Be My Reason: A BWWM Romance (Make It Marriage Book 10)

by Nia Arthurs

  “That’s why I was calling you,” Willie says, knocking back his hardhat and wiping his forehead. “I was just on the back porch talking to the guys at the city council.”

  I frown hard. “Don’t tell me that ridiculous claim went through.”

  “They’re delaying construction to carry out a historical landmark investigation.” Willie shakes his head. “What are we going to do now, boss? The clients are going to be pissed. They only went with us because we promised quality and speed.”

  My head starts to pound. Owning my own business and being a single dad means I’m constantly juggling details and running from one emergency to the next. Most of the time, I feel like a fish flopping out of water. Gasping for air, struggling to get back into the ocean, but so far from the edge of the dock that I’ll probably die before I get there.

  I stare Willie down. “Why didn’t we move when we were supposed to? The city council call came two hours after our scheduled demolition.”

  “We started, boss, but a crazy lady kept trying to give history lessons…” He glowered. “She held us up on purpose. I think she’s the one responsible for all of this.”

  I massage the bridge of my nose.

  This couldn’t have happened at a more terrible time.

  “What are we going to do now?” Willie asks, a worried crease between his brows. “Are we going to lose this gig?”

  A stone drops into the pit of my stomach.

  We both know I can’t afford to lose this farmhouse deal.

  My crew’s livelihood depends on it.

  My daughter’s health depends on it.

  “No.” My jaw muscles flex as I pull out my phone to call the city council. “I’ll straighten this out. Don’t worry. We’re tearing this farmhouse down no matter what.”

  Three

  Brenna

  The stranger with the gorgeous green eyes keeps popping up in my thoughts. I chew on my bottom lip as warmth spreads through my chest.

  I didn’t think my morning would end so happily. Watching that little girl chasing her ball into the street nearly destroyed me. I’d seen that tragedy play out before.

  DeShawna.

  The name slides guilt through me.

  I freeze mid-step.

  Memories fill my vision like dark clouds rushing through the sky.

  A little girl. One with skin a shade darker than mine and eyes full of innocence.

  A car racing around the bend. Shiny and glimmering. Grills for teeth. Headlamps for eyes. A hood desperate to devour.

  My heartbeat picks up.

  Sweat beads on my upper lip.

  I drag myself into a corner of the library’s foyer and inhale.

  Breathe slowly, Brenna. It wasn’t your fault. Remember what the therapist said?

  I’m not doing this today.

  I’m making progress.

  I’m better.

  Healed.

  It’s a good day. First, I met Green Eyes. Then the hold on the farmhouse was approved. If only I’d gotten Green Eyes’s number, things would have been perfect.

  I take out my tube of lipstick and reapply.

  Pink smears over my dark brown lips.

  There.

  Armor in place.

  Smile in place.

  My phone buzzes.

  Kaelyn’s name appears on the screen.

  I pick up the phone with one hand and open the door to the children’s section of the library with the other. “Hey, Kae.”

  “Did you get to the city council in time?”

  “Yes, I did.” My heartbeat returns to normal.

  “How hard are you grinning right now?” Kaelyn asks.

  “On a scale of one to ten, my cheeks are about to explode.” I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the small mirror. Beneath the glass is a placard that says, ‘the person you’re looking at is amazing’.

  She laughs. “Congratulations. Can you tell me the details now?”

  “Can’t.” I wave at the organizer of the book club. “I’m celebrating.”

  “You’re at the library, aren’t you? Research?”

  “Kids section.”

  “You’re doing story time again?”

  “Our kids deserve to know their history. Besides, they’re not too young to own cell phones. Pretty soon, they’ll be our blog’s loyal supporters.”

  Kaelyn laughs breezily. “Brenna, they’re all, like, eight.”

  “And we’ll have hooked them on the beauty of history when they’re young. See why I’m the boss?”

  “Fine. Have fun.” There’s laughter in Kaelyn’s voice. I imagine her shaking her head at me, her dark brown skin glowing with just a hint of her favorite maroon-colored blush and her braids sliding down the crop tops she loves to wear. “See you in an hour.”

  I hang up and focus on my surroundings. The noise level sounds like a thousand birds chattering in excitement. It amuses me that only ten little kids are producing such auditory chaos. Beanbags are scattered on the floor. Green and yellow walls peep between large posters filled with quotes from the icons of black excellence.

  Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that.

  Martin Luther King Jr.

  One of my favorites.

  My eyes graze the familiar layout before landing on an unfamiliar pair of bright brown eyes, light brown skin and the prettiest, dimpled smile I’ve ever seen.

  The little girl’s head doesn’t reach my knee and there’s a frailness in her shoulders and tiny body that hints of an ailment, but the way she stands straight and tall and the spark of intelligence in her eyes overshadows all else.

  “Hello,” I say, waving. “What’s your name?”

  “Hi.” Her smile widens. “I’m Marinette.”

  “Oh?” I catch a glimpse of her shirt and my eyes double back. “That wouldn’t happen to be the name of the ladybug superhero, would it?”

  “Nope. It’s my name.” She gives me another brilliant grin.

  A woman waddles up to us and fondly pats the girl’s shoulder. She has dark brown skin, greying hair and eyes that look like they’ve seen too much.

  The way she nudges Marinette is gentle and loving. “Honey, we talked about this. That’s not your real name.”

  “It’s fine.” A kid’s imagination is the most precious thing and, as long as she’s not hurting anyone, I see no reason to not go along with it. “Check this out.” I lift my elbow and show off the scrapes that Green Eyes so tenderly took care of this morning. “Cool, right?”

  “Whoa!” Her eyes widen and she grabs on my elbow.

  I wince but hide it behind a smile as I gently pull my hand back.

  “How did you get hurt?”

  “I got a couple scrapes when I fell on the sidewalk, but these magical band-aids made me feel so much better.”

  “I have band-aids just like that!” She trembles with excitement.

  “Yeah? This ladybug character must be popular.” I inspect the band-aid that Green Eyes gave me.

  A thrill slips down my spine when I remember him tenderly stroking my elbow as he applied the ointment. So much gentleness from a man with such rough, calloused hands.

  He really must be a great dad.

  ‘Marinette’ bobs her head. Her hairstyle is absolutely darling. Three braids intersect at the front and feed back into several plaits that hover around her chin. I need her hairdresser’s number because I can’t get my hair to do anything that intricate.

  “Have you watched the show?” she asks.

  “Not yet, but I might check it out. What’s your favorite episode?”

  The kid dives into a deep analytical spiel—well, as analytical as a seven-year-old can be—about her favorite superheroes.

  I bob my head intensely, hanging on every word.

  “Miss B?” The organizer calls my name. Kids have been butchering ‘Brenna’ since I started volunteering here, so we settled on something easy to pronounce and remember.

  “Gl—Marinette,” the e
lderly woman touches her shoulders, “Miss B needs to go and read the story now.”

  “Oh.” Marinette frowns and her little brows pinch together.

  “It’s okay. You can finish telling me about the show after.”

  Marinette brightens like I just promised her a million bucks.

  “Go find your seat,” the grandmother says. As Marinette rushes off, the woman leans toward me. “I’m sorry, we just moved to town and she hasn’t been out much at all, but she just loves books and I thought it wouldn’t be too taxing if we brought her here.” The woman flashes me an apologetic smile. “She’s a little exuberant.”

  “No, I like it.”

  “She likes you.” The woman nods. “It was the band-aids. Good taste.”

  I laugh and head to the front of the room. “Hey, kids. Are you ready to hear an amazing story?”

  “What’s it about?” Marinette asks.

  I settle down in my chair. “A group of ancient all-female warriors who ruled a kingdom in faraway Africa.”

  Her eyes bug until they’re the size of dinner plates. “Whoa.”

  Yes, whoa.

  I take my seat and guide the kids into the world I create with my words. Only this world is way more exciting than a regular book. Because this world isn’t made-up. It’s history.

  Our history.

  Mine.

  Marinette’s.

  All the kids and adults and babies blessed with melanin.

  Few people understand why I find these moments so thrilling, but I treasure these story-times as much as I do my work preserving African American landmarks like the farmhouse.

  When I grew up, there were only a handful of black icons discussed in school.

  The subject was smushed within book reports and cultural heritage days and black history months.

  It was silent in the spaces of the minds that would have thrived on the knowledge.

  Knowledge is power, and learning more about where I come from, where we come from, makes me feel so powerful.

  There are still so many stories of black excellence and history waiting to be told.

  So many stories of triumph and perseverance.

  So many.

  And the world doesn’t know.

  Or doesn’t care.

  But these kids?

  They sparkle.

  Because the people doing extraordinary things in the stories were real and looked just like them. Which means they can do those extraordinary things too.

  As I turn the last page of the storybook, I lock eyes with Marinette. Her chest is puffing out and her chin is rising a little higher.

  As I spy the confidence in her eyes, my heart rises too. In that moment, I promise myself that I won’t ever stop fighting.

  For moments like this.

  For people like us.

  For the farmhouse that is a part of our story.

  The documents I sent to the city council are just the preliminaries. I have two weeks to get an official case together to prove the farmhouse is a local historical landmark.

  And I’m going to make that happen.

  For me.

  And for little kids like Marinette.

  Four

  Heath

  A sharp chirp echoes in the silence of the farmhouse. I snag my phone out of my pocket and check the caller ID.

  Dad.

  I stand there, staring at the screen and wondering if I should just block dad’s number.

  Willie frowns. “You gon’ get that?”

  I let out a deep breath and glance at him. “We have a smaller job over on the other side of town. Let’s move that project up while we sort this one out. We can’t afford to let a day go by without work.”

  “Got it.” Willie salutes me.

  I give him my back as I bring the cell phone to my ear.

  My fingers tremble.

  I stare long and hard at the screen before I press the button to answer. “Dad.”

  “Heath.”

  I say nothing.

  “How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  His voice cracks as he tries to keep up the facade of the loving father. “I heard you were in town.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can we… would you… if you have time…?”

  “I don’t have time, dad.” I stride out of the house and into the sunshine.

  My eyes gravitate to the sidewalk where I ran into the woman who made my heart stop beating for a full minute. The woman who saved the child. I reach for the warmth that her memory brings, but it eludes me. Dad’s presence is too grating for me to focus on anything else.

  “If it’s not important, Dad—”

  “It’s about Glory.”

  I freeze, my entire body running cold as if someone just poured a bucket of ice on me. “You have no right to say that name.”

  “Heath—”

  “I don’t have time for your B.S., Dad.”

  “This is important.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “It’s not something I can tell you over the phone. Can we meet in person? Please, son.”

  Nostrils flaring, I give in. “Fine. Where are you?”

  He rattles off the name of a cafe and I jump into my car, tapping out the address on my phone. After I’m done, I wrap my fingers around the steering wheel and just sit there.

  I can’t move. It’s like there’s someone holding my shoulders down, pressing me into the chair. Into the floor mats. Into the ground.

  I have a bad feeling about this.

  Forcing myself to start the car, I drive to the meeting point.

  As expected, it’s no ordinary cafe. Cigar smoke hangs heavy in the air. A fog. A mist. A vain attempt to cloak the stench of aimlessness. Of despair. Putrid ambition wafts from the men who bury themselves in velvet booths at ten in the morning.

  Everything about the decor is carefully pretentious. The wooden panels. The mahogany bar. The wall filled with custom cigars. The gold edged windows.

  Trying too hard.

  This place is struggling to feel more important than it is.

  Dad’s sitting around the bar, nursing a glass of scotch. I head toward him, my strides long and determined. No matter what he spouts today, I’m not letting him near Glory. I’m not letting him take my little girl.

  My body folds into the plush chair. The bartender pours me a scotch without my prompting, and I assume dad gave that particular instruction. I push the glass aside and turn to him. “You have five minutes.”

  Dad peers at me.

  My eyes.

  I got them from him.

  But Dad’s eyes have no light in them. No will. No kindness.

  He’s just a hollow version of himself. It’s pitiful, but it’s hard to drum up compassion for a man who went wild, searching for something to spark him back to life, and then refused to acknowledge the consequences of those stupid actions.

  Not that I’m condemning him. Dad lashing out to get back at mom is how I got my daughter.

  “Have a drink, Heath.”

  “The point, Dad.” I drum my fingers on the counter. “I’m losing my patience.”

  He sighs. “I heard she’s been in and out of the hospital. More out than in now, thankfully. She’s getting better.”

  “Did you hire a PI?” My shoulders stiffen.

  “Your mom and I have friends everywhere, you know.” He swings toward me. “And yeah.”

  I laugh bitterly. My father hiring someone to spy on us instead of asking himself is one of the reasons I won’t, under any circumstances, allow him to take Glory from me.

  “I know an amazing caretaker. She’s a licensed nurse with over thirty years of experience. I’ll send her to your place tomorrow.”

  “We already have a caretaker.”

  “That Mercy woman? She’s not good enough. Didn’t you pick her off the street?”

  “That’s none of your damn business,” I growl.

  “Heath, I know you’re struggling to get that con
tractor gig off the ground. I hear your clients aren’t too happy about the farmhouse delay too. Money must be tight.”

  “I’ll take care of my own problems, dad. You have no right to—”

  “I have every right,” Dad snaps. “I have…” His eyes mist with tears. “She’s my daughter, Heath.”

  His words slam into my chest like bullets. Rapid-fire. Burning with the sting of a thousand flames.

  She’s my daughter.

  “No, she’s not.”

  “That’s not what the paternity tests will say.”

  I slam my palm flat against the bar and rise. “Are you threatening me?”

  “I’m asking you.” Dad turns his mossy green eyes to me, and I see the conflict in them. The man clamoring to cut his chains and be something greater than he is. “Let me see my daughter.”

  “Do not call her that,” I snarl.

  “Heath—”

  “You gave up that right when you abandoned her,” I warn. “Seven years ago, Glory was a sick orphan with no home and no family. You were the only hope she had, and you told the social worker to let her die.”

  Dad’s face blooms with red. “I regret that so much, son. I really do.”

  “Regret won’t change the past, will it, Dad?” I toss a twenty on the counter and growl, “That’s for the drink.”

  “I don’t want to fight with you, Heath,” Dad croaks.

  I freeze, my back to him and my eyes on the door.

  Dad’s voice gets stronger. “I don’t want to fight… but I will.”

  I storm to the exits and let the door slam shut. The moment I get into my car, paranoia hits me. What if dad has eyes on Glory right now?

  The thought makes me uneasy.

  I call Mercy and get her location. Driving to the library close to our apartment, I pull the vehicle to the curb and settle my nerves before I climb out. Mercy’s way too perceptive and I don’t want to alarm her or Glory yet.

  “Daddy!” Glory squeals, her face lighting up at the sight of me.

  I get down on one knee, watching her with a sincere smile. She’s wearing one of her ladybug shirts and a pair of pink leggings. Her hair bounces as she jumps into my arms.

  “Hey, sweetie.” I spin her around and keep her close to me. “You had a good time?”