𝗧𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗼𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗕𝗮𝗰𝗸

𝗧𝘄𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘆-𝗧𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲│𝗔𝗻 𝗘𝘅𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲

𝙈𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙨 that she'd recognized as she stepped into the ballroom, then ruefully, of Diana Ross. She couldn't blame Michael. Diana was captivating as were the stories she likely had to tell. They were what Michael and Diana had to be laughing about: just between them and other musical artists, there were stories about recording, and press conferences, and award shows that Mallorie couldn't relate to if she tried.

Was this what it was often like for Michael? her mind and her sore heart considered. To somehow still be alone in a room full of people?

No matter the size of the audiences he performed for, or the attendees of journalists and fans, the only way Michael could relate to them was through music. Outside of that, he was an alien by means of the unusual childhood the prodigal talents forced on him. And he'd shown it and said it himself; he would always profess that music and performing was all he knew. Anything else caused him to retreat inward, to fabricate a shield of childlike modesty and shyness, further isolating him from the world he desperately wanted to be part of.

To be in an invisible cage of inexperience with the closeness and feeling of belonging being just beyond reach wasn't an experience she'd wish on anyone, and it was a burden she longed to relieve Michael of the moment he shared it with her.

That he was inflicting the experience on her now made her feel as though he'd physically ripped out her heart.

A light yet sudden touch of a palm to the exposed skin of Mallorie's upper back startled her. She wasn't alone anymore, and judging by the calloused feel of the hand, it wasn't because of Heather.

"That's a long face for a nigga that's about to be makin' mad dough."

The deep voice shocked her then traveled to some of the furthest recesses of memory and set off sirens of familiarity and excitement. "Dayvon?" she guessed in a breathless squeak. Whirling to look up and confirm a second later, she almost couldn't believe it. After years apart and only ever being able to speak in fragments over the phone, her best and only childhood friend was standing right in front of her. "Oh, my God!" she cried. The tears that had welled in her eyes earlier revisited as she threw herself into his arms. "When– How did you even get here?"

"Your momma sent me," he laughed. Although muffled by being pressed against her shoulder and hair, his laughter lifted her spirits just as it had when they were hardly preteens sitting on the doorsteps of their dismal Bed-Stuy apartments. "She said she couldn't make it tonight then passed me them thick ass contracts and told me to come and keep an eye on you."

"Really? And you flew here all by yourself?"

"Yep. That's how you know I love you."

Mallorie couldn't recall being this grateful for her mother's meddling. The now twenty-six year old Dayvon was little different from the sixteen year old Dayvon she'd last seen at her high school graduation. He was much sturdier and taller, and his features had evened out more as he matured. But his brilliant smile still stretched far across his face and looked brighter against the deep, near-obsidian brown of his skin. He also evidently still struggled to dress himself, the khaki slacks he decided to tuck his navy polo into being a size or two too large.

"I'm so proud of you, and I love you, too!" Mallorie pulled back from the hug to marvel at him. "I just can't believe it! God, you haven't changed at all," she noted in an excited laugh, tugging at one of his belt loops. "How's everything back home?"

"'Ey now, I'm still a growing boy. But it's all good, runnin' the body shop been good. Look at you, though!" Dayvon took a small step back as if to take in her appearance better then gave her a playful, sidelong look. "Why are you so grown now, with your doctor titles all that?" A more sentimental emotion obscured the excited glint in his eye. "You're a physician and married now, huh?. When was you gonna say somethin' to me directly?"