Page 156 of Invisible Bars

The makeup artist waved her off with a flick of his brush.

“Girl, please! I have you looking flawless, too! Not to mention, you got enough lace fronts to host a hair convention, and a closet with enough fashion to sponsor New York Fashion Week! You’ll be alright!”

“And… you got the chair v-version of a Rolls Royce,” I added without thinking. “Them wheels shining harder than my future right now.”

Dessign gasped dramatically, hand flying to her chest like I stole her last breath.

“Not you giving complimentsandshade in the same breath. I taught youwaytoo well in just one week, huh?”

Everyone in the room shared a laugh, and for a moment, the nerves faded just a bit.

The final touch was the outfit. When the glam team finally stepped back and allowed me to see my reflection in the full-length mirror, I could hardly recognize myself—in the best way imaginable.

I had chosen a simple yet elegant black dress for the evening—knee-length, with a soft drape that skimmed my figure without clinging too tightly. The neckline was modest—a gentle scoop that offered just enough femininity without inviting unnecessary attention, and the long sleeves gave it an effortless grace.

I paired it with diamond stud earrings and a thin silver bracelet, the kind of jewelry that whispered instead of shouted. My heels were simple—black, low, and classic.

Instead of feeling overdressed, I looked and felt appropriate—polished enough to meet his family, but simple enough that no one could accuse me of showing up like it was a gala. It was the most “me” I’d looked in a long time. Not to be mistaken, glam wasn’t anything new to me, but it had been so long since I had that runaway polished look, like a doll ready for my signature catwalk.

“I like! I like! I like!” Dessign approved, sipping from a wine glass that I was starting to think was just part of her brand. “You look put-together, grown, and like you got peace on the horizon—even if we both know dinner might blow that up. This might be a dumb question but are you nervous?” she asked in a serious tone.

I nodded. “Y-yeah. Just… not sure how to act.”

“Naji, just be yourself… tics and all. Our mama? She gon’ judge regardless. You could float in wearing a halo and holding an 800 credit score, and she’d still find a reason to side-eye your existence.”

I blinked fast, suppressing an outburst bubbling up in my chest.

“Seriously,” she continued, elbow leaning on the vanity. “Mama might run the table, but we ain’t about to let her drag you across it. And if she gets slick, which I’m sure she will, just cough aggressively and mutter something about her being a bitch.”

My mouth twitched. “Did you-you just call her a b-bitch?”

Dessign popped her gum like punctuation. “Nah. I called her a bitchyesterday. She earned that. Tonight, I’ma try and be classy. If she say one wrong thing, I’m tossing a roll at her and blaming the ghosts. I’ll be like, ‘Mama, this house needs sage and silence!’”

That made me actually laugh—one of those weird, hiccupy ones that got stuck between a tic and a breath. But it helped.

A few seconds passed before my next tic hit.

“Biscuit bitch—bitch biscuit!”

Dessign howled. “See? You’re ready,” she said, her voice suddenly softer. “Even if you don’t feel like it.”

That part hit deep.

“She’s gonna h-hate me. I know it,” I whispered, picking at the sleeve of my shirt.

Dessign waved me off like I was talking nonsense.

“Girl, my mama hates everybody who ain’t rich, white, or wearing pearls passed down by Queen Elizabeth. She probably only tolerates me and Imanio ‘cause we're her kids—and barely that. It’s nothing personal. I swear that woman breaks out in hives around happy, poor, Black couples.”

“M-Maybe I should stay quiet.”

Dessign wheeled closer and gently placed her hand on my thigh.

“You could… but that might just make her hate youfaster.Silence to her is either guilt or rebellion. She’ll probably accuse you of plotting her downfall. Or—” she grinned wide “—you could let your tics do the talking and make damn sure everybody at that table remembers your nameandyour diagnosis.”

I couldn’t help the little laugh that slipped.

“Look,” Dessign continued, “you’ve survived being kidnapped, married off like you was in a mafia auction, living under Imanio’s watchful hawk-ass eyes, using tissue for pads like it’s 1994,andbeing monitored twenty-four-seven. Oops! Did I say that?! Oh well. If you survived allthat,you could definitely survive one evening with my bougie-ass mama. Just show up, breathe, and eat. If things go left, let me or Imanio handle it.”