Chapter 27
Justice
Did I sense Brody leave? Over the last couple of years, my dreams have been an extension of my reality—vivid, highly tangible—where I’m running or fighting for myself. Early this morning, Maxwell’s “Lonely’s the Only Company” became the elevator music as I roamed a golden wheat field in my dreams. That settles it. Brody left then. Although, he bothered with tearing a piece of paper from my composition book to leave a note.
The book’s contents are half-finished poems. I haven’t struggled over them for as long as I can remember. I’d found the book when moving in.
A bitter burn bites at my tear ducts. Holding one arm around myself, I read the short letter aloud: You already know I make the best pancakes.
Despite the tears veiling my eyes, a delicate smile creeps across my face. I had to meet with my father this morning. Snuck out, so no worries about your whiny ass friend, the rest reads.
I laugh out loud at that one. My mind flits to last night. With the determination and rapidity of a cheetah, I’d worked at removing the corset before he came back into the room. Whether five hundred pounds overweight or diagnosed as anorexic, I love to have my waist snatched as much as the next woman. Lord knows, he’d seen my waistline before I’d packed each lump like a sardine. I scan over the conclusion of Brody’s note. He’d promised to make amends for rushing off.
“Tonight,” I mutter. He’ll atone for leaving. I hold myself close after a night of rapture.
Humph. “Lance was never nearly as passionate.” Regardless, this was the part I vowed to skip—where I came in second place in my own love story.
I groan beneath my breath, crumpling the paper in my hand. You did this to yourself, Justice. Momma would be ashamed that I’ve run after a practically engaged man.
* * *
An hour later, I’ve climbed out of a brutally hot shower and dressed for the day. Tiny laughter comes from the kitchen, where Chevelle and Mia are at the table. Chevelle runs her hand over her daughter’s silky, rumple of hair, looking far away for a moment.
I cock a brow. “Hey, girl, how was last night?”
“Good morning, Justice.” Chevelle’s mouth moves uneasily into a grimace. “I should be asking you. I heard Mr. McFarland making demands of Erika and Brody.”
“Tsk, that’s not my drama. That’s theirs.” I wave a hand. “You were meeting with an old family friend?”
She winces at the word. “One of my father’s oldest friends. I can’t even wrap my head around m-my th-thoughts. Feels like I’m nine years old again.”
Her eyes shift toward Mia. The gorgeous tot crunches Fruit Loops, dropping about as many spoonfuls in her mouth as her lap too. A discussion about Chevelle’s parents’ death when she was a kid isn’t appropriate now.
“Alright, I’ll go first.” I claim a seat across from them at the wooden table. “Hell, I’m always the one telling you not to color your words.” I realize neither conversation is kid friendly. Chevelle, still consumed by the past, seems to realize it after a few more seconds too. She slips her iPhone and EarPods from her jean pocket. While I pour from the healthier cereal on the table, Chevelle secures her little one with entertainment.
Helpless at containing myself any longer, I ask, “What’s the longest relationship you’ve ever seen Brody in?”
“Easy. Zero days.”
“Chevelle,” I gasp. A sudden bout of greed devastates my entire body. Last night, Brody’s touch, his deep stroke, all his ravishing reconfigured my brain. “I want him.”
“Mommy!” Mia cuts in, yanking the earphones out. “More Fruit Loops, pleaseee.”
With Mia watching us, I sugarcoat my conversation. “Chevelle, what’s your opinion on a couple of snacks then? What am I saying? You-know-who isn’t snack material.” He’s a full-course meal. “If I have dinner, for instance, dessert’s a natural course of action in that scenario. Why not have dessert too?”
“A snack can’t hurt in moderation.” Chevelle chuckles, enjoying my pain, grabbing the Fruit Loops. “Make it an afternoon snack, not a midnight snack. You call the shots.”
My lips mash together. “I’ve already said he, ahem, it’s not an adequate snack, Chevelle.”
“Okay, then, Justice, you’ve had that snack. Now, find yourself a healthier, fulfilling snack.”
Leith enters the kitchen, pulling a sweaty shirt over his abs. He’s wearing basketball shorts and running shoes. “Wit are the two of ye talking about?”
“Dieting,” Chevelle tells him. “Justice needs to go on a diet. I’m not saying to drop sweets. It’s just certain ones give cavities.”
“I thought all sweets . . .” he pauses, lips hovering over hers in confusion for a moment before kissing her.
“All sweets are good, essentially, in moderation,” I add. “Like a slice of cake that one has for dinner every few days or so.”