After nine years of being attached at the hip, Lyric and Prince finally split. Now, on the road to recovery, she learns a new way to view life as Prince is forced to face the music of a song he never wanted to played aloud. Join them as they learn a...
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February 14, 1994 Minneapolis, Minnesota
"Hi." I smile, pulling the flowers in my hands from behind my back. I laugh as her jaw drops at the grand reveal. Valentine's Day is on a Tuesday this year and the cushion of it being a weekday has left me in just the right spot. I'm balancing everyone to a perfect tee. "I got these for you."
Mayte gasps, retrieving the flowers from my possession. Her cheeks must burn from smiling that hard. "Thank you!"
I invite myself in, following her deeper into her apartment as she scrambles to find a vase to place the bouquet in. My nosey eyes look around the freshly cleaned kitchen. A tinge citrus lingers in the air, filling me with exuberance as the snow makes the sun shine so much brighter than it does any other day. In a tight, woven turtleneck dress with a ponytail lifting her hair above the curve of her back, she moves around the kitchen with a bad case of the giggles.
"Pick up a bad habit?"
Her face stuck underneath her sink, she displays her confusion without any use of her face. "Hm?" I can see her ponytail swing with the twist of her ass. She comes up for air with a glass vase in her hand.
I steer her to the pack of tobacco-stuffed sticks on her counter only using my eyes. "You pick up a bad habit," I repeat with a light chuckle. "Can't take the heat?"
"Oh," she laughs.
An artificial laugh rings from my own lungs as I await an explanation. I don't see what's funny. It looks to me like she'll lose this battle regardless. If she's smoking cigarettes now, that's something I'll have to put an end to right out the gate. I ain't gone stand for that one, not from her. I tried it before and I hated it. Cigarettes are a dealbreaker. If they're not her's then I got some heavy follow-up questions. They better not be no guy's. It ain't hard for me to catch wind or put word on the street about who's creeping through here.
"Those are my girlfriend's." The way she doesn't bat a single lash makes me watch her closer, studying her in the name of spotting the telling signs of a liar. "Her family's from Puerto Rico too. She brought them from the island for her mom but she forgot them here. Open them up, they're pretty cool—"
I hold my palm up, taking a seat at the counter. "I'd rather not," I say. "What's her name?"
"Lizette."
The hairs on my neck stand straight up at the uttering of the name. Feeling more comfortable posing as a jealous boyfriend that can't handle her spending time with anyone but me, knowing it'll make her feel more wanted, I hold my stone expression.
