Imani clapped sharply as she shot Philip another look. Tonya couldn’t tell whether the sound was to emphasize Imani’s excitement or displeasure. “That sounds fine. Let’s show you the rooms.”

Philip heaved the bag over his shoulder. “Welcome to our bubble,” he said.

It was Tonya’s turn to force a smile. Though she understood what Philip meant, she didn’t like the comparison. Everyone knew that bubbles had to pop.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

IMANI

As a therapist, Imani would claim the key to a good marriage was mutual respect. As a friend, she’d append a caveat, and avoiding temptation. As she shut her bedroom door behind Philip, Imani couldn’t help but think that he’d staked their relationship in a greedy gamble to keep their home. Tonya was fit and blond—a youthful, Bette Davis–eyed idealization of Philip’s own mother. Freud had studied Oedipus for a reason.

Imani walked through the room to the sliding glass door leading to the slip of balcony overlooking the postage-stamp patio behind their house. Jay and Vivienne had heard them fighting the other day. This conversation needed to take place as far away from the hallway as possible.

She gestured to their bed, inviting Philip to sit and start explaining. She intended to stand.

“We need help with the mortgage.” Philip walked past the mattress, positioning himself in front of her. “And I know eight hundred might not seem like a lot given the size of our loan, but it could really help once her unemployment checks start coming in a month and—”

“Wait.” Imani shook her head, shaking off the verbiage buzzing around it. “What do you mean once they start coming? Are you saying she can’t pay now?”

“She’ll clean in the restaurant for free this first month until her unemployment kicks in.”

Arguments flooded Imani’s throat, threatening to choke her if she didn’t immediately spew them out. “I understand the desire to be charitable, Philip, but we’re financially drowning. This isn’t the time for us to be throwing anyone a life preserver.”

“It’s not charity, honey. She’s a hard worker, and she’ll eventually pay eight hundred a month.”

“A drop in the bucket. We—”

“Nearly all commercial loans have a force majeure clause for unforeseeable acts of God,” Philip interrupted. “The pandemic has to count. I’ll renegotiate the loan, get it down to something that can be paid with her rent and whatever the restaurant is bringing in.”