Gerald Levert’s “Funny” croons from my iPhone at exactly 8 am. My heavy eyes slam open, alert and ready for another day above ground.

The sunlight bears down on me through the blinds, its brightness irritating my eyes. Shielding them with my arm, I sit up, my body warm from sleeping hard, still thankful for a warm body, nonetheless.

When I turn off the alarm, I drop it into my lap and drag my tattooed hands down my face. Another day, same hustle. But I’m grateful for it all.

“Good mornin’,” I rasp to no one in particular. Just an annoying habit I can’t quite seem to break. The queen-sized bed squeaks as my big body lifts itself off the mattress. I make my bed with the precision of a well-practiced soldier. Instinctively, my body turns, facing the door. Waiting for someone or some people who wouldn’t come.

“Trippin,” I murmur, shaking my head.

Turning back to my bed, I drop to my knees, hands in a receiving posture in front of me.

“Heavenly Father, I thank you for another day…” I begin to pray, my head bowed and eyes closed, commanding the presence of the Almighty, thanking Him for my life’s journey, requesting that He protect me and all I love, and asking for guidance to be a better man than I was the day before.

I was raised to know that the prayers of the righteous availed much, and although I’ve seen more valleys than hills, I was covered. Always.

Grandma Rose made sure of that before I could even understand what sin was. She’d lay hands on me as a kid, humming and whispering words of affirmation and healing over my body as needed.

At night, when she thought I was sleeping, she’d come into my room and pray over me. When I realized what she was doing, I simply pretended to sleep so she wouldn’t be interrupted.

I’d keep my eyes closed and listen for her heavy shuffling feet to reach my bed without incident.

An incident like a fall ultimately took her from me last year. I miss the way she would anoint the top of my head with olive oil and declare the word of God over my life. Grandma Rose never ends a prayer without saying, “And it is so, in Jesus’ name, amen.” Even when her prayers contained words I couldn’t decipher, she’d call it her heavenly language. Still, at the end, she’d be back speaking in English to finish out.

That was why I believed that no matter what life threw my way, I would survive. Unlike my parents, my uncle, and my incarcerated cousin, who will never see the light of day, I was born to live into old age. Grandma told me so. She spoke it to me as a young boy.

I was to reverse the family’s generational curses and live a full, happy life… even if 8 years of it were stolen from me.

No matter what, I was Grandma Rose’s boy in life and death, and she poured her life into me. Long ago, I learned that justice doesn’t always exist in the natural realm, but in the spiritual realm, it all balances out.

My prayer concluded with earnest admiration of who God is and who He will continue to show Himself to be in my life. Even as a stray tear escapes me. I’m starting to pray harder, as Grandma used to, and that makes me miss her something serious.

“And it is so, in Jesus’ name, amen.”

Forty-five minutes later, my body is clean, dressed in a white button-up and black slacks, and I’m walking through the worn but sturdy front door. The old metal threshold at the floor creaks loudly, the sound of aging to some, but to me it’s the sound of family entering. Love. Respect.

Although the small wooden door frame has seen better days, no one ever came inside Grandma’s house without knowing how to behave. There was never drama at the eighty-year-old craftsman bungalow at 1586 Sycamore Street in the Gardensville neighborhood. Especially not when Pa Dell was living. I can still remember his voice and scent. He was tall, too. Like me.

Quite a contrast to the short, pensive, portly old man slowly rocking in my grandma’s favorite rocking chair on the dated screened-in porch.

“You need ta’ repaint this here porch.” His light grumble greets me, skipping formalities. Too hung up on respect to so much as narrow my eyes at him, I smile briefly while locking the door behind me.

“Yes, sir,” I reply, turning the rickety door handle to test its durability. Facing him is my next order of business. “I would’ve come and got you from your door, Mr. Aaron. You know what your doc---”

He grunts loudly, swinging his long black cane toward my mailbox. It doesn’t bother him a bit that he damn near pokes a hole in the screen’s net. “We walkin’.”

The inward sigh is followed by my trying to help my next-door neighbor out of the chair, which, of course, he refuses. He’s just like I’d known him as a kid. Stubborn as a mule and grumpy as hell. Still, we were kind of bonded together. 

Mr. Aaron is a widower. He and Ms. Louise never had children. Now, in his old age, he didn’t have any living relatives left.

Short of my cousin, who was locked up, a few homies from around the way, and Mama Cindy next door, I didn’t have many people either. So we stuck together, although most days Mr. Aaron acted like I couldn’t do shit right and didn’t know anything about life. But let me get through breakfast without me checking on him, and he’ll be hobbling over to my door, asking me what’s my malfunction. Then, if I’m in the middle of an appointment or not, I would proceed to sit on the porch and rock in granny’s old chair, humming gospel hymns or the O’Jays while watching the light traffic on the street.

He was grumpy and senile, but he was my partna.

As we are near the corner of Sycamore and Birch Street, our destination comes into view. 

The church rose to our right: wooden bones, stained-glass scenes from the bible I could draw by memory, that dull brass bell up top. The brand-new white sign out front read: Gardensville Baptist Church, clean where the old one used to lean.

Mr. Aaron’s gaze slides toward the cemetery addition, the one I try not to see. Grandma’s over there.

He hugs his Bible to his ribs and cuts across the grass. The sidewalk takes too long for him. “Reckon I’ll be over there before long.” He says absently.

“No time soon, old man.”

“Son,” he grunts, eyes on that ground, “when you lose the love of your life, ain’t nothing here no mo’.”

He stumbles with a gasp. I catch his elbow, steer him toward the front steps.

No thank yous, but I know his heart.

Parishioners flow through the cherry doors. 

A few eyes cut hard at me. Being free doesn’t mean you get welcomed back. I slow without knowing till Mr. Aaron grunts.

“C’mon. They don’t know what they lookin’ at.”

He’s right. I snort to myself and keep it pushing.

After service, I don’t move. 

I just sit in the pew, stare at the altar. 

Process the unbelievable memory of seeing her lying there like she was sleeping. 

“You see, you can always tell if somebody was living right by how they look in that casket,” she used to say.

If that’s true, Rose Elizabeth Murchinson lived like an angel on earth.

Now I’m here without her, wondering how I’d look when God called my number.

Most days I’m solid.

I pray.

Pay tithes.

Work.

Don’t lie.

Don’t bother anybody.

Keep my temple right.

Work out.

Don’t smoke or drink.

I started abstaining, even though I’m itching to feel something soft. And soon.

“Ricch.”

That baritone pulls a smirk out of me. I look up to the left of the pulpit.

“Dom P,” I nod, standing to go meet him.

Pastor Patterson wears a navy pinstripe suit like it was stitched on, gold chain glinting under the collar, black rims on his face. Holy with swagger, he’s been snatching up younger folks with sermons that hit spirit and street at once.

When I approach him, it’s daps and snaps. The usual.

“God’s chosen! What’s the math, my brotha?” he greets, head bobbing back.

“Maintainin’. Appreciate that word,” I reply, folding my arms.

“All God. Glad you've been showing up.”

“I ain’t got a choice with Mr. Aaron,” I chuckle, nodding at the deacons’ corner where he’s holding court. “And if I can meet you for the gym, I can meet you for God.”

“You cookin’, my boy.”

Before Dom was Pastor Patterson, he was simply known as D-Lo in the streets.

Born Dominic Lorenzo Patterson III, my boy’s calling was preloaded from birth.

Ministry.

He ain’t really have a choice.

His dad did it.

His grandfather did it.

And legacy means everything to him.

I respected him most because we had been cool since sitting on the pew learning our Easter speeches, and he never switched up when I got incarcerated.

He used to struggle with straddling the fence between being a real nigga, street nigga, and a Godly nigga, but somehow, he managed to merge real and God and has been set ever since.

Back when he was D-Lo, he ran the streets a lil’ bit with one of our partnas since boys, Savage. The two of them were boys before I even came around and were best friends ‘til high school graduation. As men, they had to choose their own paths, and it was all love. 

Sometimes they chop it up at the basketball court.

Savage was my boy, too, but with my jail stint, I must exercise wisdom and only chill with him in controlled environments. 

I already did a bid for no reason. Ain’t going down that road again for his bullshit.

If I had a best friend outside of my cousin Chief, it would be D-Lo. 

He really walks his talk and keeps me out of trouble.

The side door thumped open. Both of our heads swiveled.

Erica comes out first; she was the praise team leader and First Lady hopeful. 

My suppressed sexual appetite ignores the red flags, averting my eyes from Dominic to her high, sitting breasts, creating a mysteriously intriguing amount of cleavage. Honey-brown legs, practiced switch, and red bottoms bite the carpet as she cuts through the door.

Clocking me, she lifts an inquisitive eyebrow but turns that smile on Dominic.

Dominic stares at her with a faraway look, like he’s got some revelation or something for church next week. 

It takes me a second to register why.

My boy ain’t looking at Erica at all.

Mama Cindy steps out with a twelve-year-old carrying her purse and tattered leather Bible case.

“Hi Pastor! Your sermon was very spiritually stimulating. Did you like how we tweaked the worship medley to match your topic?” Erica purrs, her head curiously swivels toward the subject of Dom’s attention. 

A man on a mission, Dominic smiles regarding her question, and slides around her before politely patting the top of her shoulder.

“I thoroughly enjoyed it, Sister Garvin. I appreciate all that you guys do for the Kingdom,” he spoke swiftly before turning his attention to Mother Cindy. “You’re lookin’ thirty-five again, lady. How you are feelin’, mama?”

Mother Cinderella Williams. My next-door neighbor since before my grandparents took me in. One of the original Golden Girls of Gardensville. Church mother, neighborhood marshal.

My silver lady used to run the neighborhood with Granny, Mother Louise, and Mother Aggy, who lived right behind Mama Cindy when Dominic and I were kids. Their life’s work was making sure that every child was safe and behaved outside in the community.

The truth was that many of the kids in G-Ville were latch-key kids.

During the summers, the Golden Girls would come together and provide lunch for the youth during the work week while the working adults were clocked in. 

They were all devout Saints and never missed an opportunity to tell a bible story. Served right here at GBC and were lifelong members who could tell you the oldest church gossip from back when Nixon was president.

Every spring, they would host the church’s big Easter Egg Hunt, inviting everyone from members to non-members.

During the fall, they would host Hallelujah Night because they swore that if we didn’t get candy from the church, we were going to be poisoned, cursed, or impaled by a razor.

Every prom season, they made sure that any youth who wanted to attend would.

When it was time for some of us to enter college, they could expect to leave G-Ville with a care package from the church and a pound cake.

And when you became an adult and life chewed you up and spit you out, they were always around for a hug and wisdom before making you hold your hands up to God so they can help pray you through.

For some of us, the Golden Girls would give a swift pat on the ass for acting out.

Shit, I couldn’t even count how many whoopings I got with Mama Cindy because I was following behind her crafty ass granddaughter as jits. 

Then, I’d get home just to get another whopping.

When I count my blessings, I think about how I had the privilege of what it meant to have a whole village standing behind me to teach me right from wrong.

Growing up, I could eat four breakfasts, four lunches, and four dinners in one day, and never had to leave the block.

Now that three of my Golden Girls have gone on Home, there was only one house I could pull up to, and even though I’m on edge every time my foot crosses her threshold, she’s the only mama I have left.

“Hey, baby,” she beams with a chuckle, that gold crown in the front of her mouth shining under the pulpit lights.

Wearing a long-sleeved pastel yellow skirt suit and a large pale yellow hat with pearls that hides her silver and gray crown of pin curls, she hobbles a bit from her faulty left hip and opens her arms wide. “I’m doing just fine!”

Her voice is now husky and shaky with age, but I can still hear her younger self yelling “TAY-TAY, DAE-DAE, SAVAGE, AND RICHIE! GET DOWN HERE NOW!” when the street lights came on.

Dominic’s grin is as wide as the church doors as he engulfs her in a big embrace, gently rocking her from side to side, and I know that he, too, is still affected by her love and warmth.

“Boy, you reminded me of Bishop Patterson up there today! Looking just like your grandfather, too!” she compliments, fixing his lapel.

I move in and get my love from her next, bending down for her cheek kiss.

Her feeble, shaky hands softly pat the loose locs on my shoulder. The smell of White Diamonds freezes my thoughts mid-run.

Dominic’s eyes cast down to the girl in question before he offers her his fist.

“What’s up, Sister Ava? You ready for the summer?”

The irony. Sister Ava. 

They dap, and she’s all teeth and dimples, purse sliding off her little shoulder. “Hey, Pastor Patterson. Yes! I can’t wait to sleep in and watch TV whenever I want.”

“I doubt your sister will allow too much of that.” He says.

I kiss my teeth, catching on to Dom’s inadvertent check-in, and quickly become the victim of one of Mama Cindy’s firm elbows.

“Hush, boy!”

To anyone on the outside looking in, they would think that she was shushing me out of respect for Dominic. But to those who knew her, she was simply trying to get the 4-1-1 like everyone else.

I move differently, though. I like to address the elephant in the room.

Besides, he’s acting soft right now. This nigga is asking about Ava’s sister, Sade, like we didn’t all grow up under the same pews.

Even deeper, Sade and Ava are Savage’s little sisters.

Ava’s eyes flick over to me and Mama Cindy before she grins up at Dominic.

“She should. She’ll be busy at the salon.”

Dominic folds his arms, tilting his head.

“Is that right? Well, I might need to make Vacation Bible School an all-summer thing then. Make sure you stay out of trouble.”

Ava’s bun bounces with her head. “No, Pastor Patterson! One week is good enough, and my sister is going on vacation in July anyway.”

Dominic pushes his glasses up, looking like a light-skinned Malcolm X.

“Yeah? Where?”

“Um,” she replies, pausing to look up as if the ceiling has the answers. “Somewhere Caribbean. We had to get passports and everything. Dae says she’s tired of the hood. She needs some blue water and has a good, strong drink immediately after.”

“Ava.” I snap, giving her big-brother eyes.

She shrugs as innocently as air.

“That’s what she said.”

Dominic brushes a hand over his beard, looking toward the stained glass to hide his smile. 

“Sounds like her.”

He pries against his own will. “Sister trip?”

I cut my eyes to the side of his head, and when his peripheral vision catches mine, he shrugs with sprouted eyes.

“What? I’m asking about Savage.”

Man, this nigga knows damn well Savage wasn’t flying nowhere. Savage was happy just going to the YMCA community pool so he could keep an eye on his money. 

Dominic just wanted to know who had Sade’s time.

Before Ava can answer, Mama Cindy eases forward, bumping Ava with her hip before latching a grip on her forearm.

“Nihh, Dominic,” she said, the word now stretched the way only she could, “stop asking this child questions you need to ask Sade yo’self! It doesn’t make any sense. God gave you a calling to preach; I’m sure He can give you the words to say to her. C’mon, baby, Mama Cindy's roast is in the oven.”

I double over laughing while Dom turns into young D-Lo in a big suit, red in the face, fixing his cuff links.

“Man, chill. You’re lucky we’re in the House of God.” He murmurs to me with a hardened expression.

Sade Patrice Fergurson, our home girl who was more like a sister to me, has him shot out.

It served him right, though. Dae is what we call G-Ville’s Finest. A true dime, plus the ninety-nine.

And the females knew it too, and often fought her for it, but Sade always had hands.

For a chocolate girl with a curvy but modelesque figure walking the halls in designer and diamond necklaces from her brothers’ drug money, it came with the territory.

Like most of us, she had a rough past, but she overcame and is now a popular hairstylist with a successful hair salon downtown, Shilora.

She’s a hustler and a beauty, and it didn’t take long for me to realize that Dominic liked her.

I've only been home for a year and some change, and even I knew that he was still digging her after all this time.

G-Ville was always talkin’.

Word on the street is that he tried to make a move when her ex got killed a few years back, but she blew him off. She wasn’t trying to be anybody’s first lady.

GBC had too many painful memories, ghosts.

When her grandmother, Mother Aggy, died, she started coming less and less.

It hurt too much for her to walk in the sanctuary where her great-grandmother and grandmother used to worship.

I felt that. Every time I step in here, it presses on my ribs.

It ain’t matter no how, because Mama Cindy was going to fuss us out in the church or in the streets, and it didn’t matter if you were a pastor or the plug.

We were hers, and as far as she is concerned, this was her church, and Jesus was hers first.

As she ambles down the aisle with Ava, waving at a few fellow members in passing, she continues to scold.

But this time, I’m hit with a stray in her never-ending monologue of prayers and rebukes.

“Asking this baby like you can’t go to that salon and say hello! It doesn’t make any sense, Jesus. You too, Richie! All of ya! Done grew up together so close and won’t even pick up the telephone! Sweet Jehovah, what’s wrong with ‘em? Fix it, Lord! Fix it in Jesus' name! Hmph!”

She trudges across the worn red carpet, her white kitten heels nearly sticking to the matted fibers as she goes.

“C’mon, Ava, mama Cindy gotta use the powder room.”

“Aaron! Come on, nih and eat! I made you some pig feet, though you can’t have ‘em!” she yells over her shoulder, going out of the double doors without a worry of a response.

Mr. Aaron shouts back like he’s yelling down Sycamore, gripping the dark wood pew and rocking a few times on his heels before standing up.

“Cindy! I told you I’m not goin’ down dea’ until all them people leave!” 

He slowly reaches behind him to grab his suit jacket and shuffles out of the pew.

“I told that woman I don’t like eatin’ ‘round all them people… all that breath on my food. She knows I don’t like that talkin’ and carryin’ on afta’ church.”

Dominic and I stand with our eyes on Mama Cindy’s back, rooted in place as Mr. Aaron stomp-slides past us at the front of the altar and into the center aisle, both stunned by the painful conviction affectionately dished to us in the form of a 72-year-old firecracker.

As if on cue, we snap out of it when we hear Mr. Aaron’s agitated rumbles.

“Ricch! Take me home, son. I ain’t goin’ over there ‘til social hour over.”

We snort at him and shake our heads, Dominic taking a few steps backwards toward the door leading to the back of the church.

I glance back at him and nod toward the entrance of the church.

“You coming to eat?”

Dominic stops and places a hand on the door to the back hallway, his demeanor more subdued and pensive than a few moments ago. Like he’s thinking.

Reflecting.

We’re mirrors, both unsettled by the things or women, we have the unfortunate propensity to unconditionally care for.

“Nah, man, gotta pack for a speaking engagement. I’ll be back by Tuesday for workouts, though.”

I nod and start walking after Mr. Aaron.

“Say less. Bless up.”

“God bless, brotha.”

 

It’s a quarter to six, when Mama Cindy’s screen door whooshes. “God bless you!” after “God bless you!” sings down the steps. From Mr. Aaron’s porch, I watch GBC folks waddle to their cars, full and smiling. The smell of gas fumes mixes with fried chicken like perfume.

My stomach growls as if I’m unaware of what we need.

Now that the crowd has gone, it’s our time to chow down.

I lean away from the card table and turn down the dial on the box, The Isley Brothers’ “Who’s That Lady” becoming a mere muffled beat. 

I tell Mr. Aaron all the time that I can just get him a Bluetooth speaker, but he refuses. He’s old-school, and to him, all technology is no good and is of the devil.

He prefers the classic crackling static of an old school radio and Love 101.8, our local station for classic old school, soul, and R&B. 

We’d been sitting in tees and sweats since we changed from church, playing chess while he sang and complained that music “ain’t wuffa shit no mo’.”

I appreciated slow Sundays like this because Monday through Saturday is typically busy for me with appointments and the behind-the-scenes grind to stay afloat.

I glance down at the board, then at him.

“Man, let’s go eat. I’m in check.”

I ignore the smug sneer on his wrinkled face as I stand up tall and stretch my long limbs.

He grins with three teeth hanging on for dear life. “Tee-hee! Boy, if gamblin’ wasn’t a sin, I’d take all ya lil’ booty money.” He jerks that cane like a gearshift. For a second, I saw the middle-aged man with an afro that he used to be, cheeks up, eyes bright. Then the years settle back over him, and I blink.

We walk right past my place and into Mama Cindy’s. The smell hit like love manifested on a plate.

“Aaron, get on in hea’ and eat!” An irritated Mama Cindy screeches from the kitchen as we step through the living room and into the hallway. I’m almost drawn to looking at the dated pictures on the wall for the millionth time until I hear her fussing some more.

“And I know you've been over there playing chess all day and ain’t even wash ya tail!”

I snort loudly, placing a fist up to my mouth as the kitchen approaches to our left. 

Mr. Aaron glares daggers up at me and then hunches his shoulders, making a stark right through the rounded archway of the formal dining room.

Leaning against the doorway to the warm kitchen, I fold my arms and watch Mama Cindy toss chicken legs in a glass bowl with pinched eyebrows and the cutest pout. 

“I tried to get him to come over here earlier, Ma, but you know how he’s stubborn.” I chime in just to further irritate him. 

She stops throwing chicken and turns with surprising speed, a conspiring hand on her hip.

“I know it, but he knows betta! He needs to take his medicine.”

She shakes her head and looks down for a moment.

“Louise is rolling in her grave, rest her soul.”

I move in to comfort Mama Cindy, but I whip my head back when I hear Mr. Aaron, loud as day, singing with a knot full of mucus knocking at his uvula.

“Jesus is my docta’!”

Mama Cindy huffs.

“Be qui-”

“Annnnnd he writes down all my scripchaaas!”

“Aar-”

“Heeeeee gives me allll of my medicineeee…. In my rooooom!” 

Putting a fist to my mouth, I turn my head to face Mama Cindy, and she simply snorts into a belly chuckle so deep that it her stomach convulses, rippling through the fabric of her multicolored muumuu. 

“Chy, I ain’t studdin’ that fool,” she shakes her head, turning back toward the counter. Before waving me off. “Gone in there and sit down, baby. You know I’ll make you a plate.”

Mama Cindy only eats a piece of chicken and a serving spoonful of green beans, while Mr. Aaron and I enjoy the heavy plates that she likes to call “Hungry Man” plates. 

She’s full from eating with our church family earlier, but when Mr. Aaron is in one of his anti-social moods, she always makes herself a small plate just for the fellowship and to watch us eat so she knows we had proper sustenance before going home.

If someone told me that Ms. Louise and Granny didn’t tell her to watch over us when they left here, I wouldn’t believe them.

Just like I don’t believe the unsettling sound of a car engine shutting off and a car door slamming right outside of Mama Cindy’s crib. 

Sitting back in my seat, I chew slowly and side-eye her. As soon as it's cleared, I point my thumb in the direction of the sound.

“You expecting somebody?” I push back my chair. Listening for voices. Anything. 

I stand, tug my black jeans up, biceps tight under my Nike tee.

Mama Cindy plays deaf, sipping on her frosted glass of sweet tea.

“Who out there, Ma?”

She scoffs, waving me off. “Ahh, you’ll see. Go bring their stuff in for me, Richie baby. Please?”

I try to stand on business, but she puts those small, feeble toffee hands under her chin and smiles like sugar. I roll my eyes at the ceiling and turn for the door anyway.

Mama Cindy. You can’t help but love her.

“Who out there, Ma?” I ask her again over my shoulder.

“Oh, just Taylor and the baby.”

My jaw immediately clenches; my fist forcefully collides with the closed front door before I can stop it.

“Negro you bettah not put a hole in that damn do’!” Mr. Aaron barks, in between coughs. “What’s the matta witcha boy?”

“BOY, GO OUT THEA’ AND GET MY BABIES BEFORE I GET A SWITCH! IT’S DARK OUTSIDE!” Mama Cindy yells along.

Heat climbs in my chest as I flick up the porch lights.

With clenched jaws, I grip the black doorknob until my knuckles turn white and attempt to yank the fucking door open with quiet violence.

The cool air that wafts past my face only further incites me, propelling me to reflect on the fact that today, my boy Gerald Levert let me down.

Cause ain’t shit funny about gettin’ a call or a visit from a ghost of the past.

And now, my Sunday is fuckin’ blown to damn smithereens with the presence of 

Sorry, God. 

I tried.

I hear them before I see them.

My feet slow to a halt as I hang back in the shadows of the fence.

Hidden in the shadows, bouncing off the house and the hedges of Mama Cindy’s prized Hydrangea bushes, I watch her as she helps a child out of the back seat, the top of her head illuminating under the streetlight. She shuts the back passenger side of her car, and through the window, I can see her gently grab a little girl’s arms, rubbing them thoughtfully as she places her small body against the door.

Though blurry, I can make out through the glass. She bends down and smiles up at the kid with a knowing expression, and it hits me.

She’s about to give her the talk.

The talk that all women give their children when they are about to be in the presence of adults.

The “don’t tell my damn business” talk.

I slow my steps to a halt, staying back by the bushes as my ears come in contact with the soft, nurturing voice of the woman I once thought was my one. 

Immediately, my heart thuds rapidly in my chest, reminding me that my mind and heart are on two different journeys.

I haven’t felt this way in so long that it almost feels painful.

With a tone still as sweet as honey sliding off a spoon, I hate the way she still arrests me, “Baby doll, mommy really needs you to be a big girl right now. I know that I have a lot of explaining to do-“

“Mommy, where are we?” the little girl whines, “I want to go homeee. I miss daddy.”

I can’t make out Taylor’s face, but I can hear the defeated sigh in her voice.

“Oh, baby,” she says with a pause. “I know you miss your daddy, but he’s… busy right now. You and I are going to stay here in Gardensville and take care of Grandma Cindy for a while, okay? You remember her, don’t you? She was my mother’s mom. And you get to see my old room and look at pictures of Mama when she was your age. I might even have some of my old toys and books for you to look at.”

Her voice lightens a bit.

“And the best part? You get to spend time with your great-grandmother, who raised me. She loves you so much, and I’m sure she’s excited about showing you some of her secret recipes.” 

“Secret recipes?” The girl whispers back.

“Mmhmm.” I can hear the smile in Taylor’s voice. “And she’ll even let you lick the spoon when she’s baking. You love baking, don’t you?”

“Oh yes!” the girl exclaims, “I like it when we bake together.”

“Well, all three of us will bake something together soon. How’s that?”

“That sounds great!” the girl says, but then her voice becomes grim again. “But when will I see daddy?”

Taylor sighs, but somehow, she finds amusement when I suddenly hear a light chuckle.

“Oh, my Nylah, you’re not going to make this easy on me… I’m not sure when you’re going to see Daddy, but you can call him and tell him goodnight. I’m sorry, baby doll.”

Nylah groans. “That’s not the same.”

“I know, baby doll. You’ll see him soon. I’ll talk to him about it.”

“You promise?”

“Pinky promise.”

A few seconds pass, and I assume that they’re gripping pinkies.

Cute.

So cute, my guard almost drops as memories of a young Taylor bombarded my mind, her making me pinky promise her every time she told me something and wrapping her small finger around mine to ensure my secrecy.

We had a lot of secrets between us. 

“So,” Taylor breathes, “I need you to be on your best behavior for me. Nobody needs to know about Mommy and Daddy, okay? Nothing about arguing or fights because that’s home business. We don’t share home business. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Umm, I think?” Nylah replies, sounding like the curious child she is. “You don’t want me to talk about how daddy hit-“

I clear my throat intentionally, revealing my presence. I heard enough, and none of that shit has anything to do with me.

Whatever Taylor had going on with her snake of a husband was her problem. 

Taylor’s petite form looks like it's jumped out of her skin. She glances over the car at me like a deer caught in headlights while I’m staring back at her with my hands in my pockets. 

Those perfectly arched eyebrows rise to her hairline, and I know two things for certain: Taylor is surprised to see me, and she’s wondering just how much I’ve heard. But I play it cool, although I’m sure I’ve heard enough to assume why she’s back in G-Ville after all this time. 

I tilt my head up in a silent nod, an easy stride finds me, and I walk around the car toward her and her daughter. 

“Ricch,” she swallows. “H-hello,” Taylor stutters, those dreamy brown eyes wide and puffy as the hips I’m currently walking up on. Her eyes cautiously give me a once-over.

Taylor has definitely grown up since I saw her last. She had the same camel brown skin, pert nose, ultra plump lips, the kind that kids back in the day would tease and say she had dick-sucking lips, and doe-like eyes, but everything else seemed different. Her hair was cut into a honey brown mushroom that fit so well with her soft face and matched the color of her eyes. It reminded me of Halle Berry in Boomerang. Her lashes seemed longer, like she had them done at one of those shops.

Her body was filled out for sure. Dressed in a simple black t-shirt dress with a blue denim jacket tied around her waist, one could still make out the body of a woman who had carried life… and carried that shit well, might I add.

Taylor is fine. No, beautiful as hell. 

Always had been.

That’s why she was so many things in my life as a jit.

But now, as I look at her doing that nervous shit she always does, biting her bottom lip like she got caught stealing a cookie from the cookie jar, I now see her as nothing but what she is. Mama Cindy’s granddaughter.

“What’s up?” I murmur casually, eying her unashamedly. 

It didn’t matter that she’s married. And married to the Opp, at that.

I had the pleasure of her body way before he did, and I was the first one to experience her in that way.

I watch, feeling empowered by her cowardice as her hand slowly glides down the back of her head, smoothing out her edges.

“You look well.” She gently mumbles, flickering her eyes from me to her feet.

Pathetic.

I kiss my teeth at her before my eyes shift downward and a little to the right.

Two poofy pig tails.

Two bushy, full eyebrows that could almost make for an unibrow.

Long, silky eyelashes that could make you question if she’s real.

Two big, rounded eyes with dark orbs.

Two big dimples that become more pronounced the more I look at her.

Pretty cocoa skin.

I’m stunned.

Taylor’s daughter is beautiful.

“Hi.” She whispers, her fingers playing at her waist.

I can’t help but show my own dimples. Something I hadn’t done since I don’t remember when.

Instantly, it registers why Taylor calls her baby doll. She certainly gives the appearance of one. But instead, I call her exactly what she is.

I hold out my hand as my voice softens.

“Hey, princess. I’m Ricch. What’s your name?”

She smiles so hard as we shake hands, and her missing tooth in the front shows. “I’m Nylah.”

“Nylah?” I ask, cutting my eyes at Taylor, who won’t look at me.

“That’s a very pretty name. I’m Mama Cindy’s neighbor. Nice to finally meet you.”

“Thank you,” she says bashfully, shoulders rising to her ears. 

I can already tell that Princess Nylah is a sweet girl.

For reasons unknown, I’m relieved by her age-appropriate demeanor and friendly nature. I surmise it's because both Taylor and I didn’t have easy childhoods. We were fortunate to be raised by our grandparents, but it didn’t come without the trauma of parents’ absences in our lives, no matter the reason they were gone. 

There were times we only had each other for happiness growing up.

As I said, we were still keeping each other’s secrets.

I ask Nylah her age, and before she can answer, Taylor speaks up.

“So, Ricch,” she interrupts, fixing the strap of her purse. Much to my curiosity, her eyes then bounce from Nylah to me. “What have you been up to?”