving another tray toward her.

She pivoted, careful this time, and slipped out again into the cool glow of the ballroom. But as she moved between the guests, her mind betrayed her, replaying that nod over and over. No words exchanged. Nothing but a flicker of attention in the middle of chaos.

And yet somehow, it had landed heavier than any pickup line she’d heard in years.

By the time the shift ended, her feet ached and her arms buzzed from carrying trays, but she’d survived. Maybe even done well. She caught sight of herself in a gilded mirror on the way out—flushed cheeks, hair escaping her bun, shoulders squared despite the fatigue.

Selena appeared at her side, grinning like a cat. “Well, look at you. Told you you’d be fine.”

“I’m exhausted,” Lailah muttered.

“Exhausted and noticed.” Selena waggled her brows. “Don’t think I didn’t see Chef Tall-Dark-and-Holy back there watching you.”

“He wasn’t watching me,” Lailah shot back quickly. Too quickly. “He looked right past me. I’m just another server.”

Selena’s grin widened. “Mm-hmm. Keep telling yourself that.”

Lailah rolled her eyes, but as they stepped out into the warm Southern night, she couldn’t deny it: for the first time in a long while, she’d felt something shift.

Small. Fleeting. But enough to make her consider another shift if CJ texts her.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 6

Chapter Six: Always Home Court Advantage

Michelle and Carlton

Michelle had stared at the team logo on the paperwork for most of the flight.
She tried to be casual about it, folding the packet into her bag, then pulling it out again, then tucking it under the in-flight magazine. But her eyes always found it. Bold lettering. Team colors. The insignia of a franchise she’d only ever seen on jerseys and TV broadcasts.

Now her name was typed beneath it — Lead Physical Therapist.

Her thumb traced the sharp outline of the logo until the paper edges wore soft. She leaned back against the seat, headphones resting but silent, heart knocking with a steady rhythm.

When Reese had first told her about the contract, she hadn’t believed him. Even as he showed her the signed documents, even as the clinic’s letterhead branded the deal, it had felt… hypothetical. Now, thirty thousand feet in the air with the paperwork heavy in her lap, it felt real in a way that squeezed her chest.

On the descent, she pressed her forehead against the cold window. Clouds gave way to lights glittering below, and her breath fogged the glass. She whispered under it, almost like she was making a pact with herself:

Don’t forget this moment. Don’t forget how it feels.

The airport, the shuttle, the hotel drop-off, it all blurred. What cut sharp was the credential.

It was heavier than she expected when security clipped it onto her lanyard. Heavier, too, when it thumped against her chest as she walked through the back corridors of the arena. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, staff rushed past with radios and clipboards, voices weaving into a low hum.

She caught her reflection once in a narrow glass door: hair braided back, team jacket zipped, badge catching light. For a second, she stopped walking. The image startled her. She didn’t look like an outsider anymore. She looked like she belonged.

The guide ahead waved her along, and Michelle quickened her pace.

The first sound of the court reached her before the sight did. Sneakers squeaking. A ball snapping against hardwood. Coaches barking instructions. The familiar rhythm hit her chest like a drum.

And then the tunnel opened.

She stepped forward, and her breath caught.

The court stretched wide and impossibly bright under the house lights. The empty arena loomed massive, thousands of seats climbing into shadow. The jumbotron glowed faintly, screens rotating through logos. The floor gleamed — polished, proud, almost sacred.

Her throat tightened. She hadn’t expected to feel small here, but she did. Not in a way that shrank her, but in a way that reminded her how big this dream really was.

Carlton noticed her first.

He was mid-drill, catching a pass at the wing, when movement in the tunnel pulled his eyes. Michelle.

Credential swinging, jacket zipped, eyes wide as they swept the arena.

His chest seized. For a half second, the ball in his hands didn’t exist.

He’d pictured this moment a hundred times since Reese called him about the contract, but reality still cracked something open inside him. She wasn’t visiting. She wasn’t sneaking into his world for stolen hours. She was here.

When her gaze finally landed on him, she smiled; small, almost private. He had to force himself not to cross the court and grab her.

A staffer ushered her down the sideline.

“Michelle, this way. Coach wants to meet you.”

The introductions were quick but warm. The head coach clasped her hand with a nod of respect. “We’ve heard a lot. Carlton swears by you. But even without him, your work speaks loud. Welcome to the team.”

The players crowded around, offering handshakes, shoulder bumps, half-jokes about finally getting someone who could fix their ankles right.

Carlton brushed her hand as she passed him. Barely a touch, but it sparked all the way up her arm. Her head tilted just slightly, eyes catching his. Later, that look said.

Malik, of course, couldn’t resist.

“Ayo, Carlton!” His voice cut through practice noise like a trumpet. “Don’t start getting soft on us now!”

The sideline cracked up. Carlton cut him a look sharp enough to kill. “Not now, Malik.”

Michelle flushed, eyes darting down, pretending to adjust her badge. Her pulse betrayed her.

Hours later, the arena emptied.

Michelle wandered onto the hardwood, sneakers quiet on the shine. The stands rose like a mountain around her, lights gleaming, space humming with silence. She turned slowly, letting herself soak it in. Tomorrow this place would be packed and she would be sitting on the sidelines. In person.

This was bigger than she had imagined. Heavier. But the bounce under her shoes felt the same as any gym she’d ever been in.

She drifted toward center court, lifted her face to the rafters, and let her chest loosen.

That’s when the echo came. A ball. One clean bounce.

She turned. Carlton, now alone at the arc, sent it spinning her way.

It rolled to a stop at her feet.

“Can you make it on the big stage?” His voice carried, low and teasing, but something lived underneath it.

Michelle bent, fingers curling around leather. Her palms remembered the grooves like muscle memory. Tears welled, uninvited but inevitatable. She dribbled once, rose into her midrange shot, and released.

Back of the iron. Bounced high. Net. Clean.

The ball bounced back. She caught it, tears welling unbidden, and laughed through them. “It’s the same feel,” she said softly, turning toward him. “Just a different location.”

But he wasn’t where he had been.

He was closer now. On one knee. A ring catching the arena light.

Her breath snagged. The ball slipped from her hands, echoing as it rolled away.

Carlton’s eyes never left hers.

“You’ve been my teammate since the day you walked into the clinic,” he said, voice steady, filling the cavernous space. “We’ve been running plays together without ever calling them. We’ve carried each other when the other was tired. There were games we’ve won that nobody else even saw.

“But I don’t want it to stay there. I don’t want to keep stealing time or living in separate worlds. I don’t want to try to fit you in. I want one life. Ours. Together.” He swallowed, then pushed the last words out clean. “Michelle… be my teammate for life.”

Tears blurred her vision. She covered her mouth, laughing and crying all at once, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

“Ay yo!” Malik’s laugh bounced off the rafters. “I knew you had something up your sleeve, man. Couldn’t even wait ‘til after the playoffs?”

Carlton stood quickly. Michelle groaned, hiding her face in Carlton’s chest. He shot a look over his shoulder, sharp enough to slice. “Malik, if you don’t—”

But Malik only grinned wider, holding his hands up. “Alright, alright! I’m gone. Y’all do your fairytale thing.” He jogged off, still chuckling, his voice fading down the hall. “Teammates for life… boy, you corny as ever.”

Michelle shook with laughter against Carlton, tears and giggles tangled together now. Carlton kissed the top of her head, muttering, “I’m trading him next season.”

She tipped her chin up, smiling through the blur. “No you’re not.”

He sighed, pretending to be irritated. “Fine. But will you marry me? We don’t have to invite him to the wedding.”

Laughter burst out of Michelle before she could tame it. She hushed herself with her hand covering her mouth. “Deal.”

He slid the ring onto her finger, and it fit like it had been waiting.

She pulled him into a kiss that swallowed everything. The months of waiting. The late-night calls, The aching hearts.

It was deep, unhurried, certain.

When they broke apart, Michelle pressed her forehead into his chest, laughter shaking through tears.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you more,” he said, holding her like the promise was already complete.

The arena stayed quiet. Just two people, center court, choosing forever where the world came to play.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 4.2

Chapter Four: November Stretch

Carlton

The office still smelled faintly of coffee and copier ink, the kind of mix that clung to walls when a long day refused to end. Reese leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, listening while I tried to keep my tone even.

“You’re telling me you haven’t put in for the contract yet?” I asked.

Reese rubbed his jaw. “I’m running numbers, CJ. I need to make sure—”

“No.” I cut him off, sharper than I meant. “I told you Coach is in the market. Why haven’t you done anything?”

His eyes narrowed. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple.” I leaned forward, hands pressing into my knees. “You’ve got the talent, the team, and the track record. You’re scared, Reese. You’re acting like you’ve got something to lose when all you’ve done this year is win.”

He exhaled hard, like the truth stung. “We lost two therapists in a month.”

“And you replaced them with Michelle,” I shot back. “Who you just admitted is a game changer.”

His silence was answer enough.

“You ran the numbers,” I pressed. “And?”

“And…” He shifted in his chair, finally letting the words out. “This year we’ve had more clients than the last four combined. Word of mouth is crazy. People ask for Michelle by name. She’s getting them back faster than I can track. She’s building a reputation across the city.” He shook his head, half proud, half worried. “That’s the problem. What if she leaves, CJ? What if this pace burns her out and I lose the very person holding us together?”

I felt my jaw tighten. “You already are burning her out. I see it. You gave her the weight of two people and she’s still standing. That’s not a reason to hold back, it’s a reason to go bigger. Get her help. Build around her. That’s what leaders do.”

Reese frowned. “You sound like you’ve got all the answers.”

“I don’t.” I leaned back, gave him space. “But I know this: you throw your name in for that contract, I’ll back you with Coach myself. You got me back on the court three weeks sooner. That’s leverage. Just throw me the lob—I’ll finish it.”

For a second, he stayed stone-faced. Then a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, despite himself. “Alright. I’ll look into it. If I throw our name in, you better back me up.”

I grinned back, voice firm. “You know I will.”

The air loosened after that. We let the tension bleed off the way old teammates do—naturally, like a muscle unclenching after the final whistle. Reese leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

“You always did get worked up when you believed in something,” he said. “Back in college, you’d chew a whole locker room out just because one guy missed a rotation.”

“And we won, didn’t we?” I shot back.

He laughed, pointing at me. “See? Same Carlton. Only difference is now you’ve got someone making you this fired up off the court, too.”

I shook my head, smiling despite myself. “Don’t start.”

“Nah, I’m serious,” he said, eyes narrowing in that way that meant he’d already connected the dots. “I haven’t seen you like this since Tiffany Caruthers.”

That name pulled a laugh out of me, low and unplanned. “Man, don’t bring up high school.”

Reese smirked, enjoying it too much. “You were gone over that girl. Walked around like you had a permanent pep in your step.”

“Yeah, well… this isn’t high school.”

His grin softened, genuine now. “I know. That’s why I can tell it’s real.”

I didn’t bother dodging the truth. My voice dropped, steady as I said it: “Yeah. I’m in love with her.”

Reese leaned back again, watching me like a man who’d just confirmed what he already knew. “I figured,” he said simply.

We sat in the quiet a beat, the kind that only exists between brothers who’ve run suicides together and earned each other’s scars.

Finally, he clapped his hands together, breaking the spell. “Alright. I’ll look into this contract. No more pump fakes. But if this blows up, I’m sending Michelle to you with the complaint form.”

I laughed, standing to leave. “She’d probably write it in triplicate.”

“Exactly why I need her around.”

We shared a look, the kind that said more than the words. Then I headed out into the November night, knowing Reese would follow through—not just because I pushed him, but because deep down he wanted to win, too.

By the time I left his office, the night air hit sharp against my skin. November had settled into the kind of cold that reminded you basketball was an indoor game. I sat in the car for a while, engine off, thumb hovering over my phone.

Three months we’d been together. Nine months I’d known her. And still, nights like this, the distance pressed harder than a full-court press.

The season was a machine—four games a week, two cities in three days, hotel beds that all felt the same. I’d learned to live with the rhythm. But loving her inside of it? That was new. And harder.

Finally, I hit call.

She picked up on the third ring, voice soft like she’d been working too long again. “Hey.”

“Did I wake you?”

“No. Just finished some paperwork. Trying to convince myself to turn my brain off.”

“Any luck?”

A little laugh, weary but real. “Not so far.”

I leaned against the headrest, shutting my eyes. Just hearing her did more for me than sleep ever could. “You need to stop taking it all home.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.” I paused, then said it straight: “I had a conversation with Reese tonight.”

“Oh?” she asked, careful.

“Yeah. Contracts. I pushed him.”

“Pushed him how?”

I hesitated, then softened. “Doesn’t matter right now.”

I gripped the steering wheel, wishing distance could collapse on command. “Michelle, put the paperwork down.”

She chuckled. “You sound like you’re giving me orders.”

“I am. Put it down. Right now.”

Another shuffle. Then a sigh. “Fine. It’s down.”

“Good.” I smiled. “Now lay back.”

“I’m on the couch already.”

“Perfect. Stay there. I’ll watch film so the TV doesn’t get lonely, and you…” I let the quiet stretch. “…you just breathe.”

We stayed like that, neither rushing.

“You always do this,” she said softly after a while. “Sneak past my walls.”

“Maybe your walls were never built for me,” I answered before thinking.

Another pause. This one heavy enough to make me wonder if I’d said too much. Then she whispered, “Maybe not.”

We didn’t say much after that. Didn’t have to. She drifted, her breathing evening out, while I sat in the car listening like it was music.

By the time we said goodnight, it was past midnight. I carried her voice upstairs with me, through brushing my teeth, through watching film with the sound off, through laying in bed staring at the ceiling.

The season would keep spinning. Flights, practices, games. But for the first time in a long time, I knew what I wanted off the court. And I wasn’t about to pump fake when the lane was wide open.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 4

Chapter Four: November Stretch

Michelle

I thought Monday mornings were supposed to move slow. Coffee, emails, easing into the week.
This one came like a wrecking ball.

By 9:15, two resignation letters hit Reese’s desk back-to-back. Both therapists—good ones, steady hands—decided they were done. Different reasons. Same result.

The first letter came from Jordan, who was one of our longest-tenured therapists. His mom was sick, and he needed to move back home to help. No one could fault him for that. The second came from Alyssa, who’d been on the fence for months, saying she wanted to try her hand at teaching full-time.

Two at once, though? It was a gut punch.

By 9:30, the phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Clients called to ask if their sessions were still on, if their programs would stall, if they’d be reassigned. Some were understanding. Others were already frustrated.

By 10:00, one therapist stormed into Reese’s office, demanding to know how he was going to redistribute the caseload. Another hovered near the front desk, muttering about burnout.

And by 10:15, I felt it—chaos, thick in the air, like humidity that made it hard to breathe.

I didn’t have time to think about how tired I was, or how long my weekend had been, or how little sleep I’d managed. I just moved.

I rerouted two clients to therapists I trusted to take them on without complaint. I grabbed the schedule binder, cross-referenced it against the app, and patched holes before anyone could trip on them. I picked up the phone myself and called three clients personally, just to assure them they weren’t forgotten.

“Hi, this is Michelle from the clinic. I just wanted to let you know we’ve already set you up with another therapist. Your program won’t miss a beat.”

Calm voice. Steady tone. Smile on my face even though they couldn’t see it.

One woman actually sighed in relief. “Thank you. I was nervous. I don’t want to lose momentum.”

“You won’t,” I promised. And I meant it.

Behind me, another therapist barked something about overbooking. Reese’s door clicked shut because he was on a call trying to patch up the business side of the fallout.

So I kept going.

By noon, I only had a sip water. By 1:30, I just had a bite of a protein bar that Jasmin gave me for lunch.

I was running on adrenaline and stubbornness. A strange kind of calm lived in me when everything else was breaking apart.

Reese finally caught me near the front desk while I was printing an updated schedule. His tie was loose, his forehead lined.

“Michelle,” he muttered, low enough so only I could hear, “you’re holding this place together. Thank you.”

It stopped me for half a second.

“Just doing my part,” I said, because I didn’t know how to take a compliment when everything inside me felt like duct tape holding a cracked foundation.

He gave me a look—one that said he saw through me—and walked off to take another call.

The rest of the week blurred.

Every morning, I walked into a storm. Every evening, I walked out feeling like I’d left part of myself behind.

The clients didn’t see it, though. They just saw order, structure, reassurance. The therapists, at least most of them, relaxed once they saw the load spread out. Reese got some breathing room to focus on salvaging the contracts.

But me? I was running on fumes.

By Friday night, my hands were still trembling from the constant back-and-forth of typing, texting, and adjusting schedules. My eyes burned. My brain felt like static.

And still, I said yes when Carlton texted.

Carlton: Fly out tomorrow morning. You free?

I looked at my phone for a long time before I typed.

Me: Exhausted.

The three dots bubbled on the screen. Stopped. Started again.

Carlton: Come anyway...please?

I closed my eyes. It was already late. I should’ve gone home, eaten something frozen, collapsed into bed.

But my heart typed before my head could argue.

Me: On my way.

His place wasn’t far, which is probably the only reason I actually went. I still had my work bag slung over my shoulder when he opened the door.

He smiled, soft but steady. “Long week?”

“Extremely.”

I dropped my bag on the floor like it weighed a hundred pounds. My phone buzzed in the side pocket. I ignored it for three seconds before the reflex kicked in and I reached for it.

Carlton stepped forward and gently took it from my hand.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, the kind of low that doesn’t demand. It invites. “Didn’t you tell me once you do this? Bring work home?”

My throat tightened. “I have to make sure—”

He shook his head, not unkindly. “Not tonight.”

And just like that, the dam broke. Tears hit before I even knew they were coming. The kind that burned hot because they’d been waiting too long.

Carlton didn’t flinch. He just pulled me close, one hand on the back of my head like he’d done it a thousand times in his mind before tonight.

“Michelle.” He said my name like it was safe here. Like I was safe here.

I pressed my face into his chest and finally let myself fall apart. Weeks of holding everything together poured out in the span of minutes. The chaos, the exhaustion, the ache of balancing this thing between us with the weight of everything else.

“This is hard,” I whispered into the fabric of his shirt. It wasn’t just about work. It was us.

“I know,” he said simply.

When the tears slowed, he tipped my chin up gently.

“Come lay down,” he said. “I’ve got film to catch up on anyway.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a soft directive, one that carried care, not control.

I let him lead me to the couch. He sat first, remote in hand, and pulled me down beside him. Not against him, not yet, but close enough that when I leaned, I found his shoulder waiting.

The TV flickered to life, some preseason reel playing, voices analyzing plays I barely heard.

He didn’t move much. Didn’t ask for anything. Just sat there with me, solid and warm, a steady rhythm of breath against my temple.

At some point, I drifted. The exhaustion finally caught up, heavier than gravity.

The last thing I remember was his thumb brushing my hand once, almost absentmindedly, like a reminder that I wasn’t alone.

I woke up to silence.

The TV was off. The blanket tucked over me wasn’t mine.

But the air carried something warm—eggs, maybe, and toast. The faint scent of coffee.

Carlton wasn’t in the room.

I blinked, tried to orient myself, then heard the sound of drawers opening down the hall.

He came out a minute later, dressed for travel: joggers, team duffel slung across his back.

“Hey,” he said softly, seeing me stir. “Sorry. I tried not to wake you.”

“What time is it?” My voice was rough with sleep.

“Early.” He set his bag by the door. “I’ve got to head out soon. But—” he nodded toward the kitchen, “I made you something. Please eat before you leave, okay?”

I followed his eyes toward the counter. A plate sat there waiting, steam curling into the air.

My throat tightened. “Already?” I managed, trying to keep my voice even.

“Yeah.” He crossed the room, crouched down so we were eye-level. “Hey. It’s fine. We’ll figure this out.”

Tears pricked my eyes again, uninvited. I hated how easily they came the last few weeks.

He caught it, though. Of course he did.

“I think this is worth the figuring out, Michelle.”

He brushed a hand against my cheek, quick, before standing.

I watched him sling his bag over his shoulder, open the door, and step into the dark morning.

And for the first time, I realized I didn’t just like him around.
I wanted him.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 3.2

Pick Up Game Pt. 2

Carlton

When she said yes, I had to school my face not to give away what was happening under my skin.

I’d asked half-expecting her to check her watch, mumble something polite, and let me off easy. Instead, she hesitated, then said, “Yeah, I could eat.”

It was nine o’clock on a Tuesday. Nothing about that answer was automatic.
And that’s how I knew.

The walk to the car felt longer than it was, every step too aware of her beside me. I’d spent months memorizing the way she moved in a professional space—shoulders squared, eyes sharp, words clipped with precision. Tonight she wasn’t that. Tonight she looked like she’d left the clinic behind and remembered she was allowed to just… be.

The diner wasn’t fancy—linoleum floors, neon sign humming in the window, waitresses who knew everyone by name whether they wanted to be known or not. But when she slid into the booth across from me, ponytail loose, cheeks flushed from the game, eyes still bright from laughter, it felt like the kind of place you remember years later just because this was where it started.

I asked if she wanted coffee. She smirked. “Not unless you want me wired till morning.”
So water for her, iced tea for me. Small things, but they felt like first steps in the right direction.

At first, we stayed light. Trash-talk carryover from the court, jokes about Malik’s constant need for attention, the art of hitting a bank shot and pretending you meant it. She laughed at one of my stories about rookie hazing, and the sound was easy—unforced. I realized how badly I wanted to hear it again.

But little by little, the conversation turned. She asked about travel, how much the schedule wears on you when the world only sees the highlight reel.

“It’s a grind,” I admitted. “They see forty-eight minutes. They don’t see the ice baths at two a.m. or the days when your body’s cashing checks your head didn’t even write.”

Her eyes softened in a way that made me feel seen. “So why do it?”

I thought for a second. “Because even with all that—there’s nothing else like it. Court feels like the one place where I know exactly who I am. But… I do think about what’s next sometimes.”

That surprised her. “Most guys won’t admit that out loud.”

“Most guys don’t have someone worth being honest with,” I said before I could edit it down.

Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, then closed again. She traced the rim of her glass. “Sometimes I wonder that too. If this—helping people with movement, recovery, rehab—is my forever, or just the season I’m in. I love it, but… I don’t know. I don’t want my whole identity to be my job, you know?”

I nodded slow. “Makes sense. You’re more than the clipboard.”

The way she looked at me told me that sentence hit closer to her core than I expected.

We shifted again, this time into lighter waters. She leaned in, smirk tugging at her mouth. “You must be used to it though. All the attention. Athletes don’t usually sit in diners at 10 p.m. on a Tuesday—they’ve got women lining up.”

I laughed. “You give me too much credit.”

“Do I?” she teased.

“Yeah,” I said, pointing my straw at her. “Meanwhile, I’m guessing you’ve broken a few hearts without even knowing it.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”

I shrugged. “Don’t act like you don’t know. Some guy probably thought you were smiling at him when you were just being polite, and he went home writing your wedding vows in his head.”

She shook her head, laughing, but her cheeks warmed. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s the truth,” I said, and for a second the joke wasn’t a joke anymore.

We let the silence hold between us—not awkward, just charged. Then she broke it with a story about her sister stealing her car in high school and crashing it into a mailbox, and the spell loosened into laughter again.

Time started bending after that. We moved from surface to depth without ceremony. Family, past seasons, moments that shape you in ways strangers don’t see. The food barely mattered. Fries turned cold, ice melted in glasses, but neither of us cared. Hours slipped past without either of us checking the time. By the time we realized, the staff was half-wiping tables like they wanted to close but weren’t going to tell us to leave.

Walking her out, I slowed down without meaning to. The air was cool, sharp enough to remind you the night was ending but soft enough you didn’t want it to. She thanked me like it was just a meal, but we both knew it wasn’t just that. Not for me.

At her car, I almost rushed it. Almost blurted out let me take you out officially just to stop holding it in. But something in me knew better. Timing mattered. She deserved more than a rushed ask under a buzzing streetlight.

So I steadied my voice.
“I’m out of town for a stretch starting tomorrow,” I told her. Preseason—starters wouldn’t play, but the travel was mandatory. “But when I get back…” I held her eyes so she knew this wasn’t casual. “…let’s do this again. Properly.”

For a second, she didn’t answer. She swayed a little where she stood, her hand brushing the strap of her bag. The light caught her face just enough for me to see the blush rising, the way she bit her bottom lip like she was working something out in real time.

And then she smiled—small, certain.
“I look forward to it.”

I felt that answer settle deeper than anything I’d felt in months.

I got in my car that night knowing two things for sure:
Basketball was coming back to me.
And so was she.

No pump faking this time.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 3

Chapter Three: Pick Up Game Pt. 1

Michelle

I wasn’t supposed to be here.

I made three separate deals with myself between my apartment and the rec center.

Deal one: if there’s no parking, I’m going home.
Deal two: if the first court’s packed, I’m going home.
Deal three: if I lace up and still feel weird, I’m going home.

Parking lot had a spot. Court had room. And the second I tightened my laces and felt the familiar snug of leather around my heel, the weird feeling left like it had showed up at the wrong address.

I checked in, signed the clipboard—pickup from 6 to close, winners hold, next five on—and stretched along the baseline. The place smelled like polished wood and after-work sweat. A couple teens were practicing between games, flicking threes with loose wrists. Two men in their forties argued about an out-of-bounds call so politely it almost wasn’t an argument. The scoreboard was off; in here we carried the count in our heads.

I got run on the third game. New faces glanced at me, eyebrow ticks, that half-second they always take to decide if a woman on the list is a mascot or a basketball player.

“Run point?” one of my teammates asked, testing.

“Depends,” I said. “You set a screen?”

“Always.”

“Then yeah.”

We found rhythm fast. Nothing fancy. I pushed pace when the lane opened, pulled back when feet got heavy. Hit a midrange that felt like muscle memory, then fed a big for an easy lay. Breath came hot and familiar; my shoulders settled into that roll that says keep calling for it.

We were up two when I caught a voice I knew without having to turn.

“Michelle?”

I pivoted and there he was on the sideline—gray shorts, white tee, hands on hips, that same steady look he had at the clinic, minus the clinic. Carlton.

My heartbeat did a small, unathletic thing.

I lifted my chin. “You lose your gym?”

He smiled like I’d said something funnier. “Malik said they needed a body.”

“Don’t worry. This one is almost over,” I chided. “Sign in.”

He gave me a sarcastic salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

I tried not to notice the small explosion that sentence set off somewhere under my ribs.

“Next up,” the counter guy yelled.

I tightened my ponytail, met his eyes across the court, and tossed him a ball. “Try to keep up, Carlton.”

He put his palm toward the floor, gesturing that I was too small. I fought the smile that crept up like a thief. It won. This time.

First possession of the game, he guarded me. Of course he did. Too much pride not to. I crossed once, twice, faked like I was pulling back. He bit just enough. I drove hard, planted, banked it high off the glass right over him. His hand was late.

“Bucket,” I called, maybe louder than necessary.

He shook his head, grinning. “You really called glass?”

“I really made it,” I shot back.

He jogged downcourt, still smiling. “That’s one.”

“One’s enough,” I muttered, though we both knew it wasn’t.

The rest of the game was pure fun. He played me tougher after that, but I didn’t mind. We traded shots, ribbed each other, bumped shoulders without apology. When the final point dropped, his team edged mine by two.

Second game, we ended up on the same side. That was different.

I didn’t think about it at first—just ran the lanes, hit an outlet, reset when the play got messy. But then he screened for me, shoulder solid, space wide open, and I came off it like I’d been running it with him for months. Jumper, clean.

“Good look,” he said, hand up.

We slapped palms. Quick, casual. Too casual for how warm it felt.

Next possession, I picked up their guard. Carlton’s man cut through and we switched without talking, my hand brushing his back as we traded. Not much. Barely there. But noticable.

He cracked a joke after a missed layup, something about my assist-to-turnover ratio, and I pushed him in the chest, playful. He leaned back like I’d actually moved him, grinning.

“You’re trouble,” I said.

“True.”

By the third run, we were moving in rhythm—his cut feeding my pass, my drive opening his shot. He tapped my elbow after a jumper, I smacked his hand after a block. Little things, but not little to me.

By the end, the gym air felt soft around the edges the way it does after you’ve done what you came to do. Win or lose, the sweat evens people out.

We grabbed our bags from the bleachers at the same time without planning to.

“You hoop here a lot?” he asked.

“No,” I said, tying my laces loose. “It’s close enough to trick myself into coming. Today, I had to clear my head from some work stuff.”

“Good trick.”

We walked toward the door together, that heavy-but-not-heavy quiet padding along with us. Fluorescents hummed. Somebody in the corner kept shooting until the ball said “enough.”

At the cooler by the door, he poured water into a paper cup and handed it to me first, then filled his own. Small gesture. Big impact. I took a sip to have something to do besides look at him.

“I didn’t know you came here,” I said.

“I don’t, to be honest. But it’s a good group out here,” he smiled.

We were both quiet again, not the awkward kind. The kind that makes you aware of the space between two people because it’s not asking to be filled. It’s just… there.

He cleared his throat, eyes flicking to mine and then away. Nervous? Not something I was used to seeing on him.

“Next time you need to clear your head,” he said finally, “call me.”

It landed like a clean catch. No fumble, just hands and ball and certainty.

“I might,” I said, and then immediately felt the flush rise because I sounded more open than intended.

He let the silence breathe a moment. Then, hesitant, almost careful, he added, “You hungry?”

The question hung there.

I glanced at my watch. A little past nine. Later than I realized. I should’ve said no. Should’ve begged off with the easy excuse of an early morning.

But instead I heard myself say, “Yeah. I could eat.”

And I surprised myself by meaning it.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 1.2

Chapter One: The Switch Pt. 2

Carlton

Reese and I went back to college ball — same team, same grind, different positions. He was one of the best point guards I’d ever played with, but more than that, he was the kind of guy who stuck with you long after the season ended.

Over the years, we’d talked about everything: injuries, business moves, life off the court. Relationships too. Reese had a way of listening without judging, which made him easy to be real with.

So when I told him I needed a different therapist, I knew he’d hear me out.

“Everything okay?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. “Michelle’s solid. She’s got a great reputation already, and my clients love her.”

“I know.”

“You mad at her?”

“No.”

“You trying to get under my skin?”

I laughed. “No.”

“It’s me,” I said, running a hand over my face. “She’s great. Amazing even. And I like her — more than I should if I’m trying to keep this professional.”

Reese gave a low chuckle. “You’ve been on her schedule for six months, man. You just noticing?”

I smirked. “Nah. I knew early on. But I’ve been careful. Thing is…I don’t want to be careful anymore. You know she yelled at me last week?”

Reese reached for the fax that just came through, shaking his head. “You probably deserved it.”

“It was a tough week. My contract is up for negotiation. I actually told her what was going on.”

“And…” Reese prodded.

“She sat there and listened. Then she prayed for me.”

That made him pause. His pen tapped against the desk, and he gave me a look that cut deeper than words. “She did what?”

“Prayed for me,” I repeated, leaning back. “Not some quick little ‘hope it works out’ either. She meant it. Like she wanted to cover me. I’ve never had a woman do that for me, Reese. Not once.”

He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “That explains it.”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice quieter. “And if I’m being real…I think she likes me too. Not just as her client. I see it in the way she looks at me sometimes. The way she remembers the little things I say. She doesn’t push past it, but it’s there. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t notice.”

Reese leaned back, studying me with that long pause that only a friend of years can hold. “CJ, that’s not something you just brush off.”

“Exactly. And that’s why I can’t sit in there, week after week, pretending I don’t feel what I feel. She’s not just helping get me back on the court. She’s reaching places I don’t usually let people touch and I don’t even know how that happened. I can’t cross that line while she’s working on me. She doesn’t deserve that mess, and you don’t either.”

He nodded slowly, reading between the lines. “Alright. I’ll make the switch. But you know she’s gonna notice.”

“That’s the idea,” I said, leaning back with a quiet smile.

The Unexpected: A Quarantine Love Story Pt. 4

Day 28

Why fight something you really want?

A question that was being played over a thousand times in Michelle’s mind.

Carl Bell, or ‘Daddy Bear’ as she affectionately called him, was known for his optimistic outlook and ill-timed sense of humor, but he really had a knack for uncovering things Michelle intended to bury simply by asking unrelated questions…at the right time.

Michelle was in the middle of complaining about having too much time on her hands. Working two and three jobs to make ends meet was her norm, but so was barely getting by. For the last few years she would plan to take time off work to officially research and launch her consulting business, but something always came up. Needless to say, it was just a pretty basic pass-the-time-catching-up-with-your-parent type of conversation.

But Michelle couldn’t get Demetrius off the brain.

“Why fight something you really want?”

“I don’t know, Daddy, Meech just came out of nowhere,” she muttered.
“Wait. I”m sorry, who?” he asked, after a five second pause.

Michelle turned up her face, puzzled by his question. “What do you mean who?” She popped up from the couch and squinted her eyes, crossing out their exchanges on an imaginary white board. Nothing came to mind. AT ALL! She mulled over it so much in that twenty second span that she forgot what they were talking about altogether!

The hairs on her arms stood up immediately as her short term memory kicked in and she realized she may have invited questions she didn’t really want to answer.

Maybe he didn’t hear that.

By now Carl’s quiet, almost inaudible, snicker had turned into a full on cackle. Judging by the time it took for him to inhale, Michelle knew her father was at the beginning stages of his cheeks turning beet red. Her dad always called himself a ‘Seeker of Truth’, but he could never hide his genuine elation when that truth came by accident. Imagine growing up in a house with a man who had a full on belly laugh EV-ER-Y time he discovered a lie. It was a very confusing as a kid. Do you laugh with him or do you run away from him?

Right now Michelle wanted to run away.

“You have someONE on your mind, baby?” he teased. “We were talking about work but you’re talking about a man. Who is Meech?”

Her heart dropped into her belly. I even said his name?! she screamed in her head. The last thing she wanted to do was give this old hound dog a scent to follow. “Nobody,” she rushed out, knowing her effort was about to be in vain.

“Michelle Rae Bell, I know when you’re hiding something. Spill it or I’ll have to get your mother in on this.”

That was a threat that was not to be taken lightly.

Mae Bell is a woman who can find Waldo after three seconds of searching. A woman whose favorite past time was watching old episodes of Columbo and Matlock. She could’ve had a successful career as a detective or prosecutor if she didn’t choose to stay at home to raise her children. She was blessed (or cursed) with a gift of sniffing out a lie before the door was closed and would announce her findings to the entire neighborhood.

Michelle loved her mother, but Mae didn’t play about hidden things. Phantom pains began to shoot down Michelle’s leg as she thought about all the whoopins she received as a kid.

“Dad, pleeeeeeease just keep this between us right now!” she begged.

“Spill it,” he demanded playfully.

Michelle kicked her legs like an only child being told to share her toys. She didn’t want to tell anybody ANYTHING until she KNEW it was something to tell but if she didn’t give him any information she could expect an intense cross examination from the Mama Bear. Daddy Bear was trustworthy.

She fessed up to how she met Demetrius and the way things developed from there. The more she talked, the more she couldn’t shut up about it. Maybe she was holding it all in too long.

Michelle told about how they graduated from catching up just at night to talking and video calling throughout the day. How, after discovering her favorite authors, he would leave notes filled with quotes hidden around her garden for her to find. She admitted to not wanting to like him but not being able to resist his subtle charm, or how his good morning texts made her light up.

Against her will. Sometimes.

Things got really hectic for him at the police station and she called herself ‘giving him space’ while he sorted through it but hesitantly admitted to him that she missed talking to him for those few days.
Whenever she felt overwhelmed with everything going on, whenever she would get frustrated with writing out a business plan, she could hear his laugh before he’d tell her to ‘Stop being a baby and do it.’ It annoyed her to listen to him say that almost as much as it annoyed her that his mere breathing on the phone brought her comfort.

“Daddy, right before I met him, I started dreaming again.” she admitted, “I don’t know what all this means,”

“Sounds like you’re in love, Chelle.” he admitted. “What better thing to do in a world wide pandemic than to fall in love?”

“I really can’t take your jokes right now,” she rolled her eyes.

“What?! All people have is time now. Anyone can spend all the money they want on expensive dates and still never really get to know that person. This man spent all of three dollars on some cards to get your attention and followed it up with a whole bunch of quality time. I wish I would’ve thought of that!” Michelle couldn’t contain her burst of laughter at his pseudo anger. “Shoot, I would’ve saved a whole lot of money trying to convince your mother I was a good for her.”

A few moments passed in silence. Michelle feigned a smile as Marcel’s bubbly self strolled by, on another adventure with his dinosaurs in tow. He paused just long enough to wink and tap an imaginary watch on his wrist before walking away.

Maybe the quarantine was getting to him.

While her dad became distracted with yelling for their dogs to stop fighting, Michelle curiously got up to check the time. She clicked her tongue and shook her head when she understood what Mr. Smarty Pants was getting at.

A few weeks ago, Michelle was video chatting Demetrius while cooking dinner. He sat at his dining room table as if she was really about to serve him a plate. Marcel happened to walk by and show Demetrius a dinosaur that he knew and could talk about. It had become a thing ever since. Faithfully at 6:30 pm, ‘Mr. Meech’ would call and greet Michelle briefly before he and Marcel continued their conversation from the day before. Marcel would light up like it was Christmas day.

Though she knew deep down there might be some truth to what her father was saying, she fought it still when it came to Marcel. She didn’t know what she would do if ‘whatever this was’ didn’t workout.

“Baby listen,” Carl primed her. “He may not have come the way you imagined, he may not even look or talk the way you want him to, but it sure sounds like you two are more involved than you’re willing to admit to yourself. ”

“Daddy Bear…” she sighed.

It was all becoming too much to think about right now. The whole world was a mess! People were being hospitalized by the thousands, hundreds losing their lives to this stupid virus from hell, and she’s at home falling in love with a man she met randomly the morning of a blizzard?

How did she deserve that?

As if he could hear her internal conflict, Carl spoke up. “Michelle, I need you to take some time to really figure out what’s on your heart. He sounds like a good guy and you’re more than deserving of someone spending time currency on you. Bring Marcel over for a few weeks so you can at least get a little break and finish your work. I need the exercise anyway,” he laughed. “But when the time comes, give him a chance.”

Plans were finalized before Michelle and Carl said their goodbyes. Like clockwork, Demetrius called and Michelle laughed at the sight of his ‘action figures’ lined up in front of him on the table.

“Hey beautiful,” he beamed. “You been alright?”

Michelle turned her face to smile, as if he couldn’t already see her blushing. “Hey.”

“Before I talk business with Lil Man, I need to ask you something.” Michelle’s eyes grew wide as she leaned on the kitchen counter, trying to anticipate his request. “I just got approved for my furlough today.”

“That’s great! That means you can finish up your course with no distractions, right?”

“Kind of,” he hesitated. “I mean, I get six weeks off but…I was wondering if I can spend some of that time with you. Face to face.” Michelle’s face went blank before she could fix it but she tried recovering with a nervous laugh. “We’ll be six feet apart,” he assured her.

Demetrius flashed that signature smile of his and she grinned, shaking her head. Michelle didn’t feel the jolt down her spine. It was something different: butterflies in her belly. Marcel rushed over and made sure his face was seen in the camera. “I’ll call you later,” she promised.

As she relinquished her phone to her eager little boy, she couldn’t help but mumble…

Social distancing is stupid.

The Unexpected: A Quarantine Love Story Part 3

Day One- March 15, 2020

maskpic

You aren’t from around here are you? he recalled.

It took Michelle about a week to reach out, but she finally did to his surprise. There was no ‘Hello’ or ‘Can I speak to…” Right out the gate she came with the heat.

A straight shooter. She got to the point.

He liked that.

After he silenced his laughter, he did admit that he was raised in Maryland and traveled around in the military before settling in Detroit. “Do I have an accent or something?”

“No,” she said dryly, “You just seem different.”

It felt like a chore getting her to open up about herself though she had a barrage of questions for him, which he answered, all honestly. That seemed to put her mind somewhat at ease since they were still chatting. Demetrius understood her reservations. It’s not common to randomly meet someone on a snowy morning and strike up a conversation like they did. Or even having said stranger come back months later to shovel your snow. Not in Detroit. Not being a mom either.

Of all the people outside that morning, his attention was drawn to her. He usually drove around her area toward the end of his shift to clear his mind, but it was hard to ignore a person bundled up like a bear, tripping through piles of snow in the wee hours of the morning.

The winter had been a mild one but he was really looking for an excuse to see her again. He couldn’t really justify a reason either. I was just something he felt like he had to do. Seeing her the second time peeked his interest. She had this quiet strength about her with a soft voice that beckoned him to listen.

Fine as all get out, too!

Her big brown eyes were the first thing he noticed…because her face was all covered up. But seeing her without her extra fifteen pounds of snow gear on gave him a much better picture of who she was. When she smiled his mind went blank though.

This virus was really screwing up my flow, he thought

He had a few spots come to mind when she said she liked Italian food. Giovanni’s was his favorite, mainly because they always gave him free food when he was in the area. Perks of being a good cop.

For the past few weeks, he and Michelle would talk right after the start of his shift. She said she didn’t mind the late night chatter while her son was sleeping. Her forwardness was attractive. Her humor was subtle and sarcastic at times, especially after she admitted to using him for ‘the stability of her own sanity’.

Listen, raising a boy who just wants to talk about bugs and dinosaurs and jump off of furniture is not good for my brain!

Demetrius remembered bothering his mom and dad at that age; firing off the thousand and one questions and ideas that flooded his mind. One time he put on his red cape, borrowed his mother’s glasses, put on his dad’s dress socks because they came up to his knees, and stood at the top of the basement stairs announcing his super powers.

At that age calculating important things, like the low ceiling that his dad often ducked under whenever he retrieved laundry, were often missed. All he remembered was that feeling of flying right before a sudden jolt of pain shot through his forehead before everything went dark. By the time he came to, his mother was frantically yelling over him and his dad was just shaking his head, laughing.

The scar above his right eye serves as a constant reminder that it can be worth it to take risks, but make sure you count the costs involved.

Demetrius understood Michelle’s feelings. Boys are adventure seekers!

Whatever excuse she had, he didn’t mind at all. The conversations were welcome. Usually on the quiet nights, he would listen to real estate podcasts or park his car to catch up on jotting down ideas. Eight years in the navy and nine as police officer started to feel like it was time to call it quits. There was nothing better than clocking in and going out to ‘save the world’ but after being shot twice and shootouts seemingly every other month, the job started to take it’s toll.

Detroit was changing and now it was time to take a different approach to being a hero. One that wouldn’t cause bodily harm.

His mother was no help, either. She was already overprotective since his dad was gone and his job didn’t help her sleep any better. Now every time he goes to visit she makes sure to call down Heaven before he leaves her house…and pray for grandchildren. As annoyed as he usually became by her requests for children he was in no position to have right now, her prayers were always a comfort to him.

All of it was too much to think about. He just wanted to lay on a beach somewhere and go to sleep.

Lots of adjustments were being made and policies being changed overnight to accommodate the fact that people were asked to stay home. The air in the precinct grew thicker whenever there was a briefing with the police chief.

What’s next?! It’s already known that any call the precinct gets could potentially go south, but now the added worry of people in his own department catching a killer virus? Every single shift? That type of uneasiness was something that was palpable. Even the most seasoned vets struggled to swallow their fear.

The seven year old Demetrius was still in there: selfless, determined, protective. But grown Demetrius was well aware his limitations. That’s where Michelle started to creep in. Their texts, or quick chats, was something he started to look forward to; keeping him grounded when his mind wanted to run wild.

They didn’t talk tonight though. He wasn’t too bothered by it either.
It was a pretty hectic day for a lot of people. Schools were closed. Businesses shut down. Sports cancelled. You know it’s pretty serious when they cancel an WHOLE NBA season!

Lots of people were rushing in and out of every store imaginable to stock up on necessities. He was grateful for her suggestion to run out and grab toilet tissue a week ago because stores were all out of it today. The whole situation was starting to stress him out. His mother’s constant calls had him thinking of moving in with her just so she wouldn’t be alone. Times like this made him wish his father was around, or have someone to hold close.

Demetrius scratched his chin and sighed, hoping he could shake off some of the pressure he was beginning to feel, but it didn’t help.
“I just need time to think,” he mumbled to the air in his car.

As he laid his head back to rest his eyes, he felt the vibration of his phone on his belt. It was Michelle. Demetrius halted the smile that crept over his lips as he sat straight up in his seat. Their talks usually stopped around midnight so he didn’t know what it meant for her to be calling him at four in the morning. “Hey, you good?” he answered.

There was rustling on her end for about five seconds. It felt like an eternity before she responded. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry for calling so late. Are you at work?”
“Yeah,” he said, more relieved that she was ok more than anything. Easing back into his seat, a lazy grin found his lips. So this is what she sounds like when she wakes up? There was a smokiness to her voice that reminded him of Ella Fitzgerald. His grandmother would always play her songs while she rocked him in her arms. Ignoring the invitation to allow his thoughts to trail off, he quickly asked, “Why are you up?”

“Because of you,” she said clearing her throat. He could tell that she was still trying to shake the sleep off her voice. She inhaled, “I really don’t know why, but I just have a strong urge to pray for you.”

Before Demetrius could respond, Michelle started. Naturally, out of respect, he closed his eyes but she prayed with a fervor and an authority that he just stared at the phone in amazement. The more she went on the more free he felt a fondness for her. Other than his mother and grandmothers, no woman had petitioned so strongly for him.

She prayed a Cool-aid smile on his face.
“I really appreciate that,” he sighed. “It’s been really crazy lately and that couldn’t have come at a more perfect time. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she yawned. “Please be safe, though.”

“Is that you showing that you care?” he teased.
“Good night Demetrius,” she laughed softly.

Demetrius sat up in his seat, feeling lighter, ready to finish his shift strong.

Love is like flying, huh?

The Unexpected: A Quarantine Love Story Pt. 2

Hope Against Hope

maskpic Marcel just had to say it.

“Mommy, maybe it won’t snow for our birthdays this year!”

It was just like her child to be optimistic. Michelle forced a smile and kissed her prince on his forehead before he ran to the silent beckoning of his toys.

The sun beams were flowing in through her sheer grommet curtains. She stood still for a quick sun bath on her bronze skin. She imagined a warm breeze sweeping across her face, leading her to an oceans edge.

A sigh escaped her. A snow free February would be a very welcomed gift for Michelle; she wouldn’t have to cancel any birthday plans.

But that was a gift they’d have to wait on. The weatherman just informed of a storm to hit her area that would dump out 8-10 inches of snow on Friday. Tomorrow. The beginning of their birthday wee…well…Marcel’s birthday weekend. Her birthday was four days later. The school district had already closed schools in anticipation of the big drop.

Michelle couldn’t help but laugh to herself. The image of a young Jaden Smith from The Karate Kid popped into her head as she watched as a lone snow flake fell into the window pane.

I hate it here, she thought

The next morning, Michelle woke up to the sounds of snow blowers and shovels scraping their way across the pavement. She checked her phone; it was 7 am. She slept in since she didn’t have to take Marcel to school, but she still wanted to clear the snow. Since most of it had come overnight, it would be easier just to walk over the remaining inch or two.

“You want to help me shovel the snow?” she asked, kissing Marcel on his forehead.
“No, I’m going to sit this one out,” he beamed.
“Good choice.”

As she began to suit up at the front door, she heard noises from her porch, which sounded a little too close.

Peeking through the view hole, she saw a man at her doorstep, shoveling. He had already done the sidewalk and walk way leading to her door. “Hey!” she quickly opened the door. “I got that, sir. I don’t have cash on me to pay for this.”

“No problem,” he said, taking off his hood. “I wasn’t asking for money anyway.”

“Wait,” she pressed her forehead to the glass, getting a closer look. She recognized his eyes right away.. He wasn’t as bundled up as the last time she saw him so she was able to get a better look at him. He had the smoothest brown skin she had seen in a while. “You’re the security guy.”

“Yeah, lieutenant actually.” He flashed that smile again, “You said ‘Next time'”.

“What?”

“Last time it snowed. Remember?”

“Huh?” she said, giving herself enough time to refocus. Just like the last time, his smile was distracting. It was something about nice teeth inside of the smile of a beautiful black man. “Wait, what? You remember that?” she glared, suddenly questioning his very presence on her porch. Sure he was good looking, but she found it odd that someone would show up almost three months later to help a perfect stranger shovel snow.

He chuckled to himself, as if reading her thoughts. “I”m not crazy.”

“That’s what crazy people say.”

He let out a laugh that startled her at first. Michelle clutched invisible pearls as he recovered and smiled again. “Ma’am, I promise I’m not crazy. I just have a habit of remembering the things that I agree to do. My mom always taught me to be a man of my word. I agreed, so I’m here.”

“Oh.”

That’s it. That’s all she allowed herself to say. Years of being single left her with only a handful of words to say a man, especially one who was trying to be helpful because, well, it didn’t happen often. It never stopped her from praying for help though! ‘Oh’ was all she had right now. This attractive stranger was proof that God has odd ways of answering.

“I’m Officer Thomas. Demetrius. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Chelle,” she corrected herself, “I’m Michelle” He nodded and smiled again. She wished he would stop doing that. It’s not often that Michelle was at a loss for words. As a counselor, she always had solutions, or even words of encouragement, ready to go for anyone she encountered, but right now she couldn’t figure out why she was so tongue tied. She gave a weak smile and shifted in her stance before stuttering out, “Thank you! This is an unexpected birthday gift.”

His face lit up with excitement. “It’s your birthday?”

Michelle scrunched up her face realizing that her thoughts were spoken. She wanted to shut the door right then. This kindness, this conversation, as innocent as it seemed, was making her uncomfortable. After a deep inhale, she resolved that honesty was just her best bet but she’d make it a point to watch what she says the next time.

Wait…next time??

“No, my birthday is on the 16th, but my son’s is tomorrow.” Demetrius rested his hands on the top of his shovel, perking up at the potential of a conversation. His smile was disarming so she added, “But by the looks of it, I’ll have to push his party to another day.”

“Aww, that sucks,” he sympathized. “What are you going to do for your birthday?”

Michelle shrugged. “I haven’t done anything for the last six years. This one will be no different.” She made the mistake of letting go of a soft chuckled and when she looked up she found herself staring into his light brown eyes, captivated by his intense gaze. As if he was studying her face. Marcel’s rustling in the living room gave her a reason to look away.

Mr. Mike, the mailman, was the only man who come on her porch. Of course the occasional delivery driver, too. That’s what living alone and away from family gets you. But this? This was new.

“I really appreciate you doing this, Officer Thomas.”

“Oh yeah,” he cleared his throat. He looked caught off guard, “My pleasure, and please, call me Meech.”

Michelle pretended to search her pockets, “I’ll have to figure out how I can repay you.”

“We’ll figure that out,” he laughed, “But go ahead and hang out with your little man. Take care.” He turned to get back to work and Michelle quickly closed her door, not wanting to stand there watching him. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but it was something about him, something magnetic.

Hours later, after Mario Kart, The Incredibles, lunch, a big snowman in the backyard, dinner, and The Incredibles 2, Michelle went to take out the trash. While some of her neighbors worked to shovel the heavy, wet snow she stood grateful for the work Officer Thomas had done for her. She turned to find a small lime green gift bag hanging on her door knob. Inside were two cards. One addressed Michelle and the other Little Man.
She opened hers first:

After calculating the total work done on your property today, your smile was more than enough payment. Go do something for YOU. Happy Birthday Gorgeous! P.S. I don’t know if you like flowers so to be safe, I drew you some first. –Meech

Michelle erupted in laughter, quickly covering her mouth. There was a pitiful bouquet of three roses that he had drawn in blue ink. She could tell that he was nowhere near an artist but the gesture had plastered a smile on her face.

As she opened Marcel’s card, there was a note written on the inside fold of the envelop.

Because I sense you’re a great mom, I know you’d find this first 🙂 252-337-2274

The audacity! The thoughtfulness! How dare he make a move and force a decision on her part! SHE DIDN’T EVEN KNOW HIM!!! But she knew that he felt different. It was something she couldn’t explain. As she dabbed away the evidence of her outburst from the corner of her eyes, all she could do was thank God for the gift.

She was never a girl who liked real flowers.