The sink was still wet when Caine leaned closer to the mirror, mouth open, toothbrush braced against the porcelain edge. He rinsed once more, spat, then ran his tongue along his teeth, checking. His reflection looked back at him half-awake but steady, eyes clear, shoulders loose. He straightened and dragged a hand through his dreads, fingers catching where the twists had started to loosen. They were growing out now, the roots soft, the parts less sharp. He made a mental note to ask his mother to fix it, already knowing she’d say yes before he finished the sentence.
The knock came quick and close together. Caine glanced down at the phone on the counter. 5:30 a.m. glared back at him. A second later, it buzzed.
I know you’re awake. Come let me in.
He huffed a breath through his nose and turned off the bathroom light, the hum cutting out sharp. The apartment was quiet in the way early mornings always were, the kind of quiet that felt temporary. He crossed the living room barefoot, the cool floor catching his soles, and unlocked the door.
Rylee slipped inside almost before it was fully open, the smell of cold morning air and paper bags coming with her. She had on leggings and a hoodie too thin for February, hair pulled back loose, flyaways already escaping. Two grocery bags hung from her hands.
She leaned up on her toes and kissed him quick, soft, then moved past him toward the kitchen.
“Morning,” she said, already setting the bags down on the counter.
Caine shut the door and locked it, watching her from where he stood a second longer than necessary. He followed her in, stopping beside the counter as she started pulling things out.
Pancake mix hit the surface first. Then another box. A carton of eggs. A plastic tub of blueberries slick with condensation.
“You think you moving in or something?” he asked, voice even.
Rylee laughed, easy and light. “Boy, no. I just woke up hungry. Figured we could cook breakfast together. I know you ain’t got class today.”
She reached back into the bag, the paper crinkling loud in the quiet apartment.
Caine picked up the pancake mix she’d set down crooked and straightened it, lining it with the edge of the counter. “But do you got class?”
She shrugged, one shoulder lifting higher than the other. “I can skip. Tuesdays and Thursdays easy. Where your skillet at?”
He didn’t answer right away. He watched her hands pause over the open bag, fingers still.
“What you really here for, Rylee?”
She stopped completely then, the carton of eggs hanging halfway out of the bag. For a moment she didn’t look at him. She gave a small shake of her head, almost to herself.
“I told you,” she said finally. “I’m hungry. I know you hungry. We gon’ cook, then we gon’ eat. And don’t try tell me you got work. I can handle Laney. You just say you sick.”
He snorted, a quiet sound he didn’t bother holding back. The irony hit him clean and sharp. Saying he was sick would just give Laney an excuse to show up with soup and a look that led to something else to make him “feel better.”
He stepped around Rylee and opened the cabinet, reaching for the skillet. His shoulders shifted as he lifted it down.
“I ain’t got work today,” he said, setting the pan on the stove. “It’s Blake’s day.”
Rylee nodded. “Oh. Right. Y’all don’t really work the same days, do ya?”
Caine raised an eyebrow as he reached for a bowl. “You be talking’ to Blake?”
She shrugged again, unconcerned. “I don’t go outta my way, but he my brother-in-law, ain’t he? And he still livin’ in Caleb’s RV out back.”
Caine grabbed the pancake mix and poured it into the bowl, the powder blooming soft. “You need to be careful around that dude.”
Rylee laughed, short and dismissive, as she came up behind him. “You worried ’bout me, Caine? I know he on drugs. You forgettin’ he used to hang ‘round the house.”
“I’m just saying’,” he said, opening the fridge for milk. “Be careful.”
She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, pressing her cheek between his shoulder blades. Her touch was warm, familiar, unhurried. He felt it register and let it sit there without reacting, body staying neutral, steady.
“You ain’t gotta worry ’bout me,” she said, voice softer now. She rubbed her hands across his stomach, slowly, just above the waistband of his shorts. “But I’m glad you do.”
He took a breath in through his nose, slow, controlled.
“Estas putas gueritas me van a matar,” he muttered.
She lifted her head slightly. “You know I don’t speak that Spanish now.”
He nodded over his shoulder as he poured milk into the bowl. “I said I think I’m gonna put them blueberries in the pancakes.”
“Oh,” she said, bright again. “That sound good.”
She stepped away, moving back around the counter. She grabbed the blueberries and set them beside him, leaning her hip against the edge, watching his hands as he stirred. Her eyes followed the spoon, the way his wrist turned, the quiet precision of it.
The apartment held the low hum of the refrigerator, the faint sound of a car passing outside, the early hour pressing in around them. Caine kept his focus on the bowl, on the thickening batter, on folding it smooth.
~~~
The parade route was already thick with bodies, the air pressed flat by humidity and noise. Brass cut through the street in bursts that rattled teeth. Beads bounced underfoot, crushed plastic popping when someone stepped wrong. Ramon walked loose, eyes always moving, clocking shoulders, hands, faces. Zo was loud beside him, riding the energy, grinning.
“That bitch Aaliyah out the Fifth Ward was ready to come through and let the whole crew hit,” Zo said, laughing as he said it, head tipping back.
E.J. shook his head, lips curling. “I heard that bitch be having niggas burning.”
Zo waved a hand. “That’s what they got visits to the doctor for. You seen that bitch ass?”
Kenyatta laughed and leaned in. “Her sister finer than a motherfucker too though. I be seein’ her throwin’ that cat on IG.”
Ramon lifted his eyebrows and cut a look at him. “Ain’t her sister fifteen, sixteen?”
Kenyatta’s hands came up fast. “Who ain’t knocked down a juvie or two before?”
Tyree’s face stayed flat. “Me, nigga. I ain’t never done that shit and I ain’t never gonna do that shit. They got too many fine grown hoes out here.”
Ramon shook his head once. “Yeah. You solo on that, nigga.”
Neem reached over and slapped palms with Kenyatta. “I got you, Yat. That bitch pussy look fatter than a motherfucker. Ain’t like she twelve.”
Ramon snorted. “All both you niggas goin’ to jail. Ad seg. Chomo car with the ponks.”
E.J. nodded, half laughing. “Under that bitch.”
Zo turned his head toward Tyree, eyes sharp. “That bitch Janae from last month back in the city?”
Tyree shrugged. “I’m guessing. Fuck she gon’ do. Stay in BR for Zulu? C’mon, dog.”
Zo clapped his hands together once and rubbed them. “Bet. She was ’bout gettin’ flipped too.”
Ramon looked at him sideways. “You one nasty ass nigga. You know you can fuck hoes on your own, right?”
Neem laughed. “That nigga like goin’ last in the train. That’s why. He like real sloppy hole.”
Zo shoved Neem hard enough to knock him off balance. Neem stumbled and laughed, catching himself. The rest of them cracked up, bodies bumping, the sound swallowed by drums and shouting from the route.
They cut right, slipping off the main street and down the narrow sidewalk between two parking garages. The noise dulled but didn’t disappear. Bass still thudded through concrete. The air smelled like piss and hot cement, stale beer soaked into the walls. Footsteps echoed sharper here.
Tyree looked up first. His head snapped back and he slowed half a step. “Ain’t that some Dooney niggas?”
Five of them came into view at the far end, moving the opposite direction. Heads turned. One of them clocked Tyree pointing and stiffened.
Zo didn’t hesitate. “Nah. Fuck that. It’s up.”
He took off, sneakers slapping concrete. Kenyatta and Neem went right behind him. Tyree surged forward next, adrenaline snapping him upright. Ramon and E.J. followed.
Two of the Dooney dudes broke immediately, turning and sprinting the other way. Another froze for a split second too long, then went for his waistband. His hand snagged on his belt. The gun flipped loose, hit wrong, and went off. The crack was sharp but swallowed by the parade noise, the bullet biting concrete and throwing sparks.
The last two tried to stand their ground. They threw wild, panic-heavy punches that didn’t land clean. Zo hit first, driving one backward into the wall. Kenyatta folded into the other, shoulder low, fists swinging. Neem piled on, all elbows and weight.
Tyree jumped in, shoes sliding as he kicked, hands coming down hard wherever there was space. E.J. leaned over one body, fists swinging, face tight. Ramon stayed moving, switching targets, making sure nobody got up clean.
The dude who dropped the gun scrambled, eyes wide, finally getting his bearings. He lunged back in, swinging, trying to grab at Zo. He didn’t get far. A knee caught him, then feet. All of them ended up on the ground, covered, the sound of fists and shoes dull and fast.
Hooves hit concrete.
The rhythm cut through everything. Heavy. Close.
Ramon’s head snapped up. He reached back with both hands, grabbing fistfuls of Tyree’s and E.J.’s shirts. “C’mon.”
They peeled off and ran, feet pounding, breath tearing out of their chests. The alley opened back toward the street. At the far end, NOPD came through slow on horseback, big animals stepping careful, officers high above the crowd, eyes scanning without urgency.
Tyree twisted mid-stride, turned back just long enough to shout, “Three-Nine, nigga!” throwing his hands up in signs before sprinting after the others.
~~~
Mireya stepped out of the river of bodies and sound, letting the parade keep moving without her for a moment. Brass and bass layered on top of each other down the block. Somebody shouted for beads and got ignored. Plastic clicked under shoes. The air held sweat, liquor, fried food, and that sharp chemical sweetness from somebody’s spilled drink, all of it baked together by noon.
She pulled her phone out. The screen stayed dark. She angled the camera and lifted her chin just enough to catch her collarbone and the top of her shoulder, eyes tracking the reflection instead of the lens. The makeup sat smooth, a little too smooth. Beneath it, the bruise still had shape. Fingers. Undeniably. Unmistakably.
Mireya watched for any purple trying to bleed through. She blinked once, focused. The coverage held. She gave a small nod to herself, satisfied, and slid the phone back into her pocket.
A shoulder hit her from behind as someone tried to squeeze past. Her body jolted forward. Pain flared fast in her back and down into her thighs, a deep soreness, as she tried to keep from falling. Her mouth tightened. She didn’t make a sound. She just steadied, let the crowd keep flowing, and kept walking.
She shook her head once, more at her body than the stranger, and moved down the sidewalk away from the thickest crush of the route. The nicer part of the street announced itself in little ways. Cleaner façades. Better paint. People here still drank and yelled and caught throws, but the energy had a different edge. Fewer kids running unsupervised. More tourists with crisp shoes and expensive sunglasses.
Mireya scanned for the house Jordan had described. It stood out. Not because it was loud, but because it looked too expensive to be rented out for a week during Mardi Gras. A wide porch. Neat steps. Someone had hung cheap beads on the railing anyway.
She stopped half a beat and looked up at it. The place sat in the middle of the block like it belonged there. She could feel the price in it the way she could feel the cost of anything. Not as a number, but as a weight.
She climbed the short path to the porch. Noise spilled out through the open windows and the front door that kept getting left cracked. Inside, laughter rose and fell. Something heavy thumped against a wall. A bottle clinked. Someone shouted and got answered by more shouting.
Jordan was on the porch, turned sideways, holding a Hurricane in his hand. He was talking to an older guy who looked enough like him that there was no question. Same face stretched into something more settled. Same eyes. Same mouth when it pulled into a grin.
Jordan saw her and his whole posture changed. He stepped away from the older guy without finishing whatever he was saying and walked straight toward her, arm already reaching.
He wrapped her up in a hug that was too tight for the soreness she’d been working around all morning. His hand landed on the middle of her back, firm. He leaned down and kissed her. His mouth tasted like alcohol, sweet and sharp. For a second, it flooded her tongue.
Mireya kept her smile on. She didn’t let her face flinch even though her back screamed under his hand.
“Oh,” she said, voice light, “I didn’t know you missed me so much.”
Jordan smiled back, pleased with himself. “You got that effect on me.” He tipped his chin toward the porch. “C’mon. Meet my brothers and my sister.”
He slid his arm around her waist, his hand settled at her side. It wasn’t rough, but her body still tracked every point of contact. She walked with him, shoulders loose, steps even, letting him guide her back toward the older guy.
Jordan’s voice lifted, bright. “Mireya, this is my oldest brother Evan. He’s a dickhead.”
Evan chuckled and scratched the back of his neck under the quarter zip he wore, casual and clean. “Shut the fuck up, Squirt.”
Jordan rolled his eyes like he’d been called that his whole life and was still annoyed every time.
Evan looked at Mireya. Not a quick glance. A slow one. His eyes moved from her neck down to her knees. Mireya held still and let him finish. When his eyes came back up to hers, she raised an eyebrow. She didn’t speak.
Neither did he.
Jordan noticed. His jaw tightened slightly, irritation flickering across his face, then smoothing back down into a smile he didn’t really feel. He gave Mireya’s waist a small tug and pulled her away from Evan and into the house.
The inside was loud and bright. The air was warmer than outside, thick with the smell of liquor.
Two guys were set up at a beer pong table in the middle of the room, cups lined up too neatly to be sober work. One of them sank a shot and threw his hands up.
“Drink up, you fucking pussy!” he shouted.
The other one laughed and grabbed an empty vodka bottle off the floor. He threw it. Not at the cups. At the other guy. The bottle missed and crashed into a vase in the corner. Glass shattered. Water spilled out across the floor in a quick splash that caught light.
The two of them stared at the mess for one second, then looked at each other and cracked up laughing.
Jordan leaned in close to Mireya, voice pitched low for her ear only. “That’s Grant,” he said, pointing at the one who threw the bottle. Then he pointed at the other. “Lucas.”
Mireya looked at them again. Their faces were flushed. Their clothes looked expensive even half-wrinkled. She kept her expression neutral. “Older?” she asked.
Jordan shook his head. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m the youngest.”
Lucas glanced at the broken vase and shook his head. “I’m not paying for that, bro.”
Grant waved it off with a loose hand. “Evan or Maddy will. They got the money.”
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, quick and sure. A woman came down, hair still neat. She stopped at the bottom step, eyes sweeping the living room before landing on the broken glass.
“What am I paying for?” she asked.
Then she noticed Jordan and Mireya standing there. Her eyes cut back to Lucas and Grant, the look sharp. “The two of you can’t help but embarrass us in front of company, can you?”
Grant and Lucas both turned. Their attention snagged on Mireya first, then on Jordan’s arm around her waist.
Grant’s eyebrows jumped. He laughed. “Fucking hell, Squirt. You came down here and started paying them to hang around you?” His eyes flicked back to Mireya. “She’s way too hot for you.”
Lucas pulled his phone up like he was about to take a picture, then angled the screen toward her instead. “You take Apple Pay?” he asked. “Just let me know when his time’s up.”
He held his phone up, screen bright, offering it like a joke. Mireya’s eyes dropped anyway, not to the screen first, but to his shoes. Still clean. Still crisp. On the route. That told her what she needed before he opened his mouth. Not from here. Not paying out his own pocket. She felt the number begin forming in her head anyway, the old reflex, then shut it down behind her smile.
Jordan rolled his eyes. “Could y’all fucking stop?” he said. His tone had a bite now. “She’s not a fucking prostitute. We go to school together. I fucking told you.”
Lucas repeated it back immediately, mocking. “We go to school together. I fucking told you.”
Grant held his hand out at Lucas, an older brother calming a younger one down even though he was the one who started it. “Stop, Luke. Alright, alright.” He turned his attention to Jordan and spread his arms wide. “I’m sorry, Squirt. Bring it in.”
He beckoned with his hands like he was calling Jordan over for forgiveness.
Jordan stepped away from Mireya, moving toward Grant to give him a one-armed hug. Grant didn’t let him. He hooked an arm around Jordan’s neck and yanked him into a headlock, laughing, using it as an excuse to rough him up.
Mireya stayed where she was, letting the room spin around her without moving too much. The broken vase glittered on the floor in the corner.
Maddy stepped up beside Mireya, close enough that her perfume cut through the alcohol stink. “They’re going to be at it for a while,” she said, voice dry. “Do you want something to drink?”
Mireya nodded once. “Yeah, sure.”
Maddy led her into the kitchen. The counters were crowded with liquor bottles and beer, labels turned every which way. Some of the floor had bottles too, like nobody wanted to deal with trash bags in a house that nice. The refrigerator hummed loud under the noise from the living room.
Maddy gestured to the mess on the counters like she was presenting options. “We got that.” Then she pointed toward the fridge. “And I put some High Noons in the fridge.”
Mireya shrugged and walked to the refrigerator. She opened it and saw the High Noons lined up on the bottom shelf, bright cans against the white interior. She bent at first, then stopped when her back protested, a dull pain spreading out from her lower spine. She tried to squat instead. Her thighs complained immediately, heat and soreness flaring.
She didn’t curse. She didn’t grimace. She just eased down onto one knee, slow and controlled, and grabbed a can. She stood back up carefully.
Maddy watched her too closely. “You okay?”
Mireya nodded. “Long night at work.”
Maddy tilted her head. “Oh,” she said, searching. “What is it you do for work, um… what was your name?”
“Mireya,” she said.
Maddy nodded, repeating it with the Spanish shaved off. “Mireya.” She smiled like it was a correction she’d filed away. “You can call me Madeline.”
Mireya nodded once. She cracked the High Noon open and took a sip. The fizz bit her tongue.
“I work for a cleaning company,” Mireya said. “We clean offices and stuff.”
Maddy looked down at her nails, long and manicured, the kind of perfection that required both money and time, then lower to her jeans and her shoes, Golden Goose. “Back breaking work,” she said.
“Yeah,” Mireya answered.
Jordan walked into the kitchen then, hand lifting to fix his hair, shaking his head, still annoyed. He came straight to Mireya’s side, standing close again.
Madeline looked at him and didn’t soften. “You need to learn how to fight, Squirt.”
Jordan blew it off. “Yeah, whatever.”
He turned toward Mireya, voice lower. “Sorry about what they said.”
Mireya shrugged, letting it be small. “It’s all good.”
Madeline walked out of the kitchen, already done with the conversation, throwing words over her shoulder as she went. “Be gentle with your girlfriend, Squirt. She had a long night at work.”
Jordan watched her go, then looked back at Mireya. “You gotta start taking time off.”
Mireya took another sip, eyes on the can. “Some of us got bills to pay.”
Jordan’s mouth twitched, somewhere between annoyance and a smile. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”
Mireya lifted her eyes to him, the smile returning, easy. “So, they call you Squirt?”
Jordan rolled his eyes. “Forget you heard that.”
Mireya laughed, ignoring the faint sting of pain from it.
~~~
Laney pushed the coffee shop door open with her shoulder, the bell giving a bright little chirp. The last of winter sat damp on the street, that gray Georgia cold that never turned into snow but still found ways to sink in anyway. Inside, the air was warmer and smelled like espresso and cinnamon syrup and whatever cleaner they used on the tables that morning. A line of students in hoodies held phones out over the counter, waiting. Steam hissed. A blender whined for something sweet.
Laney didn’t get in line. She scanned first. She found the corner table, tucked near a window that looked out on wet pavement and parked cars with pollen starting early on the windshields. Kayla sat there with a paper cup in both hands, shoulders pulled in. Simple sweater. Jeans. Hair neat. Makeup light.
Laney walked over, purse strap held close under her arm. Her shoes tapped soft on tile. Kayla noticed her and stood up quick, a smile snapping into place like she’d practiced it in the mirror. She stepped in and gave Laney a polite hug, light pressure, careful not to get too familiar.
“Thank you so much for making the time to talk to me,” Kayla said.
Laney kept her smile soft and steady and returned the hug with the right amount of warmth. “It ain’t no problem.”
They sat. Laney took the chair across from her and set her purse on her lap instead of the floor, posture straight, shoulders relaxed, face open. The chair creaked when she adjusted herself. The shop moved in layers. Cups clinked. A spoon hit ceramic. Somebody dragged a chair back with an ugly scrape. The smell of coffee sat thick in the air, sweet and bitter at the same time.
“It ain’t no problem at all,” Laney said again, tone easy. “I’m just so happy to hear that you and Jimmy are gettin’ married. I remember when y’all first moved here when you were what? Thirteen?”
Kayla nodded, eyes bright at his name. “Jimmy was the first one to come to our house.” She gave a small laugh, like she couldn’t believe her own memory. “It’s crazy to think that it’s been six years already.”
Laney nodded along, polite, the expression expected of her sitting where her daddy told her to sit. Nineteen. The number sat there on the table between them without being spoken. It curled her stomach anyway. She held her face open and calm. She smoothed her hand over the edge of the table, a small motion that kept her hands from doing anything sharper.
“That’s sweet,” Laney said. “Y’all really did grow up together.”
Kayla’s fingers tightened around her cup. Her nails were short, clean. She took a small sip, then set the cup down and kept both hands around it.
“I’m just so worried about doing something wrong and messing up my marriage before it even gets started,” Kayla said. “You know?”
Laney smiled and nodded. She did understand the fear. It just wasn’t the same fear anymore.
“It ain’t the first few years you gotta be worried ’bout,” Laney said. Her ring caught the light when she shifted her fingers. “That’s when you’re in your honeymoon phase. Just work through all your problems then so when things get tough when you older, you know what to do.”
Kayla nodded fast, relieved to have something simple to hold. “That makes sense.”
Her eyes lifted, searching Laney’s face for approval, for a script. “You got married at my age, too, didn’t you? That’s what Pastor Hadden told me and Jimmy.”
Laney didn’t flinch. She let her smile stay put. She could feel her daddy’s voice behind the words, calm and sure, handing out pieces of her life. She kept her chin steady.
“Yeah,” Laney said. “But I ain’t date Tommy for anywhere near as long as you been with Jimmy.” She tipped her head like it was all meant to be simple. “Y’all basically grew up together. Now, you’ll just grow old together. Like God intended.”
The words came out smooth. She’d said some version of them a hundred times to women who wanted reassurance. The sigh tried to rise anyway, lodged behind her teeth. Ten years. Almost ten. A whole decade of doing what was intended and still feeling hollow. Especially with Tommy.
Kayla’s shoulders eased. Her smile widened.
“I want to get pregnant soon,” Kayla said, bright. “We’re going on our honeymoon to Floribama then when I come back for sure.”
That one hit different. Laney’s smile held, but her eyes changed quick and small. She pushed back for the first time, not harsh, just firm enough to matter.
“Enjoy life together first,” Laney said. “You young. Ain’t gotta rush to havin’ lil’ ones.”
Kayla paused, chewing on it. Her gaze dropped to the table where a sugar packet sat torn open, crystals spilled. She shrugged after a beat, like she heard Laney but didn’t believe her.
“All my sisters had kids quick,” Kayla said. “Seems like it worked out fine for them, you know?” Her eyes lifted again. “Fine for you, too. All your boys were back-to-back-to-back.”
Laney’s mouth tightened for half a second before she smoothed it out. She nodded once.
“Yeah,” Laney said, voice slower now. “But I wouldn’t do that again. I ain’t have time to focus on each of them until they started gettin’ older.”
Kayla leaned back a little, considering. The shop noise rose when somebody called out a name for an order. Kayla didn’t look.
“I could see that,” Kayla said. “Maybe, one fast then I wait.”
Laney dragged her lip through her teeth, small and controlled. Stupid tried to climb up her throat. So did worse words. She swallowed them down.
Kayla watched her like she was watching a sermon. Wide-eyed and earnest, hungry for guidance.
“You know,” Kayla said, voice softening, “I kinda see myself in you. I want to be just like you.” She smiled. “Everyone loves you around town and you’re such a great wife and mom. I really look up to you.”
Laney’s smile stayed in place, but the praise landed heavy. Everyone loves you. Great wife. Great mom. The words were clean and simple in Kayla’s mouth.
“Thank you,” Laney said, voice gentle. “But you gotta be your own woman, honey.”
Kayla shrugged. She leaned forward, elbows near her cup, dropping her voice.
“So,” she asked, “what’s the secret? To being together as long as you and Tommy?”
Laney paused. Not long. Just long enough for the truth to bump against her teeth and remind her it couldn’t come out. The coffee shop kept moving around them. A barista knocked metal against rubber. The bell chirped again when the door opened and cold air slipped in.
Laney set her hands down carefully. She kept her expression open. She let the slightest edge slip into her voice without changing her face.
“God’s will.”
Laney told Rylee's ass that Caine wouldn't have been able to take her seriously enough to date her. She ain't listen.
