Page 6 of The Marriage Policy
I’ve never been much of a cook—something my dad playfully teases me about. He’s always been the cook at home, even when he was busy. He learned from his mama, his favorites being traditionally Southern meals that use a lot of oil and aredelicious as hell. He was born in Tennessee. His mama had the only Black-owned restaurant in their small town. My dad had left when he turned eighteen, wanting to be out West. It’s where he met my mom. We don’t speak to her family. They didn’t like her being with a Black man, and she told them to fuck off, but we do try and go see our family out in Tennessee whenever we’re able.
Eric cooks differently from my pops, but it’s good in its own way. I scarf down my breakfast, pack up my lunch, then head out the door. We’re the trauma hospital on call today, so it’s sure to be busy.
I’m in my car when my phone buzzes. I smile, knowing who it is.
Eric: Have a good day at work!
I wait until I get to a red light to reply.
Me: You too, babe.
“Thank God you’re here,” Perlie, one of the nightshift nurses, says to me when I arrive. The emergency department is already hectic—a patient screaming in one room, beds filled in the hallway, all the nurses running around.
“I’m suddenly wishing I was off today.”
“Baby.” She runs a hand over her buzzed head. She’s in her sixties and knows her shit. She’s one of my favorite nurses from the night staff. “You have no idea.”
I get report from another nurse, then send a quick text to Eric.
Me: Gonna be busy today.
Eric: Need me to come over tonight? Make dinner or pamper you?
I laugh. I get that our relationship is confusing to people. They assume there’s something more going on between us than there is. I’m not going to lie and say I don’t realize we’re probably too codependent. God, Malcolm hated it. He used to tell me all the time that Eric was possessive of me or that he took advantageof me, never willing to see that the friendship Eric and I have is more give and take than anything he’d ever shared with me.
Me: Nah. I’m good. Hang out with Ana.
I add a winking emoji.
Eric: I was with her last night.
I frown, but before I can think about it much, my name is called, so I shove my phone into my scrubs and get to work.
The day is busy, just like I knew it would be. I hate to see people sick or hurt, of course, but I love taking care of people, helping to make them feel better. Nurses and doctors were my superheroes when I was young—them and my physical therapists. Even when I was hurting or frustrated, I always knew they were doing their best to find all the answers they could for us. The nurses would spend so much time talking to my parents, letting them ask questions, holding my hand when my parents couldn’t be there. I always knew that’s what I wanted to do.
My house feels quiet when I get home, and I consider messaging Eric to see if he still wants to come over.
“No. Don’t do it. Don’t depend on Eric so much,” I tell myself.
Friends are still something I don’t have a lot of, and I still work hard to make sure Eric never feels tied down by our friendship because the truth is, my favorite place to be is and always will be with him.
CHAPTER THREE
Eric
The basketball bouncesoff the rim, and I jump up, securing the rebound. The second I land—rather awkwardly and not straight on my feet like I should—pain shoots through my ankle, and I know I fucked up. Big-time fucked up.
“Shit,” I curse quietly, trying to keep weight off my right ankle.
“Um…pretty sure I heard a crack,” Tim says.
“No.” I shake my head. There wasn’t a crack. He couldn’t have heard a crack. What will I do if there was a crack?
I step gingerly on my foot, and sharp pain pierces me.
“Fuuuuuck,” I say, louder this time, because the situation definitely calls for it.
Tim wraps an arm around me and helps me hobble to one of the chairs beside the indoor court at our gym. Each movement, each time my ankle jostles, I get more pain, and that’s beside the continuous ache and throbbing.
