The morning light came in clean and quiet, slipping through the blinds in narrow bands that cut across the bed and the far wall. The apartment held that early stillness that came after a night of movement but before the day made demands. No voices through the walls. No doors slamming. Just the faint, constant hum of the refrigerator and the soft hiss of air moving through the vents.
Caine lay back against the pillows, sheet bunched low around his hips where it had been kicked aside. His chest rose and fell slow, steady. The room smelled faintly of soap and skin. Laney was beside him, turned on her side, one knee bent, the sheet pulled loosely across her thigh without care. Her hair was already pulled back into a low, messy tie.
She pushed herself upright with a quick shift of her weight, bare feet finding the floor without looking. The jacket she’d tossed down earlier lay half under the bed, one sleeve twisted. She bent and grabbed it, denim scraping softly against the hardwood as she pulled it free.
She dug through the pockets with practiced fingers, jaw set in concentration. The fabric rustled. Something tapped against the lighter buried deeper. She frowned once, then smiled when her fingers closed around what she was looking for.
“Well I’ll be,” she said under her breath.
She pulled the joint free and held it up. Then she turned and flopped back onto the bed, landing on her back beside him. The mattress dipped and rebounded. She stared at the ceiling, arm draped across her stomach, joint resting between her fingers.
She turned her head toward him. “When your next drug test?”
It didn’t sound like a question meant to start trouble. Just a check. A practical thing.
Caine shifted his head slightly on the pillow, eyes still tracking the light on the wall. “Just did one yesterday,” he said. “So probably next month sometime.”
Laney nodded once, satisfied. She shrugged like that settled it enough. She reached into the jacket again, pulled out the lighter, and sparked it. The flame flared bright for a second, then steadied. She cupped it with her hand and brought the joint to her mouth, taking a couple slow pulls. Smoke gathered and rolled out in a thin stream, already thinning as it drifted toward the ceiling.
She handed it to him without looking.
Caine took it, fingers closing around the paper where hers had been. He lifted it, inhaled, held it a beat, then let the smoke slide out through his nose. It settled in his chest warm and familiar. He passed it back to her.
“Where’d you even get this shit?” he asked.
Laney took it and smiled. “Rylee or Jesse,” she said. “One of ’em had an ounce in my old hidin’ spot in my daddy’s shed.”
Caine laughed, the sound low and easy. He shook his head as he handed it back. “How you know it was an ounce?” he said. “You can eyeball the work?”
She rolled her eyes, taking the joint from him. “Lord,” she said. “I used to fool ’round with this guy who sold a lil’ weed.”
Caine laughed again, a little louder this time. He turned his head to look at her fully now, amusement clear on his face. “You say shit about what you used to do that surprise me every time we talk.”
Laney laughed too, the sound quick and unapologetic. She passed the joint back to him. “It’s your fault if you still think I been like this my whole life.”
“Fair point,” Caine said.
The smoke drifted between them for a moment, the room quiet again except for the hum of appliances and the distant, muffled sound of a car passing somewhere outside. Laney watched him for a second longer than before, her expression shifting, settling into something more deliberate.
“You still got that gun?” she asked.
Caine nodded once. “Yeah,” he said. “Why?”
She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing just a touch. “You know how to shoot that?”
He smirked, handing the joint back. “That sound like entrapment, Officer Matthews.”
There was a flicker then. Small but real. Laney’s mouth tightened for half a second at the sound of her married name. She didn’t say anything about it. Just reached for the joint and took it, rolling onto her side again.
“I ain’t ask if you shot someone,” she said, tone flat but controlled. “I asked if you know how to shoot.”
Caine watched her for a beat, then nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I know how to shoot.”
She took another drag, exhaled, then asked, “You ever been skeet shootin’?”
He let out a short laugh. “Fuck no.”
She smiled, like she’d been waiting for that. “Let’s go,” she said. “This weekend.”
He looked at her, amused but curious now. “Do you know how to shoot?”
Laney rolled her eyes hard enough it almost made her laugh again. “Of course I do,” she said. “I’m a country girl.”
Caine shook his head slightly. “What’s gonna be your excuse to go do that?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Goin’ to Savannah to see Taela and the baby.”
He considered it for a second, then shrugged. “Alright,” he said. “But don’t be trying to set me up.”
Laney laughed, smoke slipping out with the sound. She reached over and tapped the ash off the joint, eyes bright with something between amusement and reassurance.
“Don’t think you gotta worry about that.”
~~~
Morning sat heavy over City Park, the kind that already felt late even though the sun hadn’t climbed all the way up yet. The air was damp from the night, grass dark and slick near the edges of the path, oak branches hanging low enough that the leaves brushed shoulders when the breeze kicked up. Joggers moved through in loose singles and pairs, shoes slapping rhythmically against pavement. Dog walkers kept their heads down, eyes forward, earbuds in. The city eased itself awake in layers.
Trell walked with his hands in his pockets, pace steady, unhurried. He wore sunglasses even though the sun hadn’t gotten aggressive yet, the lenses giving him cover more than shade. Cass walked beside him, jacket zipped halfway, her steps sharp enough to make the sound of her shoes cut through the background noise. A few feet behind them, Ant kept the distance natural, close enough to hear if he needed to, far enough not to crowd. The other man stayed just off Cass’s shoulder, eyes roaming like he hadn’t learned yet how to disappear in plain sight, attention snagging on faces, on hands, on anything that might turn into a problem.
Trell didn’t look back when he spoke.
“You got people working for you now?” he asked.
Cass didn’t slow. She glanced sideways at him, mouth pulling into something flat. “You got a nigga that make sure ain’t nothing happen to you,” she said. “Why I can’t have a nigga make sure nothing happen to me?”
Trell lifted both hands, palms out. His smile came easy, practiced. “I just ain’t know you had it like that.”
Cass scoffed. “I been doing some shit on the side,” she said, “to make a little extra besides them peanuts you kicking me for the work I’m bringing you.”
The word peanuts hung between them. Trell didn’t touch it. Didn’t correct it. He let it slide past. Instead, he tipped his head slightly, eyes hidden behind the lenses.
“Side shit like what?” he asked.
Cass laughed, short and sharp. “Nigga, side shit mean that it ain’t got nothing to do with you,” she said. “So you don’t need to know what it is.”
Trell laughed with her, the sound low and controlled. “I’m just trying to see if I could help you make a little more money from that side shit.”
Cass rolled her eyes hard enough to make a point of it. “I wouldn’t have to be doing this shit if you wasn’t cutting into my money,” she said, “because you giving it to that lil’ Mexican bitch.”
The words came quick, clipped. Trell didn’t stop walking. He watched a runner pass them, tracked the rhythm of her breath for half a second, then let his attention slide back.
“Jealousy don’t look good on you, Cass,” he said.
She sucked her teeth. “Anyway,” she said, waving the thought away. “You can’t help with this. I’m on my Cardi B shit with these tourists and some of them Jefferson Parish rich white people.”
They passed a bench where an older man stretched his calves, headphones dangling loose around his neck. A cyclist swerved around them without ringing a bell, irritation flashing across his face when Trell didn’t move fast enough for his liking. Trell nodded slowly, scratching at his chin with his thumb, wheels already turning even if his face didn’t show it.
Cass reached into her jacket pocket and pulled her phone out. The screen lit her face for a second, sharpening her expression, putting lines where there hadn’t been any before. She glanced at it and sighed.
“I gotta go,” she said. “Lil’ P need me to go get him.”
She slowed just enough to turn, lifting her hand toward the man trailing her. She crooked her fingers once, sharp. He reacted immediately, falling into step beside her. Cass didn’t look back at Trell as she veered onto a narrower path that cut off through the trees. The two of them disappeared between the oaks, their footsteps swallowed up by the grass and morning noise.
Trell stopped walking.
Ant closed the distance in three long strides, his expression already set, eyes flicking once toward the path Cass had taken and then back to Trell. The joggers kept moving around them, giving space without knowing why, instinct doing the work their minds didn’t bother with.
“You think it was her?” Ant asked.
Trell stood there a moment longer, arms crossed over his chest now, chin lifted slightly as he watched nothing in particular.
“I don’t know yet,” he said. “She said she robbing white men in the Quarter.”
Ant nodded once.
“She finer than any hooker they gonna find out there,” Ant said. “So makes sense to me.”
Trell exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite. He shook his head once, slow.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the problem. It make too much sense.”
He started walking again, Ant falling in beside him. They stayed on the path they’d been on, shoes tapping against pavement, City Park stretching wide and green around them.
~~~
The living room held the soft, filtered light of early afternoon, sun slipping in through the front windows and settling across the floor in clean rectangles. The apartment smelled faintly of coffee and citrus cleaner, the sharpness already dulled. Angela sat on the floor with her back pressed against the sofa, knees bent, feet angled outward. She leaned into the cushion, weight settled comfortably. Paz sat in the armchair, one ankle hooked over the opposite knee. Her arms were folded loosely, not tight, but not slack either. Mireya lay stretched along the sofa, head tipped back against the armrest so her hair spilled toward the floor. One hand rested flat on her stomach. The other pinched the corner of a pillow, released it, then did it again, the movement small and habitual.
Angela tipped her head back and let out a breath. “We gotta go to more parades this year. Like we’re grown now.”
Paz rolled her eyes without turning her head. Her foot flexed once where it rested on her knee. “We still can’t drink.”
Mireya turned her head slightly toward her. Her fingers paused on the pillow seam. “You can sweet talk a bartender into giving you a hand grenade or a hurricane.”
Angela snapped her fingers and pointed toward Mireya without looking at her, arm lifting and dropping in one smooth motion. Her mouth pulled into a grin.
Paz sucked her teeth, lips pressing together afterward. “Yeah, right.”
Mireya didn’t shift her body, only her mouth moving. “If nothing else, just show someone your titties and you’ll get a drink.”
Angela laughed, sharp and immediate, shoulders bouncing once. “Facts.”
Paz shifted in the chair, uncrossing her arms and folding them again, this time lower across her stomach. “That’s so touristy.”
“’Cause it works,” Mireya replied.
The conversation paused on its own. Not awkward. Just unfilled. Angela adjusted her legs, stretching one out and then drawing it back in. Paz’s gaze drifted briefly toward the window and returned.
“Anyway,” Paz said. “Where are gonna catch the parades though? Same spot we always did?”
Angela shook her head, ponytail brushing her shoulder. “Definitely on Canal. So, we can walk to the Quarter after.”
Mireya nodded once. “I might only do the day parades. Still working nights, you know?”
Paz’s eyes flicked to her, then away again. “Can’t take time off during Mardi Gras?”
Mireya shook her head. “That’s a busy time of year.”
Angela tilted her head, mouth twisting. “Motherfuckers do get extra dirty for those weeks.”
Mireya nodded. “Definitely.”
“I don’t know. I think that’s more reason to take off. You really want to work during the parades when everything is covered in piss and shit?” Paz asked.
Mireya shrugged. “Yeah, they’re gonna pay us extra because it’s busier. They do it for all the big events even though we’re not out on the street cleaning.”
The bedroom door opened.
Jaslene stepped out without hesitation, wearing a cropped t-shirt and a pair of panties, hair loose and slightly rumpled. She didn’t glance toward Angela or Paz. She crossed the living room like she already knew where she was going, steps unhurried, certain.
Mireya didn’t move until Jaslene was already there.
Jaslene slipped her fingers under Mireya’s chin, tilting her head back just enough. The touch was light and practiced. She leaned down, kissed her, and murmured, “Buenas tardes, nena,” against her lips. She pulled back just enough to see her face. “¿Has hecho café?”
“Sí,” Mireya said. “En la olla sobre la encimera.”
“Gracias,” Jaslene replied, thumb sliding across Mireya’s lips as she pulled away.
She turned and walked into the kitchen, bare feet quiet against the floor.
The room changed.
Angela froze, hands hovering just off her thighs before settling back down. Her mouth parted, then closed too fast, then opened again without sound. Her eyes moved from Mireya to the kitchen and back, like she was checking that the moment had actually happened. Her shoulders crept upward before she forced them down.
Paz didn’t move at all.
Her gaze stayed fixed on Mireya, eyebrows drawing together slowly. Not startled. Not curious. Just focused. Her shoulders stiffened where they rested against the chair back. The silence thickened, punctuated only by the faint clink of the coffee pot in the kitchen.
Mireya adjusted on the couch, propping herself up on one elbow. “I hope since it’s early this year it won’t be hot. I fucking hate being out there all day sweating my ass off.”
Angela blinked hard. “Ye—yeah,” she said, nodding too fast. “Hopefully not.”
She laughed once, short and thin, then stopped. Her hands slid over her jeans, smoothing the fabric without purpose. She glanced at Paz.
Paz’s eyes shifted from Mireya to Angela, brow still furrowed. Angela shifted again, suddenly aware of her knees, her posture, the space between them.
Paz finally looked down and picked up her phone, thumb moving across the screen.
~~~
Saul swung into the parking space too fast, tires chirping once before the car fully stopped. He cut the engine and shoved the door open, already halfway out of the seat before it finished unlocking. The air outside was sharp and carried the faint, sour-clean smell of disinfectant and wet concrete. He didn’t bother checking the mirrors or locking the car. He jogged toward the entrance, shoulders pitched forward, breath already starting to go thin.
Inside, the clinic was brighter than it needed to be. White walls, pale floors, chairs set in careful rows that left too much space between people who were all pretending not to look at one another. A television hung in the corner with the volume muted, captions scrolling along the bottom. The waiting room hummed with small, contained sounds. Paper sliding across a clipboard. Someone coughing once and then stopping. Shoes shifting against tile.
Saul slowed just long enough to scan.
He spotted Ava in the corner almost immediately. She sat with her coat folded across her lap, back straight but not stiff, hands resting on top of the fabric with her fingers loosely laced. Paula sat beside her, posture upright, purse placed squarely at her feet, knees together. Ava saw him first. Her shoulders dropped a fraction, relief registering there before it reached her face.
Saul crossed the room quickly and stopped short in front of them. He bent forward, hands braced on his knees for a second while he caught his breath, then straightened and slid into the chair beside Ava. Their knees brushed.
“Sorry, I’m late,” he said, still breathing hard. “The traffic on the Bonnet Carré was crazy.”
Ava smiled softly and reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his. Her thumb brushed once over his knuckle, grounding him. “It’s okay,” she said. “You know these things are never on time.”
Paula shifted in her seat, lips pressing together before she spoke. She didn’t look directly at Saul when she did. “You need to make sure that you leave on time,” she said. “You know the traffic is always bad coming from New Orleans.”
Ava’s hand tightened around Saul’s. She turned toward her mother, shoulders squaring just enough to mark the boundary. “Mom, stop.”
Saul nodded, apology already carried in the tilt of his head. He leaned back slightly, trying not to take up too much space. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “I checked the traffic before I left but I guess someone got in a wreck while I was on my way.”
Paula exhaled through her nose and looked down at her phone. Her thumb began to scroll, slow and deliberate, signaling the end of the exchange without actually leaving.
The space around them settled again. The television flickered silently. Somewhere down the hall, a door opened and closed.
Ava shifted in her seat, angling her body a little more toward Saul. “Come up with any other names?” she asked.
He rubbed his free hand once over his thigh before answering. “I still think we should go with Vicente for a boy.”
Paula’s head lifted immediately. Her phone lowered just enough for her eyes to clear the screen. “No one can pronounce that.”
Ava closed her eyes for a beat and pressed her lips together, then opened them again. “Mom,” she said, and stopped herself. She inhaled and turned fully toward her. “Can you go see when they’ll call me back?”
Paula stared at her daughter, mouth set in a thin line. For a moment it looked like she might argue. Then she pushed up from the chair, the legs scraping faintly against the floor, and walked toward the reception desk without another word. Her heels clicked against the tile, sharp and even.
Ava watched her go, then let her shoulders sag. She turned back to Saul. “I’m sorry about how she’s acting,” she said. “She’s still mad.”
Saul squeezed her hand once, thumb brushing over her knuckles. “My dad, too,” he said. “So, they’ll get along.”
That pulled a short, tired breath of a laugh from her. “I think my dad still thinks I’m joking.”
Saul laughed quietly and leaned back in his chair, eyes lifting toward the ceiling tiles. “That’s one way to deal with it, I guess.”
The receptionist’s voice carried across the room a moment later, followed by footsteps. A nurse appeared at the edge of the waiting area, clipboard tucked against her chest. She scanned the room and then called Ava’s name.
Ava straightened immediately. Saul stood with her, their hands separating only when they had to. Paula turned from the desk and rejoined them, her expression composed again.
The nurse looked from Ava to Saul and pointed toward him. “Dad?”
Saul nodded.
The nurse nodded back, marked something on the clipboard, and gestured down the hallway for them—and Paula—to follow her.
All that to say, Mireya says she straight so she straight. Paz and Angela just confused because of how significantly Mireya's life has diverged from theirs in under a year. That's Paz's whole problem with Mireya. In 8-10 months, Mireya has become unrecognizable to her.
You always trying to uphold the system holding a successful Black man down.
