Clearer Than Glass: An Atlanta Love Story- One Week later

One Week Later 
Midday, Atlanta 
 
The gym parking lot shimmered with heat waves rising off blacktop. Devonté stepped out, sweat still glistening on his biceps, the fabric of his gray tank clinging to his chest and shoulders like it was struggling to hold on. He moved like a man who knew what his body could do—purposeful, unhurried, shoulders squared like royalty hadn’t gone out of style. 
 
He tugged a towel from his duffel, wiped the sweat from his neck, and slid into the driver’s seat of his other baby—his 1988 Chevy Caprice, platinum with chrome rims that caught every ounce of sunlight and threw it back twice as loud. The leather inside smelled like fresh wax and a hint of nostalgia. This car didn’t just ride; it floated, like it knew it had survived history. 
 
Just as he reached for the ignition, his phone buzzed in the cup holder. 
 
Imani  
 
He let it ring twice—just long enough to grin—then answered, putting it on speaker. 
 
“Didn’t expect to hear your voice in the middle of the day,” he said, voice still warm and gravel-edged from his workout. 
 
Imani’s voice came through, smooth like melted caramel. 
“I figured if I waited 'til after work, you’d be out making some other woman laugh in a grocery store aisle.” 
 
He chuckled, tossing his towel into the backseat. “Nah. I only use my best jokes on you.” 
 
She hummed thoughtfully. “Mm-hmm. Where you at?” 
 
“Just left the gym. About to head to my pops' place—he need help with that old smoker of his.” 
 
“You always this helpful, or you just like lifting heavy things in front of people?” 
 
He smirked, started the engine, letting the Caprice rumble to life with a purr that still turned heads. 
 
“Little bit of both,” he said. “What about you? Shouldn’t you be sippin' mango smoothies and turning waiting rooms into trap-laced poetry readings?” 
 
She laughed, bright and genuine. “I’m on lunch. Sitting outside the museum. Needed a break from spreadsheets and people who pronounce ‘gyro’ like it rhymes with ‘zero.’” 
 
He laughed hard at that one. “You hungry?” 
 
Imani paused. “That depends. You offering?” 
 
He eased the Caprice out of the parking lot, sunglasses sliding down onto his face. “How about I bring something by? Nothing fancy. Just you, me, and a couple paper plates.” 
 
“You cooking?” 
 
“Don’t insult me. I’m grilling.” 
 
“Ooh, that’s different,” she teased. “You grill like your daddy taught you or like YouTube did?” 
 
“Sweetheart, I grill like I was born with mesquite in my blood.” 
 
That made her laugh again, and he could hear her tapping something on her phone. “Alright, grillmaster. Send me the address. I’ll bring the lemonade if you promise not to talk slick until after I’ve eaten.” 
 
Devonté’s grin stretched slow. “No promises. But I’ll try.” 
 
They lingered in the silence for a moment, that warm kind where nothing needs saying. 
 
“I’m glad you called, Imani,” he said, softer now. 
 
“I know,” she replied, voice just as low. “I almost didn’t. But something said you’d be in a car that rumbles when it breathes, with sweat still on your chest and a smile in your voice.” 
 
He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes briefly, just feeling the moment. 
 
“See,” he murmured, “this why I don’t talk to no other women in the grocery store.”