The couch dipped when Sara shifted her weight, phone lighting up her face in the dim afternoon. The apartment was quiet. Not peaceful. Just paused. The heater clicked on and off with a tired rhythm, pushing warm air that never quite reached her toes. Outside, a car passed too fast on the street, bass rattling faintly through the windows before fading.
Her phone buzzed again.
Saul: You home, tia?
Sara exhaled through her nose. Then she typed back.
Yeah.
She had barely locked the screen when a knock hit the door. Just familiar enough.
“Of course,” she muttered, already pushing herself up.
Her knees complained as she stood. She crossed the living room, bare feet brushing against the rug that never stayed straight no matter how many times she adjusted it. The second knock came as she reached the door.
She opened it to Saul standing there with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders slightly hunched. His hair was damp, flattened in spots by a hood he’d already pulled down.
He smiled first, apologetic before he even spoke.
“Lo siento, tia,” he said. “I probably should’ve texted you before I left, but it was kinda a spur of the moment thing.”
Sara shook her head once, stepping aside to let him in. “It’s okay,” she said. “Come on.”
He wiped his shoes on the mat without being told and stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him.
Sara gestured toward the kitchen. “Sit.”
He obeyed, pulling out the chair at the small table and sitting down slow. His knee bounced once under the table before he forced it still. Sara noticed.
She crossed to the refrigerator and opened it, the light spilling out across the linoleum. Inside, everything was packed tight and organized. She pulled out a small plastic container, peeled back the lid, and took out a couple of tamales wrapped in paper.
She set them on a plate and slid it into the microwave.
Saul lifted a hand immediately. “Oh, no. I’m not hungry.”
Sara didn’t answer. She just hit the buttons and leaned back against the counter while the microwave hummed to life. The sound filled the space between them, thick and unavoidable. Saul shifted in his chair, eyes dropping to his hands. He picked at a loose thread on his sleeve, then stopped when he realized he was doing it.
The microwave beeped. Sara took the plate out, steam fogging the air for a moment, grabbed a fork from the drawer, and carried everything to the table. She set the plate down in front of him and sat across from him, folding her hands together.
“¿Qué pasa?” she asked.
Saul’s mouth opened like he was going to deflect. Then he closed it. He stared at the plate, the steam curling up between them.
“I was wondering,” he said finally, “when the next time you were going see Caine was.”
Sara’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “In a few weeks. After Carnival.” She tilted her head. “Why?”
Saul didn’t answer right away. His jaw tightened, then loosened. He glanced up at her, then away again.
“I was wondering if I can come,” he said. “I wanted to talk to him about, you know, raising a kid. Like man-to-man.”
That made her frown. Not sharp. Just concerned. “Why don’t you ask your father?”
Saul shrugged. “Me and him ain’t really talking right now. Now that you’re gone to play referee, it’s just abuela there to tell him anything. Since Tía Ada and Tía Rosario keep to themselves.”
Sara sighed softly. “I’m sorry, mijo.” She leaned back in her chair a little.
“I wouldn’t say Caine knows what he’s doing either. Not that he’s a bad father.” She chose her words carefully. “He’s just raising a kid when he’s still figuring it out himself.”
Saul nodded, staring down at the tamales. He stabbed at one with the fork, breaking the paper open.
“That’s kinda why I want to talk to him,” he said. “There aren’t any baby books telling you how to be a teenage dad.”
A quiet laugh slipped out of Sara before she could stop it. She shook her head. “No. There aren’t.” Then she sobered. “But Saulito, I told you before. Caine grew up much harder than you. The things he does… did?” She paused, correcting herself. “Other than loving your child and their mother, that’s all you should take from anything Caine had to do.”
Saul looked up at her then. “I know, tia. I ain’t trying to do nothing crazy.” A small smile tugged at his mouth. “I ain’t built like that.”
That made her laugh. A short, warm sound that eased something in her chest.
“Already thinking like a parent,” she said. “Knowing your limits.”
Saul smiled back and finally took a bite. He chewed slowly, grounding himself in the act of eating. The fork scraped lightly against the plate.
They sat like that for a moment, the apartment settling around them again. The heater kicked on. A siren wailed somewhere far off.
Sara watched him eat, watched the way his shoulders relaxed a notch.
“You and Ava think of names?” she asked.
He nodded, mouth full, then swallowed. “Yeah. But her mom doesn’t like the ones I like because they’re Honduran.”
Sara sucked her teeth. “You want me to go talk to her?” She waved a hand dismissively. “Le diré que todos tenemos Mara Dieciocho para que se quite el palo del culo.”
Saul laughed, shaking his head and waving a hand at the thought. “Nah, nah. I think I got it.”
Sara just smiled at him.
~~~
Mireya pushed the door closed behind them with her heel, the lock clicking once before settling. The apartment held steady, quiet. The air was cool but not cold, faintly scented with something sweet from a candle burned down too low to light again.She slipped her bookbag off her shoulder and let it fall against the wall by the door, the strap sliding down in a loose coil.
“I just have to get something,” she said, already moving. “Then we can head out to grab something to eat.”
Jordan nodded easily and followed her in, hands sliding into his jacket pockets as his eyes moved around the space. He took it in the way people did when they were trying to understand how someone lived without asking questions yet. The couch was neat. The table clear. Shoes lined up by the door instead of scattered. It was obvious someone paid attention to the details here.
They passed through the living room toward the short hallway that led to the bedrooms. Jordan slowed at the mouth of it, his gaze catching on the refrigerator just off to the side. A single photo was held up by a magnet shaped like a fleur-de-lis, the edges worn from being handled too much.
He leaned closer, pointing at it. “Is this your daughter?”
Mireya stopped mid-step. She turned and followed his line of sight, her expression shifting when she saw the picture. Caine stood on a football field, sweat darkening his jersey. Camila sat on his hip, tiny fingers held up next to his hand. One finger. Zero fingers. Ten.
“Yeah,” Mireya said. “And her daddy.” She exhaled softly, a small shrug following. “She’ll throw a fit if I take that down. Sorry.”
Jordan waved a hand without thinking much of it. “You said you’re not with him so it’s cool with me.” He glanced back at the photo. “He plays football?”
“Yeah,” Mireya said. “For Georgia Southern.” She tipped her chin toward the bedroom. “C’mon.”
He followed her down the hall and into her room. The door was already open. Light filtered in through the blinds, striping the bed and dresser in pale lines. The room was tidy without being sterile. Clothes folded. Shoes paired. Nothing felt hidden, even if some things were.
Jordan let out a low whistle as he took in the top of the dresser, crowded with bottles and palettes and brushes laid out in loose organization. “Looks like Ulta in here.”
Mireya laughed and moved toward the nightstand, pulling the drawer open and rummaging through it. “You should see my Sephora points.”
Jordan drifted past her, curiosity pulling him deeper into the room. He peered into the closet and flipped on the light. The space brightened instantly, illuminating rows of clothes that didn’t match the casual picture he’d been building. Designer dresses still in garment bags. Boxes stacked neatly along one wall. Shopping bags tucked into corners. A few things tossed on the floor like they’d been kicked off at the end of long nights.
He bent and picked up a pair of boots, fingers curling around the heel. Jimmy Choos. The leather still stiff, barely creased.
Mireya looked up and saw them in his hands. Her response came fast, smooth. “I spend a lot of time on Depop,” she said. “There are great deals on there.”
Jordan ran his thumb along the side of the boot, nodding. “These are basically new.” He smiled at her. “Must’ve gotten lucky with these.”
“Yeah,” she said, laughing lightly. “Think it was some woman getting divorced.”
She stepped into the closet then, reaching up toward the shelf above.
Jordan set the boots down carefully and moved closer. “Here, let me get it.”
“Wait,” Mireya said. “Not that one.”
He was already reaching. He pulled down the tote he thought she meant and glanced inside without hesitation. Lace and silk spilled into view, bright colors layered together. He plucked a pink thong from the top, holding it up between two fingers.
“Oh,” he said, amused. “I just won the lottery if this was what you were looking for.”
Mireya rolled her eyes. “It’s not.” She pointed. “I needed that one.”
Jordan sighed dramatically and shoved the tote back into place before grabbing the one she indicated. He handed it to her and stepped back. Mireya opened it, dug inside, and pulled out a small black drawstring bag.
“Alright,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Jordan raised an eyebrow as she slipped past him, and he reached up to put the tote back where it belonged. He followed her out of the bedroom and back through the apartment, the light clicking off behind them.
She stopped in the kitchen and opened the fridge, grabbing two bottles of water. She twisted one open and handed the other to him.
Jordan took it, then tilted his head.
“So,” he said carefully, “I don’t judge or anything, but do you, like, do OnlyFans?”
Mireya snorted and leaned back against the counter. “Do you see any ring lights in here?”
Jordan laughed. “Some people might like the shitty lighting.” He took a sip. “That was just a lot of lingerie.”
She shook her head, lips curling into a small smile.
“I just like wearing it,” she said. “I put it on, stare at myself in the mirror for a bit, whip out my rose, get off, then put it back. That’s it. Just for fun.”
Jordan nodded. “Well, next time I come over here, just answer the door in some of that.”
Mireya swatted his arm and turned toward the door, already reaching for her keys. “Boy, please. I look better naked anyway.”
Jordan followed her out, laughing as the door swung closed behind them. “I can’t argue with that.”
~~~
Trell and Ant came through the front door without knocking. The air in the house was thick with smoke, fried grease and the smell of damp. A TV sat on the floor, tipped up against a milk crate, its screen throwing blue light across the front room. The sound of a crowd roar and sneakers squeaking came out tinny, fighting a cheap speaker in the corner that kept losing connection and spitting out half a song before cutting.
Two of Trell’s guys were hunched on the edge of crates, elbows on knees, controllers in hand. Their thumbs moved fast, shoulders tightening with every possession. One of them cursed under his breath when a shot clanged off the rim. The other laughed loud, already talking trash, leaning forward until his knees pressed the plastic.
Shad sat a little back from them, not playing. He had a 40 in his hand, bottle sweating against his palm. He watched the screen with his chin lifted. When Trell and Ant stepped in, Shad’s eyes flicked over first, quick, then he reached out and hit pause before the guys could finish the play.
“Fuck you doing, nigga?” one of them started, but Shad didn’t even glance at him.
He set the beer down careful on the floor then pushed up to stand. He brushed his hands off on his jeans and his jacket. He walked over with his shoulders squared, mouth already pulling into a grin that didn’t fully reach his eyes.
“What’s up, big brudda?” Shad said.
Trell didn’t smile back. He pointed toward the door with two fingers, calm, like he was directing traffic. “Come outside with us right quick, youngster.”
Shad’s face shifted, just a small change, but it was there. He nodded anyway. “Yeah. Aight.”
He stepped out in front of them, and Ant followed close enough that Shad could feel him without looking. Trell moved last, unhurried, letting Shad set the pace while still controlling it.
Outside, the January air hit sharp. The street stayed quiet in patches, then a car passed too fast and the sound stretched away. A porch light from the neighbor’s place made the yard look flatter than it was. The grass was thin, trampled down to dirt in spots where feet had made the same path over and over.
Dez leaned against the car parked crooked in the drive, head down, thumbs working his phone. The screen glow lit his face. He didn’t look up when they came out.
Shad took a step toward the car on instinct, moving toward what felt safer, what felt public. Trell reached out and caught him by the shoulder, fingers closing through the jacket. He didn’t yank. He steered, turning Shad with a quiet pressure that left no question.
“Over here,” Trell said, and he guided Shad toward the side of the house.
Shad hesitated at the gap between houses. It was narrow enough that the boards scraped your sleeve if you didn’t watch it, the ground uneven with broken concrete and weeds that kept trying. It was darker there, away from the porch light, unseen from the street unless someone came looking on purpose.
“Right there good,” Trell said.
Shad stopped where Trell told him. Trell stepped in front of him so they were face to face. Ant stayed back, centered in the alley, his left hand in his pocket, his right arm hanging loose at his side.
Trell looked Shad over, top to bottom, slow. He kept his voice even. “Who your people is?”
Shad swallowed once. “I just got a brother, Kam. Our mawmaw raised us.”
Trell nodded. “Kam’s 110, right?”
Shad nodded again, faster this time. “Yeah, but I ain’t wanna fuck with them ’cause they always getting into shit with 39 and Byrd. Not trying to watch over my shoulder, you know?”
Trell didn’t answer. He just held Shad’s stare and let the space stretch. The quiet sat heavy in the narrow gap. From the front room of the house, the muffled game audio stayed there behind the walls, still paused, some menu music looping faint.
Shad shifted his weight, shoes scraping. His hands hovered near his thighs, not knowing what to do with themselves.
Trell finally spoke, voice still calm. “I ain’t ask you all that.”
Shad’s hands came up, palms out, quick. “My bad, big bro.”
Trell’s gaze didn’t change. “How you know Boogie?”
Shad pointed vague, somewhere beyond the fences and the blocks. “His baby mama stay down the way from my mawmaw. Down Derbigny.”
Trell held his hand out toward Ant without taking his eyes off Shad.
Ant moved in one clean motion. His left hand stayed in his pocket. His right hand went to his waistband and came back with a pistol, dark metal catching a sliver of light. He placed it in Trell’s open palm.
Shad’s eyes went wide. His hands went up higher, elbows flaring, as if he could block a bullet. “I ain’t lying to you, man. On my mama, bro.”
Trell cocked the gun. The sound was small, tight. He brought it up and pressed the barrel to Shad’s temple. The contact made Shad flinch, head pulling away without anywhere to go.
“Nigga,” Trell said, soft, almost curious, “you said you grew up with your mawmaw. Fuck your mama gotta do with it?”
Shad’s breath came short. “Please, man.”
Trell’s voice stayed level. “Please? Please, what, nigga?”
Shad’s throat worked. “I just knew him from around the way ’cause of Desirae. My mawmaw call that nigga Jeffery. That’s his fucking real name, right?”
Trell shifted his finger, settling it onto the trigger. Shad closed his eyes hard, face tightening. Ant didn’t move.
The silence stretched again, longer. The only sound in the gap was Shad’s breathing, fast and uneven, and a distant siren somewhere deeper in the city that rose then faded.
Trell kept the gun in place for another beat, watching Shad with an unreadable face.
Then he moved it away.
He grabbed Shad’s shirt with his free hand, yanked it once, and used the fabric to wipe the spots where he’d touched the gun, careful, deliberate. He took Shad’s shaking hand, forced it down, and placed it around the grip.
“That’s yours now,” Trell said. “I need you to do something for me.”
Shad’s eyes opened. He looked down at the gun in his hand. His fingers tightened. His jaw worked, then he nodded, quick, almost automatic. He pushed the hammer forward with his thumb, then slipped the pistol into his waistband.
He looked up again. “What you need?”
Trell didn’t answer right away. He watched Shad’s hands, the way they hovered near his belt, the way his shoulders still sat too high.
Then Trell asked, “How close your mawmaw and Desirae is?”
~~~
Laney pulled into the driveway slower than usual, tires crunching against gravel. She shut the engine off but didn’t get out right away. The house sat quiet from the front, porch light still off, windows dark. For half a second, it almost looked peaceful.
Then she heard voices.
They floated around the side of the house, overlapping and sharp with movement. Children’s voices. Laughter. A shout that rose into a squeal. Her jaw tightened before she even opened the door.
Laney stepped out of the van and shut it harder than she needed to. The cold air hit her face, damp and heavy, settling into her clothes. She walked along the side of the house, shoes sinking slightly into the soft ground where the yard never fully dried in winter.
The backyard opened up all at once.
Knox, Braxton, and Hunter tore across the grass in uneven loops, jackets unzipped, breath puffing white when they yelled. The ball snapped between their hands and Josiah’s, too big for him, slipping free more than once before Nevaeh called encouragement from the patio. Josiah laughed anyway, chasing after it with legs pumping hard to keep up.
Blake and Nevaeh sat side by side on the back patio, knees angled toward each other. Blake leaned forward with his elbows on his thighs, watching the kids with an easy grin. Nevaeh had her phone in her hand but her eyes were on Josiah, tracking him without effort.
And a few feet away, too close, Claire stood next to Tommy.
They weren’t touching. That almost made it worse. Claire’s body angled toward him, her posture relaxed like she belonged there. Tommy stood with his hands loose at his sides, weight settled back on one heel, looking like he hadn’t been interrupted at all.
Something hot bloomed in Laney’s chest, fast and sharp. She shoved it down just as quickly, the way she’d learned to do. The picture in front of her looked wrong in a way that didn’t need explaining.
Laney walked toward the patio.
The boards creaked under her shoes as she took the steps two at a time. Blake noticed first. His head lifted, eyes narrowing slightly before flicking to Nevaeh. She followed his gaze. They leaned toward each other, whispering, attention fixed on Laney as she crossed the space.
Laney stopped in front of Tommy and Claire.
She didn’t look at Claire when she spoke. Her eyes stayed on Tommy’s face.
“Can I fuckin’ talk to you?” she said, voice low, tight.
Tommy looked at her, expression blank. “We don’t have anything to talk about.”
Laney laughed once, sharp. “I think we do.” She gestured toward the yard with her chin. “Do you think this is a good example to be settin’ for our sons?”
Tommy’s jaw shifted. His voice dropped. “Think very carefully about the next thing you say.”
Laney didn’t. “You teachin’ your sons that it’s okay to parade ’round the woman that you used to fuck?”
Claire moved then, just a half step forward. Her voice stayed even, controlled. “Delaney, maybe you should step inside and take a breath.”
Laney snapped her head toward her. The restraint she’d been forcing cracked clean through.
“Shut the fuck up, bitch!” she shouted. “This is my fuckin’ house!”
The yard went still.
The ball dropped from Hunter’s hands and rolled a few feet before stopping. Knox froze mid-step. Braxton stared at the patio, eyes wide. Josiah looked from one adult to the next, confused, until Nevaeh rose from her chair.
Laney turned toward the boys and pointed at the house. “Y’all go inside and get ready for dinner.”
Knox didn’t hesitate. He took off toward the back door. Braxton followed, then Hunter, all three of them moving fast, heads down. Josiah lingered, feet planted in the grass, eyes darting.
“It’s okay, baby,” Nevaeh said gently. “You go, too.”
Josiah nodded and ran after them, sneakers slapping against the porch steps as he disappeared inside.
Laney stood there a few seconds longer than necessary, hand going up to drag through her hair. Her fingers caught on a knot and she yanked it free, breathing hard through her nose before turning back.
“What you doin’ ain’t right,” she said to Tommy. “And you know it.”
Tommy leaned back against the railing, crossing one ankle over the other.
“What is it that you think I’m doing?” he asked. “And do you think that because you’re projecting?”
The words hit. Laney took a step back like he’d shoved her. Her laugh came out loud and sudden, brittle. She looked around at Claire, then Blake and Nevaeh, then back to Tommy. She pointed at him. “No. You not gonna do that to me. I ain’t the one in the wrong here. You two are.”
Tommy gestured toward the house behind him, toward the neighboring yard beyond it.
“Caleb has friends who are women and Gabrielle doesn’t assume he’s doing anything wrong.” He tilted his head. “That sounds like a guilty conscience to me.”
Laney shook her head hard. “I ain’t got nothin’ to be guilty ’bout. I ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong.” Her eyes slid to Blake, then Nevaeh, then back to Claire. “Y’all need to leave.”
Claire lifted her hands, palms out. “Delaney, you’re getting a little frantic. Let’s take a step back and start over. How about that? I’m just here as a friend.”
Laney stepped toward her without thinking.
Tommy moved fast. He pushed off the railing and stepped between them, blocking Laney’s path with his body. He leaned down, close enough that only she could hear him. His voice dropped to a whisper, precise and cruel. “Go inside, Delaney. Stop fucking embarrassing yourself.”
Laney pressed her lips together until they disappeared. She nodded once. Stepped back. Turned on her heel and walked into the house.
The kitchen was quiet in that way that meant it wasn’t.
Knox, Braxton, Hunter, and Josiah stood near the counter, frozen, eyes flicking up to her face. They’d heard everything.
Laney pointed toward the bathroom.
“Go get cleaned up,” she said through clenched teeth.
They scattered immediately.
Laney leaned forward and planted her hands on the kitchen island. She took a deep breath and held it, shoulders tight, jaw locked, resisting the urge to scream.
~~~
Caine walked to the door, turning the knob and pulling the door inward.
Ramon stepped through first, shoulders squared under the weight of a duffel. Tyree followed with another bag slung low, the strap cutting across his chest. E.J. came last, one hand already on the zipper of his own bag. Each of them carried at least one duffel, the kind that made the fabric bow and the seams strain, heavy enough that the bottoms brushed their legs as they walked.
Tyree’s gaze moved around the room. He lifted his chin toward the living area, mouth tugging into a grin.
“You ain’t got that PTA baddie in here, do you?” he asked.
Caine snorted as he shut the door behind them. The lock clicked loud in the small entryway. “I wouldn’t have let you motherfuckers come over here if I did.”
The heat ran low, just enough to keep January from settling into the bones. Outside, a car passed and the sound slid across the window glass and disappeared.
Ramon didn’t waste time. He carried one bag to the table and set it down with a dull thump that made the legs wobble. The other he lowered to the floor beside it. He straightened, rolling his shoulders once.
“We appreciate it, brudda,” Ramon said. “Nigga dropped this shit on us yesterday. Talking about we need to re-up before the parades.”
Caine shrugged, hands loose at his sides. “Makes sense. You know them tourists love to put their money up their noses.”
E.J. had already moved to the counter. He set his bag down on the laminate and dragged the zipper open. The teeth rasped. He reached in and pulled out a wrapped brick, plastic tight around it, edges squared off. He gave it a small shake in his hand, showing it off.
“Made sure we got a little extra for the trouble,” E.J. said. “Nigga about to make rent for the year when Zulu roll.”
Tyree elbowed Caine and leaned in close enough. “You know you could move some of this shit here for us. I know these country white folks be on that meth but they’ll do anything you sell ’em.”
Caine laughed, short and sharp. He walked over and leaned toward the open bag, pulling the fabric to open it wider, peeking inside.
“You a dumb ass motherfucker,” he said, still amused. “I can’t go nowhere out here without a motherfucker coming up to me about some shit.”
Ramon sat down at the table and stretched his legs out. He leaned back until the chair creaked, hands resting on his thighs.
“That’s probably the best cover you could have,” Ramon said. “Hiding in plain ass sight.”
Caine’s mouth pulled to one side. “Good thing I’m getting this NIL money now or y’all might’ve been able to talk me into the shit.”
E.J. looked up from the bag, eyes bright. “Oh, y’all niggas getting paid out here? Hook me up with five racks so I could flip it. I’ll give you seven and a quarter back.”
Caine shoved him in the shoulder. E.J. rocked back half a step and caught himself against the counter with his hip.
“Motherfucker, you don’t know how to flip nothing,” Caine said.
Tyree drifted toward the cabinets while they talked. He opened one door, then another, until he found what he wanted. A bottle of Tito’s. He held it up at shoulder height, eyebrows raised in a question.
“I can drink this?” Tyree asked.
Caine looked at the bottle and then at Tyree. He shook his head once. He didn’t say anything.
Tyree smiled. He walked back to the table and sat down, twisting the cap off with a quick snap. The first pull was long. His throat moved as he swallowed. The smell of vodka rose sharp in the warmed apartment air.
Ramon held his hand out across the table without looking at Tyree’s face, waiting for the pass.
Tyree pulled the bottle back toward his chest. “Nigga, you ain’t put in on this.”
Caine answered from where he stood near the bags, voice with the humor still in it. “You ain’t either.”
Tyree paused, then shrugged. He slid the bottle across. Ramon took it.
Caine grabbed the duffel from the table first, the strap biting into his palm. Then he picked up the one on the floor, weight settling into his arms. He turned his head toward the spare room and nodded once in that direction.
“Put this shit in here until y’all leave,” he said to E.J.
E.J. zipped his bag closed and nodded, easy. “Bet.”
Caine started walking, the bags swaying slightly with each step, fabric brushing his jeans. Behind him, chairs scraped faintly as bodies shifted.
Tyree’s voice cut through the apartment, thrown toward Caine with a laugh in it.
“Say nigga, where the bitches at?!”
boy supposed to be a smart college kid
