I stood in the doorway and smiled.
This was my home.
Nobody could tell me what dress to wear.
Nobody could demand access to my phone.
Nobody could turn a harmless conversation with a waiter into an excuse to frighten me.
I locked the door.
Not because I was terrified.
Because it was my door.
And I was allowed to decide who entered.
My relationship with Damien had developed slowly.
Coffee became lunch.
Lunch became walks by the lake.
We talked about art, books, music, and the strange things people believed about Chicago.
He told me about his mother.
I told him about growing up with Jasmine.
Sometimes we laughed.
Sometimes our conversations became difficult.
I asked him about his criminal connections.
He didn’t pretend the stories were all false.
He admitted that parts of his business empire had been built through intimidation, unlawful dealings, and decisions he now regretted.
