Page 19 of Butterfly 6, Phase 1

“I need to be billing you for these hours since you’re holding me up,” she replied, only half joking.

An unexpected smile graced his lips, a halfhearted one, but it counted. “Send me the bill. It’s worth it.”

The smirk and the licking of lips made Khadeen’s stomach tense because she was aware of the line between them. She was also aware that men like Messiah enjoyed crossing those lines simply to see if they could.

She shifted in her stance, gripping the braided metal strap on her Classic Chanel bag for dear life. “What’s the question?”

“How do I deal with Mo? She knows about Bleu, and she’s so mad she can’t even look at me. We stuck in that room with our daughter, and I’m choking in that bitch.”

Khadeen sighed. “Wow, you did have a rough night after I left, huh?” she commented.

“Shorty’s hell on them mu’fucking heels she like to wear when she’s mad. It’s the worst feeling a nigga ever felt. It sends me to a bad place,” Messiah admitted. “When she puts my back against the wall, and we’re fighting, I spiral. I go dark.”

“She has a lot of reasons to be upset with you. That’s her truth. You can allow her to feel what she feels without allowing her feelings to navigate your own. You two have bigger problems to slay right now. Keep your children centered first. Acknowledge you messed up, but also acknowledge that now is not the time to focus on it. Establish an appropriate time to speak on those issues because you don’t want to dismiss them. You don’t want her to feel like this big thing with your daughter gives you a pass to escape accountability for all the other things you guys have to talk about. Those things exist at the same time, but they have to be prioritized. You are parents first, and you’re going through a crisis. Dedicate time later to address the relationship issues, so Morgan is confident that you aren’t trying to get a free pass on your BS. You two need to be a team as you navigate Yara’s medical needs. When you’re ready to deal with the betrayal trauma she’s experiencing, do it in therapy. It’s a fair battleground to fight, and there is a referee. Even if it’s not with me, have a professional present.”

Messiah pushed out a long, deep breath. “Thank you.”

She checked her watch, and Messiah instantly noticed the value of the dainty piece. Her flex was so soft you could miss it if you were used to a flashy woman. Cartier on her wrist. A simple Perlée collection pendant hanging from her neck. The handbag. The shoes. Even the perfume she wore. High value than a mu’fucka. She moved like silent wealth. There wasn’t a logo in sight. Everything about Khadeen was rich, from the glow of her moisturized skin to the abundance of information she shared. A nigga had to go deep in his bag to afford her price.

“I hate to leave, but I really should get going,” she said.

“I appreciate you, KD.” He leaned down to hug her, and Khadeen stiffened. She was taken off guard by the embrace, but the warmth and amber scent of his cologne, mixed with the security of his embrace, softened her. She reluctantly sighed, allowing him this connection. She felt him shudder and heard him stifle emotion as his chest went rock solid. Messiah wanted to cry. He was fighting tooth and fucking nail to hold his shit together as his hands moved over her back.

“It’s okay,” she whispered as her hands went up his back and she held him back tightly. She rubbed the back of his neck, consoling him. “I promise it’s going to be okay.”

He’s probably never been wrapped in support a day of his life, she thought sympathetically. The history of his abuse from his father played through her mind. She wondered if his mother had ever held him as a child. She parted her lips to ask, knowing the question may be difficult for him.

“This is so inappropriate, but I feel like you’ve never been held like this before, so I’m going to ignore that intuition we talked about, and I’m just going to keep holding you,” she said.

“I’ve felt a hug like this before,” Messiah said, burying his face deeper into her shoulder.

“From your mom?” Khadeen asked.

“Nah, not her,” Messiah mumbled. “But the shit felt just like this, man.” He thought of Alani, and suddenly, his sadness deepened. He wished he could ask for her presence. They could all use a little bit of Alani right now. Her faith. The way she corralled the lot of Okafors, making sense of their chaos. The way she prayed. Alani just exuded love. When Messiah looked at her, he saw strength. Alani was proof that a person could come back from the impossible. They could use her support, but she was recovering, and he knew she was in no condition to sit vigil with them over Yara.

“And what does this feel like?” Khadeen asked.

“Like you’re the only person who can stop me from crashing out.” She pulled back to look at him. Her heart went idle. Most women craved men like Messiah. They aspired to be the peace a man like Messiah could find in the middle of the storm. Khadeen had learned that the responsibility that came with that role usually interrupted her own. Leave it to a man to make a woman his heaven while he stirred up hell in her life.

Damn, he thought as he admired her. There was something about Khadeen that was unique to Messiah. She was beautiful, but it was more than that. Her eyes held a mystery that he couldn’t unlock. She looked at him like she had the answers to any question he might have about himself, like she had studied his history and was an expert on the things he didn’t speak of.

“I’m going to teach you to stop yourself from crashing out,” she answered. “You have to learn to protect yourself from harm, not just from the people around you. Self-harm is a real thing, too. The way you speak to yourself, the way you view yourself. I can only imagine the damage you do inside your head. The decisions you make can contribute to self-improvement or self-harm. Your choices reflect how you feel about yourself. I’m going to teach you to make decisions that aren’t self-deprecating. I plan to do my very best work on you, Messiah. All you got to do is be willing to learn. Yara is going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

“I can’t lose my daughter,” he whispered as he looked down at her. Something about Khadeen was authoritative in a way that made him feel like her word was law. She had worked her way into his mind, and Messiah had resisted it at first. Now, he wondered what her perspective would be when she wasn’t around, and he had a problem to solve. “I just got her, man. I ain’t had enough time.” Messiah’s heart was breaking, and Khadeen was some form of triage.

Khadeen took a step back, forcing disconnection, and Messiah caught her wrist. Khadeen looked at his strong hand wrapped around her arm, and she gently tugged it away. She placed a flat hand on his chest. She was rattled. Her hand was shaking, and she took another step away from him. “You should go back to your daughter,” she whispered.

Messiah nodded. “Yeah,” he said, for lack of having better words. He turned and walked away, and she did the same. Messiah glanced back first, as the distance between them grew. By the time she glanced back, he was gone. Back to their separate lives of his chaos and her calm.

Chapter 7

7 AM

“I Miss You” by Beyonce

Morgan stared at the paragraph she had typed into her phone. She had so many things to say, but none of the words felt right. She was vulnerable in a way she had never been before. Nothing in her life could prepare her for what she was going through. It was out of her control, and it had the potential to ruin her life. I took so much for granted, she thought. The luxury of health was underrated. Morgan hadn’t appreciated the days she had awakened to two healthy babies. It hadn’t been something she had known to take pause for. She hadn’t even acknowledged what a wonder it was to open her eyes and wrap her arms around children who suffered no ailments. She hadn’t been grateful. She had focused on so much of what she didn’t have, concerned with the most trivial shit. At the time, her worries had seemed monumental; today, they paled in comparison to what she was facing.

Why did I have to be so stupid? she thought, regretting the discourse she had caused between her and Ahmeek. She had thrown him away like he meant nothing to her when she knew better. Jealousy had made her irrational, and she had made moves that she knew he would never forgive. I said shit I can’t take back, and now I need him, and he isn’t here. She might die, and he won’t be here. Morgan knew there wasn’t anything that Ahmeek could do. They were all helpless, but the comfort that entered the room with him grounded her. He wouldn’t be able to change anything, but he made the enduring better. She wished he could just tell her that everything would be okay. She needed reassurance, and not just anyone would do. Her overstimulation would lead to her breaking point, and for the fight in front of her, Morgan needed to remain calm. Her mind raced, her stomach churned, and her nerves were frayed. Too much was happening, and all she could do was brace herself for impact. Ahmeek’s presence alone would be enough to make her feel better. His love felt like an answered prayer, and in a lot of ways, it was. There had been nights when she had prayed for God to take her pain away, and as soon as Mr. Harris had popped up on her in London, he had done exactly that. She didn’t know why she revered him in that way, but whenever life hurt, if he was around, he became her solace. When he locked his focus on her, love overpowered pain. It soothed. Like ice to a burn, it was instant, but just like ice to a burn, when you removed it, the pain returned. So, he had to apply pressure, he had to be consistent, and consistency was where they failed...often...because of her. Morgan needed him for this, but she was reluctant to call. I can’t say fuck his kid then ask him to come rescue mine, she thought. I ended it. I fucked up. It felt unfair to reactivate their situation after the way she had exploded on him. Morgan wished she could take back the things she had done. She had crossed a line in Miami. She had gotten physical, and had Ahmeek been a different type of nigga, it could have turned dark. She had seen how dark it could get when she was a little girl. Mizan had shown her that every man didn’t play hand games with women and then look the other way. Mizan used to rock her sister’s shit without taking pause. Morgan knew better than to put her hands on a man. Ethic had always warned her.