Page 140 of Lease to Love

Instead, I closed my eyes.

And trusted him.

A few minutes later, Roman stopped.

He lowered me carefully until my feet touched the pavement, then kept hold of my hand as he turned me toward him.

“Here we are.”

I opened my eyes.

“Okay...” I looked around. “And where is here?”

“Here is where I make good on my promises to Mama E.”

My brow furrowed.

Mama E.

She had made a rare appearance tonight, wheeled in by Rayna and parked near the dessert table so half of Langston Park could cycle through and kiss her cheek. She didn’t walk anymore, and her hands weren't as steady around her teacup as they used to be, and something in me didn't like how that made me feel — but her eyes hadn't lost a bit of their sharpness.

When I knelt and asked if she was okay, really okay, she just patted my hand, nodded toward the crowd of young business owners and running kids, and said, "I've seen what this neighborhood does with a torch. It doesn't drop it. It just finds the next hands."

I hadn't been able to argue with that. I still couldn't.

I’d forgotten all about the mystery promises Roman had made her a year ago.

Apparently, Roman hadn't.

“She actually made me promise two things.” He held up two fingers. “The first was to take care of Langston Park.”

I smiled. “You made good on that one a while ago, babe.”

He shook his head. “Not to my standards.”

His voice had changed. The playfulness was gone.

I watched him carefully.

He squeezed my hand.

“The events at the community center have been great. The business initiative has been great. But it's outgrowing the space. These people need somewhere to put down roots. Somewhere the programs can grow. Somewhere they can build something that lasts.”

I nodded slowly. I'd thought the same thing.

The community center had become too small for what Roman was creating. Every event seemed to draw more people, more ideas, more opportunities. It needed room.

“I've also been thinking about Autumn.”

My heart gave its familiar little ache.

Hearing her name didn't knock the air out of me anymore. Not like it used to. But it still hurt.

I suspected it always would.

Over the past year, I'd talked about Autumn more than I had in the eight years before it. I'd told Roman stories I'd thought I'd forgotten. Shown him the journal. Told him about our dreams, our arguments, our stupid inside jokes and the future we'd imagined when we were young enough to believe we had all the time in the world.

He'd gone with me to her grave.