Naomi leaned back. Her expression changed in a way only Nia would have noticed. Not anger, exactly. Something quieter. More controlled.
How long has this been going on? Nia didn't answer. Naomi watched her. Nia. Long enough.
How long? A few weeks. Naomi looked away. For several seconds, she said nothing. Nia knew that silence.
Naomi used it whenever she was angry enough to distrust her first response. I've been handling it, Nia said. You call bruises handling it. I call not giving them what they want handling it. Naomi looked back.
Nia took out her phone. I saved everything. She opened the folder marked Wellington. Screenshots, messages, photographs, dates, short notes beneath each one. Who had been there?
Where it happened? What was said? Naomi scrolled slowly. The joking nickname, the bus photos, comments about Nia's clothes, the picture of Harbor Street Community Kitchen, Walter beneath the diner awning, Arthur's building. Naomi stopped.
Where did they get this? I don't know you. You never posted Arthur's address. No. Naomi's jaw tightened. Nia reached across the table and took the phone back.
I need evidence, not a scene. You think I'm going to make a scene? I think you love me. That's silenced Naomi. Nia continued more softly.
And I think sometimes loving somebody makes you want to solve things before they ask you to. Naomi looked down at her coffee. The steam had disappeared. You should have told me. I wanted to handle something on my own.
You don't have to prove that to me. I'm not proving it to you. Nia paused. I'm proving it to myself. Naomi understood that.
Perhaps too well. For years, people had looked at Naomi and seen whatever was easiest for them. A black woman in a uniform. Then a black woman without one. A tired EMT.
A tenant with irregular paychecks. A woman standing in an apartment office while a manager explained that her application had suddenly become complicated. Naomi had once served people who never knew what training stood behind the calm voice beside their hospital bed. Then civilian life had taught her how quickly credentials could disappear when they were not visible on your clothes. She had fought to keep an apartment after a landlord began treating her irregular emergency shifts as evidence of instability.
She had documented everything, filed complaints, made calls, waited. In the end, leaving had cost less than continuing to prove she deserved to stay. Nia had helped carry the boxes down three flights of stairs. Neither sister had forgotten. Nia looked at the dark brews around her wrist.
There are people waiting for me to get angry. Naomi said nothing. They want the angry version because then everything becomes easier. For them, yes. Nia's voice lowered.
If I lose control, they get to make me the problem. The words hung between them. Naomi looked at her sister for a long time. Then she nodded once. Not agreement with what had happened.