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“My mother was my first country. The first place I ever lived.” —“lands” by Nayyirah Waheed, poet and activist
I shove that thought down to a dark hole where I keep the really painful stuff. Why deal with it now? Save something for the therapist I’ll start seeing in my thirties when I finally decide it’s all too much to handle on my own.
My mother was murdered? Taken? Stolen? Gone. One of those “unseen” women, an unheard voice, whose disappearance wasn’t shouted about on the news or fretted over by the world. And I’ll never get over it. Not ever.
Seven-fucking-teen? She’s jailbait. And I’m literally already in jail.
“I want nothing to do with you. You’re not cutting me off, Dad,” I tell him, slinging the words like stones catapulted over a wall. “I’m the one cutting you off.”
I’ll never forget this feeling but will call on it when I’m weary in the fight. No, I’ll never forget this feeling. And I’ll never forgive Warren Cade.
Four in five American Indian women have experienced violence, and more than one in two have experienced sexual violence.
I’ve never liked the idea of my body making decisions my head and my heart don’t cosign. I’ve seen both of my friends crying, depressed, or dejected after some man disappointed them. No dick is worth that.
“The one with the black hair,” I say, not waiting for my friends but taking the first step toward an old temptation that is no longer off-limits. “That one’s mine.”
It was said perfectly, his sincere wish that things had been and could be different. It wasn’t condescending or defensive or any of the things people say when they aren’t sure what to do about pain they didn’t cause but feel connected to.
“Yes, but I think revolution requires a certain degree of hubris.”
I feel chagrined and incredibly turned on and concerned about the planet all of a sudden. I want to recycle and dry hump him in the middle of the square.
“A capitalist crusader?” She chuckles and casts a wry look my way. “So you want to save the world and make lots of money.” I can’t tell if she approves or disapproves, but that doesn’t change my answer. “Absolutely. Someone has to write big checks to all your causes.”
There are few things more affirming than someone seeing you exactly as you aspire to be—for them to say I see that in you.
We may part ways next week—no, we will part ways next week. We have to—but I’ll remember this night and any more she gives me for the rest of my life. She’s that special. My body knows it. My heart, which I don’t consult in any of my decisions, won’t be far behind if I’m not careful.
That’s who I was falling for. That’s who I gave myself to. The son of our oppressor. The heir to our spoils. Liar. Trickster. Thief.
“We get whatever the fuck we want,” he says, dropping his eyes down the length of my body. “And I want you, Lennix Moon. I want the girl who chases stars.”
“We’re not. Do what you need to do. Change your world,” he says softly, his eyes connected to mine so intensely there’s no hope of looking away. “I have to go make my world, but when the time is right, I’ll be back for you.”
“Dissent is the highest form of patriotism,” I quote. “I love this country too much to settle for the lies written in our history books. I love the Constitution too much not to hold the men who wrote it accountable for the truth of its principles.”
When the time is right, I’ll be back for you.
I put my hands over my ears. “Stop looking at me so loud.”
“I tried to talk to him about his work with recycling systems in developing countries, and he walked off.”
“Not too much to figure out since you eat breakfast here every day.” “It’s creepy that you know that.”
“In what world could you possibly think I would belong to you?” “In the one we make together.”
“I’ve spent the last ten years getting what I want, not because I’m a Cade but because I work harder than everyone else. I keep working after everyone else has gone home. I take risks no one else even considers. I don’t give up on seemingly lost causes. When I want something, really want something, I’ll do whatever I have to until I have it.”
“I know I can’t will you to give me another chance, but remember this, Nix.” I bend my head so close my breath stirs her hair and her scent stirs my pulse. “The harder I have to work for something, the harder I take it.”
Dont threaten me with a good time!
“First of all, if I blew smoke up your ass,” I tell her, “it would be because of who you are, not your husband. And second of all, I got no smoke, lady.”
I love my brother, and I would support his run, but I wouldn’t be living in this city for him.”
“Let me make something abundantly clear to you, Warren,” I say in a low rumble of danger I don’t even recognize as my own voice. “You think things have been bad between us the last fifteen years? Touch her and I will make the worst you’ve ever done look like child’s play. Do you understand me?”
“You’ll laugh at this. I told him it was like having sex with my foster step-cousin.” He’s quiet while I snicker. “You thought I would laugh about you fucking someone else?” he asks, a serrated edge to his voice. “I don’t find that funny at all.”
“This feeling belongs to you, Lennix.” “Yes.” I lay my forehead against his again, thrust my fingers into his hair. “You’re mine, Maxim Cade.” He kisses the curve of my neck and squeezes my ass. “Yours.”
“Tell your Russian princess”—I tighten my thighs at his hips and ride him harder—“and your teenage pageant queen to back the fuck off.”
“I said where, not what, though thank you for telling me we’re going on a date. Some guys just ask, which is so boring.”
