Page 96 of She's Like the Wind

On a half-sob, half-laugh, she wrapped herself around me, holding me tighter and tighter, until ourbodies were inseparable, melded together like the pieces of a perfect puzzle.

After, she lay her head on my chest, her fingers brushing lazy circles along my ribs.

I stared up at the ceiling fan, feeling at peace.

No ghosts.

No noise.

Just Naomi.

Soft and warm and real in my arms.

I used to think I wantedawoman, notthewoman, that I didn’t need forever, that love was too much weight to carry, too risky.

But Naomi wasn’t weight—she was the breath in my lungs.

She was movement.

She was light.

She was freedom.

She was my salvation.

She didn’t tie me down—she lifted me up, and all I wanted was to spend the rest of my life basking in her light, soaking in the freedom, the air that made me feel alive.

CHAPTER 34

Naomi

There were still days I caught myself watching him—like I was trying to memorize the way he moved, the sound of his voice, the quiet ways he filled a room. Not because I thought he’d leave—those fears had finally stopped echoing—but because I couldn’t believe how far we’d come.

He hummed Marvin Gaye while he made coffee in the mornings. The sound wrapped around the apartment like sunlight filtering through sheer curtains—soft, golden, just a little bit crooked.

He still drank his coffee too sweet, loading it up with sugar like it was dessert. I still teased him about it.

Sometimes I wore his shirt—not to seduce him, not to make a point, just because it smelled like him. Because it felt like home.

We talked about where to live, and we decided thatwe’d stay in the Quarter for a while, and he’d rent his place out. A lot of his projects were here, and I was busier than ever with Aire Noire.

After the buzz from the trunk show and theMartha Stewart Weddingsendorsement, hotels in New Orleans reached out—asking if I’d consider curating a display case for their lobby. Glass-fronted installations filled with hand-picked pieces that whispered something about the soul of the city and changed seasonally like an art exhibit.

I was working on my first one, ensembles for performers, guests, and dreamers—lingerie as art, as story, as experience.

Very New Orleans.

“It’ll be moody and theatrical,” I told Gage.

“Just the way you like it, with velvets and silk, light like candle smoke.” He understood me.

“I want people to feel that Aire Noire is a place you can come and be yourself—and maybe walk out bolder, brighter.”

I was terrified to have my brand around the Quarter.What if I messed it up?

But Gage held my hand through it, helped me with my plans, never once questioning if I could pull it off.

Gage was building something, too. Not just buildings, though he was restoring a row of Creole cottages in Treme. But more than that, he was mentoring.