Left by Shyla Colt Read Free Book Online Page A

me maid of honor at your wedding.”
    “NO need to move at warp speed.”
    “By my account, y’all are at least two years behind. Nothing about this will be slow.”
    “You’re supposed to be helping me figure things out. His birthday is tomorrow, and I have to show my face.”
    “I’ll help you by taking you to the mall so you can pick out some new lingerie for you future boo.”
    “Is this where you ignore my reality and insert you own?”
    “No, this is where I give you the truth wither you want to hear it or not. That’s your man. Has been for a long time now. It takes more than copulation to cement a relationship.”
    “Now you sound like him,” I mumble.
    Ef laughs. “Knew I liked him for a reason.”
    “I can’t wait until you finally get into a serious relationship.”
    “Oh no, I like my life unpredictable and fancy free, babe. When someone books me. I like being able to jump on a plane, into a car, without a thought about anyone else. I don’t even own a fish. What the hell would I do with an entire person?” Ef asks looking genuinely disgusted.
    Her lip and nose curl up as if she’s discovered a rancid item in the fridge.
    “People aren’t pets. Ef. Unless, you’re into that type of thing. I never judge.”
    “Girl, please. I have enough problems making choices for myself.” I laugh. “Do you feel better at least?” she asks.
    “Yes?”
    “You’re impossible, you know that?” she snatches the mirror from me and lays it on a small wooden table. “Come, let me ply you with wine, pluck you for more information, and help you decide what you’re wearing to see Houston tomorrow. Mama is going to get you laid.”
    “Ugh, Ef. I need an impartial third party.”
    “Whenever have I ever not had an opinion?” she asks.
    “Point taken,” I say as I climb from the bench and follow her out to the kitchen. She reaches into the fridge and pulls out a bottle of Moscato. She pops the cork while I pull down two wine glasses. The hand painted stemware is a reminder of a weekend trip we took. I set them down.
    “What did you get your boo for his birthday anyway?” she asks as I pour the wine.
    “A man crate.”
    “Come again?” The looked confusion on her face makes me laugh.
    “A man crate. They’re this insanely intelligent company that makes crates for men. They have things from beer brews to witling sets, and video game boxes.”
    “What kind did you get him?”
    “I got him a shaving crate. It has all the essentials, beard oil, shaving cream, brush, razor, and shaving soap. I know he’s almost out of a lot of that.”
    “See that right there.” She points to me. “That’s wifely duties.”
    “Buying him something he’ll use?”
    “Knowing that he needs refills on his grooming products.”
    I open my mouth and close it. I have no rebuttal for that. She’s right. I knew because I was putting away laundry and happened to see the nearly empty bottle on his dresser.
    “Pour me a full glass,” I say as the truth hits me. We crossed the line from friends to something gray and unexplored a long time ago. The time has come to start adding definition. I can’t hide the flutter of anticipation in my stomach. Firm soft, and talented enough to charm the britches off the preacher’s daughter, his lips are a lethal weapon. His calloused hands are warm, and he makes me feel small and fragile. I’m pushing six feet, and a solid one-hundred-and-sixty pounds. It’s a rare feeling.  I wonder if he’ s big all over. The bulge I felt pressed against my belly has me thinking the answer is yes.
    I take a healthy gulp of my wine. Like the moon with the tides, I’m being pulled by a force greater than myself toward an inevitable event.
    ***
    “Did you wear this for me?” Houston asks. I shift my weight from one candy red heeled foot to the other. It took Efia and me an hour to come up with the scoop neck black dress I’ve accessorized with a red belt. It’s a little fancier than I usually