Xavier stared at the message. Kwame knew the whole ugly history: Darnell Lyles, the junior partner at the architecture firm, the late nights, the woman in marketing, the way Xavier's mother, Anita, had found the hotel receipts while looking for a warranty card. Xavier had been fourteen. He had learned, too young, that love could keep excellent books until the day the books failed an audit.
He put the phone down. He did not dig. He sat on the couch until dawn and practiced breathing like a man who intended to hear his fiancée before he condemned her.
It was harder than it should have been.
IV.
Nia called her sister Ifeoma at six in the morning from the loft bathroom, door locked, as if Solomon or Xavier might materialize out of the tile.
Ifeoma answered on the second ring from her nursing shift break in Newark. "If somebody died, say it. If nobody died, why are you whispering."
"X saw Bertrand on a call," Nia said. "Last night. I had the sticky note up. He thinks—"
"He thinks you're cheating," Ifeoma said flatly. "Because of course he does. That man has been waiting for the other shoe since the day you got engaged."
"That's not fair."
"It's accurate. Fair is a different word." Ifeoma exhaled. "Did you tell him about Accra."
"Not yet."
"Nia."
"I asked for a day."
"You have been asking for a day for six weeks," Ifeoma said. "Bertrand sent the draft offer on August twelfth. You have been doing secret FaceTime with Uncle like you're planning a bank heist. Meanwhile Xavier brings you Thai food and thinks he's building a life with a person who is halfway out the door."
Nia's throat closed. "I am not halfway out. I haven't accepted."
"You haven't told the man you're marrying that the door exists. That is a kind of leaving."
Silence stretched between New Jersey and Brooklyn. Somewhere in the loft a pipe knocked. Nia pressed her forehead to the cool mirror.
"What if I want it," she whispered. "What if I want Accra more than I want to be careful. What does that make me."