Page 8 of Lennox Lane

"I meant what I said," Lennox murmured, his lips brushing her shoulder. "I don't want to share you."

"You're gonna hurt me," Lane said before she could stop the words from slipping out, “Men like you always do."

She felt him stiffen behind her, the shift until he could see her face. His expression was serious in the moonlight filtering through the curtains.

"I might," he admitted with raw honesty in his voice, "But I don't want to. I can be different with you, Lane. I can be the man who brings you coffee in the morning, the man who protects you at all costs, and I won’t go ghost when shit gets real."

"Promises," she whispered, her eyes burning with tears she refused to let fall before continuing, "People make promises they can't keep."

"Then I'll keep showing up until you believe me," He said, kissing her forehead, the tears that finally escaped, and the tip of her nose. “I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to, and even then I’m not leaving.”

Lane closed her eyes and allowed his words to settle into her chest. She wanted to believe them even though her intuition screamed this was dangerous and that attachment to a man like him would lead to heartache. Her mind said end this now before he could hurt her, but her heart wouldn’t let her. For the rest of the night, she let him hold her and trace patterns on her skin as they found a comfortable silence that allowed Lane to wonder if just for a night this could be real. That he could be different for her because maybe she was worth staying for.

Outside, the ocean crashed against the shore, indifferent to the promises being made in the dark. Lane Sanders, who never let anyone see her soft side, fell asleep in Lennox Jackson's arms while pretending she wasn't already half in love with him.

Three Months Later

The gender reveal was giving bougie block party meets music video set. Custom balloons arched across the backyard. The vinyl-shaped cake was so glossy it looked Photoshopped, and a DJ in a bucket hat spun 90s R&B classics, getting the aunties two-stepping with plastic cups in hand. Matching lawn signs made it painfully obvious to the other houses in the cul-de-sac that this was a gender reveal and you should pick your team wisely.

Everyone was excited for KC and Cadence, but Lane Sanders wasn’t here for baby games. Not when Lennox Jackson’s dog ass had the audacity to stroll in with a woman on his arm like this was the Grammy’s red carpet. She clocked the woman instantly because she couldn't be bothered to follow the gender reveal theme. She was tall and pretty but basic, a Zara mannequin come to life. Her hair was tucked behind the ears, and she sported a neutral-toned bodycon with kitten heels that screamed “church brunch.” Again, cute but nothing revolutionary. Nova leaned in close, letting her eyes cut sideways as the couple brushed past them, leaving a trail of fake laughter behind them.

“Not Lennox bringing a poorly dressed prop to the gender reveal,” she muttered while sipping her sweet tea like it was shade in liquid form.

Lane didn’t so much as twitch. Her rose-tinted sunglasses stayed firmly in place as she tipped back her cucumber lemonade.

“Let him flex,” she said coolly, voice flat as a good silk press, “Props belong on stages, and weak men need an audience.”

After their vacation tryst ended, Lennox did exactly what Lane knew he would do—break every promise he made. He didn't ghost her physically but rather mentally and emotionally. He reached out, but it was for sexual purposes, and Lane didn’t need a man to get her rocks off. She wanted a man that wanted her in all her glory and all her shortcomings, and that wasn’t him. Lennox was afraid of the feelings that surfaced during their vacation tryst, and he ran. And since Lane had never chased a nigga down and she never would.

Nova smirked at her. “You’re evil.”

Lane turned her head just enough to give Nova a sidelong glance as her lips curved in a smile that didn’t touch her eyes. “I’m minding my business. I hope they’re enjoying themselves,” her tone sharp.

Her gaze drifted back across the yard, tracking Lennox’s every step without a single blink because, if nothing else, men kept audacity.

“That man ate me into oblivion in St. Barts and made promises he knew he couldn’t keep, but what really pissed me off was instead of ghosting like a normal ain’t shit nigga—he tried to treat me like a late night creep as if he was the one with the upper hand. I ignored every message, every call, and every smoke signal. So, I’m sure him walking in here with deaconess Barbie is his attempt at getting under my skin.”

Cadence, who sat perched in her shaded cabana chair with her bump cushioned by a mountain of throw pillows, burst out laughing so hard she had to clutch her stomach. “The way y’all weaponize vocabulary is a gift.”

“I do what I can,” Lane giggled, still watching Lennox laugh obnoxiously fake at something his date said.

Her jaw didn’t tighten, nor did her pulse quicken in a way that would visibly show how bad she wanted to drag his date by her hair and throw her out of her best friend’s home. But Lane would never give him the satisfaction of knowing she was jealous. What she did let him see was poise, the glitter of her lip gloss, and a calmness so cold it bordered on art.

Every time Lennox happened to glance her way, and he did—several times. He saw a woman who wasn’t pressed or competing for his attention, because props could be returned when the stage got cleared. But Lane? Lane was unforgettable.

Inside, she was choking on a truth she wouldn’t dare confess out loud, she still wanted him, and she hated that her pulse betrayed her when his laugh cracked across the yard—hated that no matter how basic the woman on his arm was, some pitiful part of her wanted it to be her instead. So she crossed her legs and lifted her chin while sitting like unbothered royalty, even if beneath the gloss, she wanted to set the whole damn gender reveal on fire.

Lennox’s laugh rang out again, still loud and forced. It was the kind of laugh men used when they were trying to prove they’d moved on, but she’d heard a different cadence in his genuine laugh. The one that slipped when his face was buried between her thighs, letting his guard down. The one that proved he’d let all his cocky bravado melt into a hunger reserved just for her.

She remembered the exact rhythm of it and despised how her body responded to the mere memory of it. He was mid-conversation, letting his hand rest too casually, when she tipped her sunglasses down to the bridge of her nose just enough to let him catch her eyes while dragging her tongue slowly across the rim of her straw before slipping it between her lips. The move may have seemed casual to everyone else, but it was a gut punch to him. Lennox froze—only for a second—but Lane caught it. His date kept talking, oblivious to him being entranced by another woman. Lane leaned back in her chair as the hem of her mini dress rose higher up her thigh.

“Caught you,” she thought as her lips curved into a smile so faint it could be mistaken for indifference. “Treat me like a booty call, nigga you can choke on the memory of me, baby,” she said to herself.

Her pulse was sprinting, and her chest ached like it wanted to spill every unspoken thing—how his absence had hollowed her. How she’d pretended to be unfazed when really she’d lain awake with his name pressed between her thighs.

Nova’s whisper broke her spiral. “Girl, he’s staring at you so hard his prop is about to evaporate like it’s Infinity War.”

Lane chuckled. “Let him drown,” she responded, “I don’t throw life jackets.”