Based On A True Story

Chapter 8: A Divine Connection

Jazmine

True looked over his painting at me, His brush hovered mid-stroke, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to finish the thought or the painting.

“So,” he said, “why did your marriage end?”

I exhaled, swirling my drink. “He never had time for me,” I said. My voice held steady, but the edges still carried the weight of old wounds. “He wasn’t affectionate at all. Always busy. Always something work-related, you know?”

True nodded, eyes soft with understanding. “That sounds lonely.”

He set his brush down and leaned forward, gaze locked onto mine. “So why don’t you have kids again?”

I shrugged, feeling that old familiar sting. “I don’t know… we just never got to that place. He always said it wasn’t the right time. There was always something more important.” That wasn’t the whole truth. He didn’t want kids… and the part that hurt the most? I couldn’t have them, even if I did.

True nodded again, but this time, something shifted in his expression. It darkened—like he knew exactly what that felt like.

I tilted my head. “What’s your thing? Why do you even want to talk to a woman almost twenty years older than you? And... are you single?”

He smirked, but his eyes stayed unreadable. “I am single.” He let that hang in the air, then added, more serious now, “I was dating a woman nine years older than me. Thought it was solid. Then she cheated on me... with my cousin.”

I blinked. “Damn.”

“Yeah. I was nineteen. She was twenty-eight. We were together a couple years. It was long-distance—but not too far. About two hours.”

“Sheesh,” I said, already bracing myself.

“Well, my cousin lived in her city. One weekend I planned to visit her for a week, but we got into it. So I hit up my cousin and asked to crash at his place instead. She thought I was headed back home.”

Now I was locked in.

“So we’re chillin’. Smoking, taking shots and shit,” he said, eyes narrowing. “He goes to the bathroom and leaves his phone on the table. It rings—and her name and picture pop up.”

I leaned forward, drink in hand.

“I picked that mothafucka up and answered,” he said, voice low. “She starts talking—don’t even realize it’s me. ‘That nigga gone. You can come over now.’”

My hand flew to my mouth. “Oh my God.”

“Yup.” His jaw clenched. “She was fuckin’ my cousin.”

A thick silence filled the space between us.

“I didn’t even say anything. Just hung up. I wanted to let that bitch have it.”

He paused. Then exhaled. “Excuse me for being disrespectful.” “No,” I said quickly. “Go on. That bitch.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “So my cousin comes out the bathroom, and now his phone’s blowin’ up. I’m like, ‘Aye man, what’s good? You wanna tell me why my bitch is calling you?’

And this nigga—” he shook his head, “he plays dumb. ‘Shit, she probably lookin’ for you.’”

I laughed. “My nigga was really gon’ ride that lie out.”

“On everything,” True said, face tightening. “So I play along. ‘Probably so. Go ‘head and answer it.’

And this nigga really tried to play in my face, talmbout, ‘Nah man, I don’t wanna be in the middle of that shit.’”

He stood now, pacing slightly—the energy in the room suddenly thick, the air charged.

“Now I’m hot. This dude fucking my girl and playing on my intelligence. My family knows—I go from zero to sixty real quick.” He pointed animatedly. “I told him, ‘I’m tryna stay calm and not disrespect your house, but you playing in my face. You can either come clean about that dirty bitch or get knocked the fuck out in your own house. You got ten seconds to pick your poison.’”

I wasn’t just invested—I was turned on by the fire in his voice, the storm in his eyes.

He smirked darkly. “That nigga chose right. Admitted they’d been messin’ around. And…

She was pregnant. With his baby.”

My mouth dropped. “Oh my God. What did you do?”

“I clocked that nigga right in his jaw.”

“Did he swing back?”

He scoffed. “Tried to. I told him I was liable to kill him—he sat his stupid ass right back down.”

I winced. “Whew.”

“I left before I killed him.” He rubbed his face. “Not gonna lie... I cried about that shit. Called my momma and cried. I wanted to kill both of them.”

He sat back down slowly, and for a moment, he was just a boy again—wounded, betrayed, carrying something heavy.

Instinctively, I reached out and laid my hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry that happened to you. And I’m even more sorry I made you relive it.”

He shrugged, but it was in his eyes. It still hurt. “Shit fucked me up for real.”

We sat in the weight of that moment—quiet, real.

“Do you... want a hug?” I asked gently.

He smirked, shaking his head. “Nah, I’m good, mommas.” Then, with a little heat creeping back in his voice: “But I could use somethin’ else though.”

I narrowed my eyes, laughing. “Boy, bye. I’m being serious.” “I am too,” he said, gaze locked on mine.

I shook my head, but I didn’t fully deny him.

After a beat, he shifted the mood. “I was with this other girl for a bit, but she wasn’t for me.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, grateful for the lighter energy.

“She was really young. Just turned twenty. I thought we could grow together—but she had no goals. No real drive.”

“Well… she’s twenty,” I said, chuckling. “She’s still figuring life out. Not everybody can have an ‘old soul’ like you.” I made air quotes.

He laughed. “You’re right.” Then, after a moment, he looked up with a little spark. “You got any tattoos?”

I smiled. “Yeah. A butterfly on my neck.” I turned my head, showing him.

“Sexy,” he murmured.

I pointed to my leg. “Got a rose on my thigh... and this infinity symbol on my ring finger.”

His eyes widened. “That’s fucking crazy.”

“What? It’s just a tattoo,” I laughed.

He lifted his hand—and showed me the same infinity symbol on his ring finger.

My jaw dropped. “No fucking way. When did you get yours?” “Last month. Mother’s Day.”

I nearly knocked over my glass. “I got mine on Mother’s Day too.” We stared at each other in stunned silence.

“I got mine to represent the eternal love I deserve,” I said quietly. He nodded. “I got mine for love too.”

And just like that, the room went still.

We sat there, quiet—paintbrushes forgotten, drinks

untouched—wrapped in something we couldn’t name.

Finally, he broke the silence.

“So what about you? You said you moved here because of a man. What happened?”

I sighed, swirling my drink again. “Our relationship was toxic as fuck,” I admitted. “A lot of lows and highs.”

“You mean highs and lows?” he asked, brows lifting.

“No.” I shook my head. “Lows and highs. That’s how toxic relationships work. It’s always more lows than highs.”

He studied me. “Explain.”

“It’s like a casino,” I said. “You put fifty dollars in, lose forty-nine. Then, you bet your last dollar and win twenty back. You cash out thinking you won—but you’re still leaving thirty dollars short.”

His face shifted. “Damn,” he murmured. “That’s deep.” He held my gaze. “What’s your ideal relationship?”

I started to answer, but he tilted his head, giving me that look—” look-at-me-when-you-speak look.”

And I swear to God, it turned me on.

That pull between us was magnetic. Stronger than I wanted it to be. And I was working overtime to resist it.

I talked through the things I wanted in a relationship—respect, affection, passion—but I made sure to emphasize one thing in particular.

“The best hugs.”

He raised a curious brow. “The best hugs?”

“Yep,” I said, nodding with conviction. “The best hugs.” He smirked. “And what exactly makes a hug ‘the best’?”

I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice. “My twin gives the best hugs. They’ve always made me feel safe, like nothing in the world could hurt me. That’s the kind of feeling I need from my partner—security, warmth, that sense of home.”

He nodded slowly, like he really heard me. “I get that. What else?”

“Motivated. A go-getter. Goal-setter. Great kisser. Passionate. And of course…” I paused, letting the last one hang, “good in bed.”

His lips curled into a mischievous grin. “Ooh. And what does ‘good in bed’ mean to you?”

I crossed my arms, tilting my head at him playfully. “I’ll tell you—after you tell me what your ideal relationship looks like. And why you prefer older women.”

He leaned back, taking a slow bite of his taco before replying.

“Older women are just… different. Y’all are direct. You know what you want. No games. You’re motivated, wise, nurturing. And damn... y’all can cook.”

I laughed. “So that’s what this is really about? You just want someone to cook for you?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, it’s deeper than that. Like you—you claim to be shy, but even with that, you carry yourself with confidence. You give off boss-woman vibes, and that…” He paused, locking eyes with me. “That turns me on.”

The heat in his gaze sent a slow shiver down my spine. I had to fight the urge to climb across the table and straddle him.

“You know that song by Ne-Yo, ‘She Got Her Own’?” he asked. I nodded, humming the chorus under my breath. “I got it, I got it…”

“Yeah. That one,” he said. “That’s the first song I thought of when I met you. I actually listened to it after I left your house.”

I blinked. “Oh really?”

He nodded, looking dead serious. “I knew the second I saw you—you’re a boss.”

I sipped my drink, trying to hide the way my heart flipped. “So…” I said, steering the conversation back, “your ideal relationship?”

“My ideal?” He leaned forward. “Everything I just said. A woman who’s a boss, knows what she wants… but still got that little shy side. It’s sexy.”

He paused, tone shifting. “My ex wasn’t a bad person—just young. She didn’t really know what she wanted yet. I already got my life figured out. I’m twenty-four with my own business. I need someone on my level.”

He leaned closer, voice dipping. “I also need my woman to be good in bed.”

I swallowed, the tension between us thickening like smoke. “Are you?” he asked, his tone teasing but laced with intention.

I tilted my head. “I don’t know… I guess you’ll have to wait and find out.” I said as I winked at him.

His tongue slid across his bottom lip. “Hmm. Can I find out tonight?”

I laughed softly, shaking my head. “Sir, I am a lady. I can’t just hand over my goodies on the first night.”

“Why not? We’re both adults.”

“Barely,” I mumbled.

He caught it. His smirk deepened. “Oh really?”

I shrugged like I wasn’t affected by the way he was looking at me. But my pulse betrayed me.

“I’m gonna let that slide,” he said. “But just so you know—I’m pretty damn good at what I do.”

“Mmhmm. Everybody thinks they’re good at sex.”

“Oh, I don’t think,” he said smoothly. “I know.”

I needed an escape route from this heat. “What did you paint?”

He turned my question back on me, eyeing my canvas and bursting into laughter. “What is that? An evil bunny in a tree?”

I laughed too. “No! It’s just a bunny. Somehow, he turned evil.”

“Damn,” he chuckled. “Should I be scared? You out here drawing evil bunnies and shit?”

“Maybe. I might be a little psycho.”

His gaze darkened. “Oh, I already figured that out.”

I laughed, then nodded toward his canvas. “Your turn.” He turned his painting around, and my smile dropped.

A broken heart. Cracked down the middle. A lock and key hanging off a chain.

The pain in that image hit me square in the chest.

I stood up and walked to his side of the table. Without thinking, I wrapped my arms around him.

He stiffened, then relaxed into it—arms wrapping around me like he’d been waiting for that moment.

I leaned into his ear. “You drew a broken heart.”

He pulled back slightly. “Huh?”

I met his eyes, then looked down at the canvas again, my finger tracing the jagged split. “You said you were just painting what came to mind. But you painted a broken heart.”

His jaw clenched. “Nah... I mean, I’m cool.”

I didn’t press.

He glanced at me. “Look at you—so concerned. That’s sweet.” 88

He kissed me.

And I knew...

I was in trouble.