“If we get married, I belong to your father as much as I belong to you,” she said, laying it out to show she understood the dilemma. “If I belong to him and we go back there, you’ll have to be who you were before.”
“I’m still the same man,” he said. “You’ve said it like that before, like I’m some sort of reformed figure.” Curling his fingers around her throat, he pulled her closer. “I’m still the same man. I am a McDade.”
She couldn’t say what prison had done to him. It hadn’t scared him straight; he wasn’t the type of man to be afraid of anything. But he was trying to tell her something. Trying to make her see that the prospect of being involved with a crime family was much closer than Burl and his brothers.
“You’re my McDade,” she said, caressing his face. “I’m in love with you and I will follow your orders… If you tell me I have to submit to your father and your family, I will. But it’s your command I follow, not theirs.”
If he told her to move there and obey, she would. Shyla could give herself to him completely. Though children wouldn’t be so easy to sacrifice.
Perhaps Score’s sister-in-law, Nicole, was choosing not to have children. If she didn’t have them, she wouldn’t have to hand them over to Burl’s tutelage. Shyla considered the same choice.
Being with Score meant being a McDade. Shyla was going into it with her eyes open. If she couldn’t hand her children over to that life, which she doubted that she could, then she wouldn’t have children.
Her Phoenix was worth that sacrifice. Few people had chosen him over all others. Shyla vowed to remain at his side. He didn’t have to be afraid with her because she would never betray him. She’d give up anything for him, everything, so long as they could be together. His dilemma was hers too. She just had to prove that making a choice not to be together simply wasn’t an option.
Stan used to hang out on the porch with the other old-timers from the neighborhood. They’d sit and lament the old days, discuss current events, or play some dominoes.
Still, when Shyla walked into the house, the number of people present shocked her. In standing room only, she shuffled through the hall and into the living room. She’d intended to keep going to the kitchen or even out to the backyard. Not only did she need space, but she didn’t think Score would be too fond of being crushed. The guy took up a lot of space on his best days and always carried an invisible beacon warning everyone to respect the perimeter of his personal space. In his case, that was a clear couple of feet from his body.
Unfortunately, Shyla didn’t progress that far into the house. Once one person had stopped her, all of them did in their turn. Many people from their block had mobility issues, so they couldn’t make it to the service. They hadn’t seen her around either, which everyone reminded her about more than a few times.
Stuck in another conversation, Shyla glanced around for Score who was no longer at her side. Hoping he wasn’t being quizzed, she intended to apologize for being waylaid. It was a surprise to find him on the other side of the room, just inside the doorway, observing her from afar. Peace permeated her. He was there, watching over her, giving her the room to do what she needed to do.
Rather than be concerned that Score wasn’t at her side, she was encouraged by his distance. It showed how he wanted her to say goodbye to Stan, to say goodbye to her past. Not because he wanted her to be rid of it, but because it was best for her.
“I heard a rumor,” Mrs. Francis said, bringing Shyla’s attention back around to her. “A rumor that the man over there belongs to you.”
The long answer would involve going into too much detail and throw her into a fit of overthinking, given what they’d discussed in the car.
Rather than go into that, Shyla just smiled. “Yes. I suppose he does.”
A group of half a dozen ladies had gathered around her. They were the starlings of the neighborhood, always in a group, drafting and gliding with each other. As much as they could also be described as busybodies, their interest never offended Shyla. Living in a household with only two men for company, sometimes it was nice to have maternal figures fussing. Even if that did include answering awkward questions.
In the past, while she’d lived there, Shyla hadn’t had a man to explain. The new position was comforting in its own way, especially claiming a man she could be so proud of like Score.
“Oh,” Mrs. Evans squealed. “We’re happy for you, honey.”
“You deserve to be happy.”
Mrs. Denver was more discerning in her scrutiny of Score. “Seems severe to me.”
“He’s a man who’s a man,” Mrs. Evans said. “Not one of these all about his feelings and whining. Doesn’t look like a snowflake, that what you mean?”
Just considering that word in the same sentence as Score’s name almost made Shyla laugh.
“He’s a real man,” Mrs. Francis said.
Expecting women so set in their ways to be more politically correct was expecting too much. Shyla doubted Score would mind the tag anyway, either being a “real man” or not being a snowflake.
“Where are you staying now? Do you live with him?” Mrs. Evans asked, on track to collect as much information as possible. “Are you getting married?”
“Oh, leave the girl be,” Mrs. Francis said. “She’s still adjusting.”
“Adjusting is difficult,” Mrs. Denver said. “I remember when my Bennie passed…
