The Witches on BellaRow Street

25. Less Is More, Right?

Dear Queens: You're the honey, not the bee.
*:･ﾟ･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ:*

What did he say?

A million zings zoom, from my head to my toes, traveling around my body, and straight to my heart. If my eyes were close, then they're damn sure open now. I'm wide awake. I'm glowing. It's a subtle glow, but I'm doing everything possible to control what's currently happening to me, to us.

Wow, Zion just said, I love you...

And my breathing is losing its grip, it's hanging on for dear life, searching for the one source needed to bring me back to life--air. That's it! I need air. Wait, I'm outside with plenty of oxygen passing through my nose as I stare at NOLA's City skyline in a daze.

Is he watching me?

Of course, he's watching, Yanni.

Quick, say something.

Wait, I don't know what to say.

I mean, I know what to say, but the words aren't coming out. I'm thinking about it. I feel it, however, speaking it into existence seems like pulling teeth with my toes.

All I have to do is whisper back those three famous words, plus the 'too' part. Easy.

So, say it, Yanni.

A cool breeze whooshes by, blowing out a few curly strands tucked behind my ears, and I want to swoop it back, but I can't.

It's going on eighteen awkward seconds of silence. He's not moving, I'm not moving, breathing or saying anything. We're at a standstill, waiting on me. Why does it always come down to me?

I'm holding up the moment, our moment. Shit.

What would Faylayee do? Oh, nevermind--wrong sister. What would Junie or Aunt BeeBee do? Why am I thinking of my sisters? I'm losing it.

I'm stalling, drowning, and internally panicking, hoping for a miracle. Something.

BUZZ.

On the left of me, a low, continuous humming vibration coming from Zion's jean pocket, eases the tension. Someone's calling, texting, or sending me an S.O.S lifesaver jacket, rescuing me from my inevitable fate. I should thank whoever is hitting him up later. Maybe give them a hug, a high-five, or at least a 'follow' if they have a social media account.

Zion loosens his grip around my waist, letting a cool draft whisk across my skin. It's not as pleasant as his warmth.

After a few uncomfortable maneuvers, inaudible mumbles, and unnecessary gasps, Zion finally pulls out his cellphone, reads the message, and laughs. And not at us, but whoever's on the opposite end of the text.

"Who's that?" I ask, finding my voice.

Zion quirks a brow and gives me the 'so you can speak now' look followed by a mischievous grin, then turns his attention back to the message before responding. "It's Antonio."

If I'm correct, then Zion's smile means he's not upset, but rather, thinking things through. Besides, I think he knows how I feel about him, it's a no-brainer, and wait, what did he say?

"Who?" My voice is higher than the streetcars zooming down below, but that doesn't stop me from glancing at his message. When I peek at his phone, casually and not suspiciously, my insides twist into tiny little knots, further increasing my utmost dislike for the Detective. I thought I told him to leave Zion alone.

Meanwhile, Zion's loving it. "Antonio Cree, you know, the guy from the bar. Him."

Oh, him. Every part of me wants to grab his phone and toss it over the roof, but that'll create more red flags. Instead, I slither my tongue in between my teeth and bite it, holding back my thoughts. I'm two-for-two tonight.