If I Was Your Man

3 - Recoup

May 4, 2019 – 6:11 P.M.
Selah’s Apartment, Bronx, NY

> "I’m not a perfectionist, but still I seek perfection.
I’m not a great romantic, but yet I yearn for affection."
— Tupac Shakur

The quote echoed in Selah’s head like a prayer she never meant to say out loud. She had read it on someone’s IG story earlier that morning—now it felt too personal. Too timely.

Dante sat silently on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, watching Selah move around the room with tight, efficient movements. She was folding his shirts without a word, jaw clenched, brows drawn together like storm clouds.

Giyani had left twenty minutes ago, but her energy still lingered like leftover smoke from a house fire. The yelling. The dragging. The slap that echoed down the hallway. She’d gone out swinging for her best friend, just like she always promised she would.

Now it was quiet—too quiet.

Dante hated it. Hated this part. The aftermath. The way Selah moved like she was finished. Like she was packing up not just his clothes but the years they spent building something… even if it was cracked and falling apart.

He cleared his throat. “You really gon’ kick me out over a hoe that don’t mean nothin to me?”

Selah didn’t respond. She didn’t even look up. Just grabbed another stack of sweatpants and dropped them in the duffel bag.

Dante licked his lips and leaned forward, his voice dripping with bitter sarcasm. “Like I ain’t just watch you damn near eye-fuck the new neighbor in front of the whole building.”

That stopped her.

Selah’s body stiffened mid-reach, one hand gripping the edge of the dresser like she needed it to stay grounded.

Dante smirked. He knew that pause. Knew he’d struck a nerve. “Yeah, thought I ain’t peep how you was lookin’ at him. Like you ain’t got a whole man at home. Like what we got don’t even exist.”

She finally turned to face him. Her eyes were wide with disbelief, her mouth parted like she couldn't believe what she'd just heard.

“Wow,” she whispered, voice trembling. “You really tried to flip this?”

“I’m just sayin’—” Dante started, but Selah cut him off with a sharp laugh. It was dry and full of hurt.

“You talkin’ about a look… a fucking look, Dante? You tryna compare that to the hell you’ve put me through?” She stepped forward, pointing at herself. “Let’s talk about the miscarriages I grieved alone, the STDs I had to silently treat and forgive you for, the cheating, the lies. Be fucking for real.”

“I made a mistake—”

“No! You made choices, Dante. Repeated choices.”

Dante stood now, hands open like he was begging her to hear him. “I did that shit ‘cause I was mad. You know I only hit Giselle up ‘cause you was out there lookin’ at dude like you wanted to taste him. I was heated. That’s it.”

Selah scoffed. “So now your dick responds to my facial expressions?”

He rolled his eyes. “You not even tryin’ to hear me. That shit ain’t mean nothing. I ain’t got no feelings for her. It was just physical. And if you ain’t run into that dude, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“You always deflect,” she said softly. “Always.”

“Look—I know I fucked up. I do,” he said, moving closer. “But I’m willing to change. I’m willing to do whatever. I’ll even go to therapy if that’s what it takes.”

Selah’s breath caught in her throat. Therapy? She blinked hard.

Part of her wanted to believe him. Hell, all of her used to believe him. He always knew what to say when the walls started crumbling. His tongue had always been his best weapon. Smooth, slick, calculated.

“You’ll go to therapy?” she repeated slowly, eyes narrowing. “Actually go?”

“I will. I swear. We can do it together. Whatever you want. Just don’t give up on me yet,” Dante pleaded.

Her chest tightened. It sounded so damn good. Almost too good. She had imagined him saying this exact thing on nights when she cried herself to sleep, praying for him to grow the hell up.

But she knew the pattern. He’d say the right things, be perfect for two weeks, maybe a month—and then the cycle would start all over again.

“I’ll forgive you if you actually follow through,” she said after a long silence. “But I still need space. I can’t breathe right now. I’m putting you out.”

Dante nodded slowly, pulling on a pair of jeans from the pile. “Where I’m supposed to go, Selah?”

“I don’t know… your mama house.”

He grimaced. “Man, you know my moms be on that judgmental shit. She gon’ drag me the whole time I’m there. I can’t even sneeze without her throwing a scripture at me.”

Selah sighed, rubbing her temples. Jennifer, Dante’s mother, was a sanctified, old-school Black church woman who didn’t believe in coddling grown sons. Her tongue was sharper than a switchblade, and Dante had spent most of his adult life avoiding her house.

Selah sat on the edge of the couch, thinking. Exhausted.

After a long pause, she muttered, “You can stay—but you on the couch. No bed, no touching, no conversation unless it’s about your therapist appointment. I mean that. I don’t know what kind of diseases Giselle walk around with.”

Dante nodded quickly. “Bet. Whatever you say. Thank you.”

He knew he’d dodged a bullet. Again.

Selah went back to the room, now grabbing a bottle of disinfectant spray, bleach wipes, and a mop. She didn't even look at him. She cleaned with force, muttering under her breath as she sprayed and scrubbed.

“I shoulda let Giyani stomp y’all the fuck out,” she hissed, scrubbing the wall near the couch.

The smell of bleach filled the air. Her hands shook as she wiped down the couch cushions, knowing full well what went down on them. She wanted to cry, to scream, to break something—but she held it in.

Her grandmother’s voice echoed in her head:
"Pain don’t last always, baby girl. But strength don’t come without a little ache."

Still, this didn’t feel like strength. It felt like self-inflicted punishment.

Because if she was being honest… this wasn’t the first time. And deep down, she feared it wouldn’t be the last.

Selah stared at the Lysol can in her hand, tears finally brimming. “Why am I like this?” she whispered. “Why can’t I let go?”

The truth was ugly: Dante wasn’t just her boyfriend. He was her safe space. Her only piece of what used to be a family. Since her grandmother passed in 2017, he was all she had left. Her older siblings cut her off long ago, tired of the back-and-forth and fed up with watching her crumble.

They called it tough love. She called it abandonment.

Maybe they were right, she thought.

Selah sat down on the floor, back against the wall, bleach rag in one hand, her heart in the other. She had no idea what self-love looked like. She’d heard about it, seen it in quotes and TikToks—but never lived it.

“I wanna be done,” she whispered to herself. “But I don’t know how.”

And somewhere across the hall, Amar leaned against his own front door, listening. Not in a nosy way—but like a man who had already decided that the next time Selah broke... he'd be the one to catch her.