Amaka opened her door and immediately frowned. “You smell different.” Dayo stood in the corridor with his overnight bag in one hand and the perfume-shop bag in the other. “That is hello?” “Hello. You smell different.” “I bought something.” “In Ibadan?” “Yes.” She stepped aside. He entered. Her flat was cool and dim. Sunday-afternoon light came through half-drawn curtains. A bowl of oranges sat on the dining table. Her laptop was open beside a stack of patient notes. Everything looked familiar enough to make him ache. Amaka closed the door. “What did you buy?” He took the Amouage box from the bag and handed it to her. She read the label. “Guidance.” “Apparently.” “That is subtle.” “I didn't name it.” She smiled. It was small, unguarded, and he had not realized how much he missed it. Amaka sprayed a blotter from the bottle. “You already have it on.”
“Yes.” She leaned closer to his shoulder, then paused. “And Gris Charnel.” He smiled despite himself. “I put both on.” “On purpose?” “Yes.” She studied him. “The Lagos one and the Ibadan one?” He laughed softly. “You make it sound very dramatic.” “You took a bus home after eleven years and came back layering symbolism on your wrists. I am not the dramatic one here.” He laughed again. Then the laughter left them. Amaka gestured toward the sofa. “Sit.” Dayo sat. She took the armchair across from him at first, the same place she had sat when he finally told her about the house. He noticed. So did she. Neither commented. “How was it?” she asked. Dayo looked at his hands. “I don't know how to answer in one sentence.” “Use several.” So he did. He told her about the gate. His mother's hug.
Babycat. His father looking smaller. The twenty minutes of news. The bad hip. The business partner who took money and left. His mother's therapy. Where would I go not being the only question. The conversation in the compound. The perfume shop. The apology. He told it without editing his father toward monster or absolution. When he finished, Amaka sat quietly. “So,” she said, “do you forgive him?” “No.” She nodded. “Do you want to?” “I don't know.” Another nod. Dayo leaned forward. “I think I spent years believing forgiveness was the only possible reason to go back. Like if I wasn't ready to forgive him, there was nothing to say.” “And now?” “Now I think there are things before forgiveness.” “Like?” “Facts.” Amaka smiled faintly. “Very project manager.” “Don't mock my process.” “I wouldn't dare.”
He smiled too. His eyes dropped briefly to her stomach. Still nothing visible. “How are you?” he asked. The smile left her face. “Today?” “Yes.” “Nauseous. Tired. Angry at you in a less dramatic way than last week.” “I'll take less dramatic.” “You don't get to choose the rating.” “Right.” She looked at him. “How are you?” Dayo almost said fine. The word rose automatically. He let it pass. “Scared.” Amaka nodded. “Sad.” Another nod. “Relieved in a way that makes me feel guilty.” “Why guilty?” “Because nothing in the past changed.” “It doesn't have to.” “I know.” He sat back. “I also missed you.” Something crossed her face too quickly for him to name.
“I was gone three days.” “You were gone before Ibadan.” “Yes.” The generator outside filled the silence. Dayo could usually tell whether Amaka was angry or hurt; this time the two were indistinguishable. Dayo could hear a generator in the distance. He said, “I am sorry.” Amaka's eyes stayed on him. “I know I said it on the phone that morning, but I was apologizing for waking you and everything at once. I need to say it properly.” She waited. “I am sorry I made my fear your problem. I am sorry I went away while pretending I was still showing up. I am sorry you had to wonder whether you would be doing this alone.” Amaka's eyes filled. Dayo continued before courage became management. “You did not deserve that.” “No,” she said quietly. “I didn't.” He accepted that without defending himself. “I can't promise I won't ever shut down again. I wish I could.” Her expression tightened slightly. “But I can promise I won't call shutting down space and expect you to accept it.” A tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away impatiently. Dayo stood. “Can I come closer?” Amaka searched his face. The question mattered. “Yes.”
He crossed the space and sat beside her. For several seconds, neither touched. Then she put her hand over his. His fingers closed around hers. Her hand lay over his, warm and still. The sentence he had almost said on the night of the test returned. This time he did not negotiate with it. “I love you.” Amaka went completely still. Their eyes met, and for once he did not look away. Two years. Hundreds of nights. The words should not have been new. They were. He kept going before he could turn the sentence into a performance. “I have loved you for a long time. I think I knew before I admitted I knew. I didn't say it because saying it felt like creating an obligation I could fail.” Amaka's mouth trembled. “That is the least romantic explanation for I love you I have ever heard.” Dayo laughed through the tightness in his throat. “I can try again.” “No.” She squeezed his hand. “Leave it.” He let the explanation rest. Amaka looked at him for a long moment. “I love you too.” Nothing rearranged itself around the words. Her trust was still bruised. His fear was still his.
The pregnancy remained ahead of them. But when the next silence came, Dayo did not race ahead of it. He stayed.