Se Tradidit
Knox shaded a couple of steps to his right at short as the pitch came in. The sun sat high over the field, pressing on the back of his neck through his jersey. The ball came off the bat on the ground, skidding across the packed dirt toward him.
He dropped his glove, bent, and scooped it clean. Dust puffed up around his cleats. He set his feet and came up throwing, arm loose, ball cutting a straight line across the infield. It smacked into the first baseman’s glove with a pop loud enough to carry back to the metal bleachers.
“Yeah,” a dad a few rows down called, clapping once.
The first base ump threw his fist out. The runner peeled off toward the dugout. Knox’s shoulders twitched like they wanted to turn toward the stands. His head started that way, chin lifting a fraction, eyes sliding toward the row where his parents sat.
He stopped it halfway.
Knox jerked his gaze back to the field. He jogged a few steps toward third, grinning too hard, and held his hand out. Braxton came off the bag, glove still on, and slapped his palm against Knox’s in a high five.
Laney sat forward on the bleacher, elbows on her knees, sunglasses hiding her eyes. Her thighs stuck a little to the hot aluminum through her jeans. “They know somethin’ wrong,” she said, her voice low enough that it didn’t carry past him.
Tommy kept his eyes on the field. He tracked Knox’s footwork, the way Braxton shaded the line, the gap between them and second. His jaw tightened once. “You say that like the ‘something wrong’ isn’t that you were fucking some Black kid in your daddy’s church.”
Laney’s head snapped toward him. The movement was sharp but her face stayed mostly still behind the dark lenses. She wasn’t looking at him so much as past him, checking the nearby rows. A mom in a visor dug in a cooler. Somebody shook ice in a cup. No one looked their way.
“You got some nerve actin’ like you hurt by any of this,” she said. Her hand smoothed over her knee and back again. “You ain’t never thought your weddin’ vows was more than a suggestion either.”
Tommy adjusted his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, still not looking at her. Out by third, the next batter settled in. Hunter bounced on his toes down the third base line with the younger kids, his coach-pitch team clustered along the fence, helmets crooked, fingers hooked in the chain link while they watched the big kids finish. A little boy next to him spat sunflower seed shells at his feet.
“I don’t fuck a woman stupid enough to get knocked up by a married man,” Tommy said. His tone stayed even. “Don’t think you can say the same, can you? You’re worried about the boys knowing something, but good luck explaining to them they got a bastard brother who looks like he’s from the fucking jungle.”
Laney’s jaw clenched. The words landed heavy in the space between them. She stared at him through the tint of her sunglasses, lips pressed into a thin line. A breeze barely cut the heat, bringing the faint smell of fryer oil and snow cone syrup from the concession stand.
On the field, Knox shifted his weight. He kicked at a groove in the dirt with the toe of his cleat, then reset like his coach had told him, glove low, ready. Braxton pounded his fist into his own glove twice, eyes on the batter.
“You’re not going to gaslight me into believing that I’m somehow at fault for my sons thinking something is wrong between us,” Tommy said. He finally drew his gaze from the infield long enough to look at her. “Nothing I’ve done has caused that. You would think that after ten years of being married, you would’ve learned to keep your fucking legs closed. You know how to do it when it comes to me.”
Laney’s fingers curled around the edge of the bleacher between her knees. Her wedding ring pressed hard into the underside of her finger. “Yeah, ’cause you say shit like ‘my sons’ when they mine, too.”
The crack of the bat cut through the hum of parents talking. The ball shot toward third, hopping once in front of Braxton. He dropped to a knee to block it. It clanked off the heel of his glove, kicked sideways, and rolled toward the foul line.
Braxton scrambled after it, bare hand stretching. He grabbed it, but by the time he got his feet under him and turned, the runner was already past first. The dugout hollered for him to eat it. He held the ball anyway, shoulders hunching, and turned his head toward their row.
Tommy didn’t move. His face stayed blank, mouth a straight line, hands resting loose off his knees.
Laney’s chest tightened. She could see the way Braxton’s eyes lingered, looking for something on Tommy’s face that wasn’t there. After a beat, Braxton looked away, flipped the ball back to the pitcher, and bent into his stance again.
“You need to stop sneakin’ ’round fuckin’ Claire,” Laney said. Her voice was still low, almost even. She kept her gaze on Braxton, refusing to let it slide down to where Knox shifted his weight, or down the line to where Hunter had started to pick at the fence, bored.
Tommy’s head turned then. He looked at her full on for the first time since they’d sat down, lines at the corners of his eyes deepening against his tan. “You’re not in any kind of position to be making demands.”
“That’s how we got here in the first place.”
Tommy shook his head once, turning back toward the game. The next pitch sailed in high and the catcher popped up, glove ready. “No, how we got here is you forgetting your fucking place. I would’ve thought your daddy beating it back into your head would’ve put some sense in you, but you’re so fucking stupid that doesn’t even help you.”
For a second, the field blurred at the edges of Laney’s vision. She blinked hard behind her sunglasses. The metal under her bare legs felt hotter.
She shook her head once and pushed herself up from the bleacher. The metal groaned faint under her weight. Dust from the ground below puffed up as her shoes found the chalk-crusted grass. “I’m goin’ get somethin’ to eat.”
Tommy didn’t look up at her. His eyes stayed on Knox and Braxton, following the way Knox crept toward second with the runner on. “Leave your phone.”
Laney’s hand went into her pocket without thinking. She pulled it out and let it drop onto the bench next to him. The case hit with a flat little slap against the metal and stayed there, screen facedown.
She stood for a beat, watching the back of his head, then turned away. The air felt heavier once she stepped off the bleacher row, the sun catching the top of her shoulders. A kid ran past her with a red snow cone, syrup already dripping down his wrist. The line at the concession stand stretched out from the cinderblock building, parents shifting from foot to foot in the dust.
“Don’t hold back on what you get,” Tommy said behind her. His voice carried just enough to reach her. “You know they look y’all fat.”
Laney didn’t respond as she headed to the concession stand.
~~~
Ella Mai’s voice ran low through the car speakers, the hook threading under the hum of the highway. Saul sat slouched in the passenger seat with his knees bent in, the gray backpack wedged between his shoes. The canvas brushed his ankles every time the car hit a seam in the road.
He nudged the bag closer to his shins so it wouldn’t tip, fingers catching one of the straps before letting it drop again. “I really appreciate you helping me,” he said, eyes still on the windshield. “I ain’t have no one else to go to.”
Zoe’s hands sat light on the steering wheel, one at the top, the other resting near the bottom while her thumb tapped against the plastic. She glanced at him for half a second, then back at the lane markers sliding under them.
“Should’ve called your cousin like you said,” she said. “But I don’t know why Kay gave you all that knowing you ain’t know what the fuck you were doing.”
Saul shifted his heel on the floor mat, pushing a little groove in the rubber with the edge of his shoe. He stared at the blue road sign they were passing. “I wanted to see if I could figure it out on my own first,” he said.
Zoe snorted. Her mouth pulled up on one side and she reached to turn the air up a notch, the vent blowing warmer than either of them liked. “You can’t figure out shit when you only got a week to move a few pounds of weed, dumbass.”
Saul dropped his head back against the headrest. He let his eyes shut for a breath, then opened them again and watched the blur of trees and water beyond his window. “I just need to make some fucking money, Zo,” he said. “Whenever Ava’s parents look at me, they just know I’m broke as fuck. I know they’re probably telling her she’d be better off just being a single mom.”
“That’s what happens when you knock up white girls from St. Amant. You could’ve at least found one on the West Bank. Shit, Kenner or something.”
Saul’s jaw worked. He slid his hand down to his thigh, palm flattening over his jeans as he watched the reflection of his own face in the glass beside him.
“She doesn’t think like that,” he said after a second. “Or at least doesn’t say it. It’s just them.”
Zoe blew out through her nose, the sound almost lost under the music. “You know you gonna need a job anyway,” she said. “To explain where the money come from.”
Saul turned his head toward her. “You read that in the drug dealer handbook?”
Zoe laughed, quick and low. She lifted one hand off the wheel long enough to flick her nails against the air between them, then set it back. “It’s common sense, bitch. You either don’t have a job and thug it out because everyone know you slanging dope or you have one to explain the money.”
“Seems like you could just, I don’t know, work that job then.”
Zoe’s shoulder rose and fell in a shrug. She eased her foot off the gas a little as a truck merged in front of them, then pressed it down again once the distance opened up.
“Exactly.”
…
They were off the main stretch of highway by the time the song changed again. The streets in Houma narrowed, houses packing in tighter, some with small yards, some without any grass at all. Zoe turned down a block where cars lined one side and slowed, letting the car roll more than she pushed it.
Saul straightened in his seat as she flipped the music down until it was just a murmur. The backpack thumped softly when he lifted it upright by the straps and set it closer to his knees. Outside his window, a handful of guys hung near a driveway, smoke curling from one of their hands, plastic cups in a couple others.
Zoe eased the car in against the curb across from them. She put it in park and clicked off the ignition. The sudden quiet inside the car made the faint bass from somewhere down the street more noticeable.
Saul leaned toward his window, taking in the house they faced. The siding needed paint in spots, and there were two mismatched chairs on the small porch. One of the guys out front glanced their way and said something Saul couldn’t hear, the others turning their heads.
“Where we at again?” Saul asked, eyes staying on the yard.
Zoe unbuckled her seatbelt, the strap sliding across her chest with a soft scrape.
“A guy I used to talk to’s house,” she said. She grabbed her phone off the console and slid it into her back pocket. “His name Treg. He said he’s gonna buy all that from you.”
Saul’s eyebrows went up. He adjusted the backpack straps with both hands, hooking one over his shoulder while he stayed seated for another beat.
“You gonna have your ex buy your boyfriend’s weed?” he asked. “And if you fucking all these dudes selling drugs, how the fuck we end up dating?”
Zoe rolled her eyes. Her hand went to the door handle and she shoved it open, heat rushing into the car. “No one said I was dating Treg. We just fucked once in a while. And because I wanted something a little different. These niggas get exhausting.”
The door shut behind her with a solid thump. Saul sat still for half a second, fingers tight on the strap digging into his shoulder, then popped his own seatbelt loose. He stepped out into the late morning sun, the air thick around him, and hit the lock button on the inside of the door before closing it.
Zoe was already walking across the narrow strip of grass toward the house. She lifted a hand and hugged one of the guys on the steps.
The rest of them watched Saul. Their eyes slid from his shoes to the backpack on his shoulder to his face. He felt the weight of each look pushing against him. He kept his chin level and followed Zoe, his fingers tightening once more on the strap before he made himself loosen them.
The porch boards creaked under his feet. Zoe didn’t knock. She pulled the screen door open with an easy familiarity and pushed the main door in, cool air leaking out to meet them.
Inside, the house smelled like weed and something greasy that had been cooked a couple hours ago and never aired out. A window unit hummed hard from somewhere down the hall.
Two men stood at a scarred kitchen table. One had stacks of bills in front of him, his hands moving quick as he stuffed them into clear plastic bags and fed the open ends into a vacuum sealer that buzzed and clicked. The other stood behind a money counter, fingers tapping the edge of a stack before laying it flat and pushing it into the machine. The steady whirr of the counter stuttered every few seconds when it spat out a neat pile.
The man at the money counter lifted his head when Zoe stepped in. Gold flashed at his neck and wrist when he moved, the light catching on his jewelry. His mouth pulled into a smile that showed off more flash when he saw her.
He stepped away from the machine, leaving it humming, and crossed the room with his arms open just enough to draw her in. “You gotta stop fucking with them niggas in the city and come fuck with us up the bayou niggas for good,” he said as he hugged her, his hand running down her back to rest just above her ass before he let go.
Zoe’s face twisted in mock disgust when she leaned back. She lifted her hand and pushed at his chest with the heel of her palm. “Nigga, ain’t nobody want y’all country asses.”
Saul stayed just inside the doorway, the backpack hanging heavy off his shoulder. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, eyes flicking once to the man still at the table who hadn’t stopped sealing money, then back to the one in front of Zoe.
Zoe turned toward him, her hand dropping to her hip. “This Saul,” she said. “Saul, this Treg.”
Treg looked Saul over, eyes quick and steady in a way that made Saul feel like he’d been weighed and set somewhere on a shelf. He gave a short nod, chin dipping once. “You got the za with you?”.
Saul hitched the backpack higher on his shoulder and stepped forward so he wasn’t half-hidden behind the door frame. His palm slid along the strap before he grabbed the top and swung the bag off, bringing it around in front of him. “Got it right here,” he said, holding it out.
Treg reached his hand toward the bag, fingers closing around the canvas near the straps. His smile stayed on his face, though it didn’t climb all the way to his eyes.
“Let’s do business then, nigga.”
~~~
Sara cut the engine and the SUV settled, ticking in the heat. The lake sat across the street, water bright even through the windshield. Sun bounced off the parked cars lining the curb. She grabbed her purse from the passenger seat, checked that her keys and phone sat where they were supposed to, then pushed the door open.
The air hit damp and warm when she stepped out. Her sandals scuffed against the concrete as she crossed the short walk toward the condo door, the kind of neat little stretch of landscaping that didn’t belong to anybody in particular. A couple of palmettos drooped in beds of white rock. She adjusted the strap on her purse and lifted her hand to knock.
The door opened before her knuckles met it. Devin stood there with a smile already in place, one hand braced on the frame.
“You beat me to it,” he said, stepping back to make room.
Sara’s mouth curved as she crossed the threshold. The cool air inside brushed the sweat on her neck. Devin leaned in and wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her in for a hug and a quick kiss.
“You were keeping me away from here like you lived in the old Navy base,” she said, glancing past his shoulder as she spoke. “Come to find out you got this nice ass condo.”
Devin’s hands slid lower on her waist. He shrugged with one shoulder.
“My mama ain’t let nobody in the house growing up so I still got that weird thing going, you know?”
He kicked the door shut with his heel, then reached past her to flip the deadbolt. Sara rolled her eyes and hooked her thumb in the strap of her purse, taking a step farther into the front room. The place was cool and quiet. AC hummed low. Light came in through wide windows facing the water. Black and white paint sharpened the walls, broken up by framed photos and art that looked carefully chosen instead of collected over time.
“You can’t blame your mama for everything when you’re almost forty years old,” she said. Her gaze lingered on a photo of a skyline she didn’t recognize, the lines crisp, frame perfectly aligned with the one beside it.
“Not everything,” Devin said. He slid his hands into his pockets, shoulders relaxed. “Just the bad shit.”
He jerked his chin toward the back of the unit. The movement pulled her attention away from the wall and toward the kitchen.
“Look, I tried to cook something up for you. Since you’re always cooking.”
Sara’s eyebrows lifted. She shifted her purse higher on her shoulder and followed when he turned. The hallway opened into the main space. The kitchen and dining area blended together, all clean lines and stainless steel. Smothered pork chops sat on a platter in the center of the table, steam still hanging above them. A bowl of rice and another of greens sat nearby. On the stove, a couple of pans rested crooked on still-warm burners. The smell of pork and garlic, greens and seasoning meat hung thick in the air.
She stepped away from him without answering, moving toward the stove. She lifted one lid, peered inside, then set it back down. Her hand went to the oven handle next. She pulled it open, bending slightly to look in, then straightened and nudged the trash can lid with the side of her foot.
Devin laughed from behind her, the sound low.
“You looking to see if I really cooked?”
Sara let the trash lid swing back down. A grease-stained box sat on top of the bag, but it matched the brand on the foil pan he’d pulled from the oven. She turned her head toward him, lips tugging up.
“You’re the one who said you didn’t know how to cook,” she said.
Devin lifted both hands, palms out.
“I lied,” he said. “I just don’t like cooking.”
Sara shook her head, a laugh slipping out. She walked back toward him, passing the edge of the table. The plates were already set, place mats straight, silverware lined up like he was showing the place instead of living in it.
“You could’ve taken the boxes out to the dumpster,” she said, tilting her head at him.
Devin moved around the end of the counter. His watch caught a slice of light when he reached toward the island. Two dozen roses sat there in a clear vase, stems trimmed, petals full and red. He picked them up and held them out to her.
“I got you these, too,” he said.
Sara stopped in front of him. The scent hit her first, heavy and sweet under the smell of food. She curled her fingers around the vase, feeling the cool glass against her palms. She watched his face over the blooms, looking for the little tells.
“Oh, you really buttering me up today,” she said.
Devin laughed again, shoulders shaking once.
“Yeah,” he said. “For the tour later.”
Sara’s mouth pressed into the shadow of a smile. She turned away from him and set the roses down on the counter. The vase thudded softly on the stone. Water shifted inside, stems knocking against glass. She straightened one bloom that leaned too far to the side, then let her hand fall.
She walked over to the table, the clink of her bracelet faint in the quiet. She brushed her fingers along the back of a chair, feeling the smooth finish. Without sitting yet, she glanced over her shoulder.
“We’ll see about that,” she said.
~~~
Mireya leaned over the cart, arms folded on the plastic handle, wheels humming a little over the polished floor as she pushed it behind Trell. The air in Total Wine held that cold store chill that never quite reached her bare legs. Bottles lined the shelves on both sides, glass catching overhead lights in small, steady flashes. Trell walked a step ahead of her, one phone in his hand, another tucked against his thigh in his pocket, thumbs moving while he scrolled. Every few steps he stopped without warning, reaching out to grab a bottle and drop it into the cart without really looking at her.
“I still can’t believe you’re doing this shit. You make enough money to have them deliver it to you,” she said.
She straightened a little as she spoke, easing pressure off her lower back, eyes on his shoulders. Her voice stayed easy, almost bored. A couple passed at the end of the aisle with a basket, the woman giving Mireya’s outfit a quick once-over before looking away.
Trell shook his head while he read another text, lip curling up in thought. He let the phone drop to his side and studied two different brands on the shelf, one in his hand and one already in the cart.
“And have niggas know where I live? Not trying to have the jakes kicking in my fucking door,” he said.
He put the bottle from his hand back on the shelf and chose another, setting it more carefully in the cart this time. His attention had already gone back to his phone, the screen light flashing against the gold on his wrist.
Mireya rolled the cart forward to close the gap between them, the front wheels bumping his heel soft enough that he shifted without comment. “Guess I never thought about a delivery driver being a snitch.”
She reached back with one hand, fingertips brushing over the frayed hem of her shorts where they cut high on her thighs. The phone in her pocket was wedged more than tucked. The thin denim pulled when she moved, air brushing extra skin with each step.
Trell snorted a short laugh. He grabbed two of the same bottle and set them in with the others, the cart starting to look more planned than random.
“That’s because you be having your head in them fucking books too much. Any nigga could turn into an informant. And they might not even know they is.”
He looked at her then, just long enough to catch her eye, before he started pushing further down the aisle.
Mireya let the conversation drop. She dug her phone out of her back pocket with some effort, the corner scraping against her back as it freed itself. The screen lit her face while she checked the messages that had stacked up, thumb flicking through group chats and missed calls she had no intention of returning. She followed Trell without looking, the cart wheels squeaking once when they turned into the next aisle.
The store wasn’t crowded, but sound carried in the high ceiling. Somewhere closer to the front, a bottle clinked against another. A cashier laughed at something a customer said. Music played low from overhead speakers, some old R&B track chopped off between announcements about sales on wine.
Trell turned halfway down the aisle, checking the labels that ran along the opposite shelf. He scanned the bottles, then looked back over her shoulder, eyes narrowing as he watched something past her. The phone in his hand went still.
“Come here.”
He just jerked his chin once, the small motion enough to pull her attention from her screen.
Mireya looked up, one eyebrow lifting. She slid her phone into the cart’s child seat and walked toward him, hips shifting with each step, the soles of her slides whispering over the floor. Her eyes searched his face.
“They got four frat boys been following you around since we walked in this bitch,” Trell said.
He tipped his head slightly toward the end of the aisle and let his hand rest on the back of a shelf, body turned enough that he could see both her and the opening behind her.
“You jealous?” she asked.
The corner of her mouth pulled up. She let her weight settle onto one hip in front of him, arms loose at her sides.
Trell laughed, a low sound rumbling out of his chest. He nodded back behind her, chin jerk sharp. “Look.”
Mireya turned her head, eyes skimming the shelf before they shifted down the aisle.
Four guys lingered near the far end. Two wore pastel polos, collars soft and bent. One had a ball cap in his hand, fingers worrying the brim. Another rested his forearm on the handle of their cart, shoulders loose in gym shorts and a T-shirt.
She felt Trell move in closer before his touch landed. His arm wrapped around her waist, firm and easy, pulling her back against his chest. His hand settled on her stomach where her cropped Pelicans jersey ended, his palm warm on bare skin.
He leaned down so his mouth was close to her ear. The mix of his cologne and weed slid in first.
“Keep looking at them so they know you know they want to fuck you. But this the shit I be telling you, baby. They look. They want. But they ain’t gonna approach you. They can smell it on you. You ain’t in they world,” he said.
His thumb moved across her stomach in slow passes. His other hand stayed anchored at her hip, fingers hooked just under the band of her shorts.
Mireya kept her eyes on the group. Two of the guys were talking, their hands moving as they argued over a bottle of tequila, glancing back at the shelves behind them. One read the back label out loud, mouth twisting at something about taste notes. The third checked his phone, screen glow bright against his fingers, attention split between texts and the way the other two bickered.
The fourth stood a little behind them, phone tucked away, shoulders tight in that way people got when they knew they were being watched. He peeked over his shoulder toward her, just a quick flick of his eyes, and caught her stare head on.
His gaze faltered first. He looked away, neck blotching a deeper red. His hand went straight for a bottle he hadn’t been considering a second before.
“They see you fine as fuck. But they can’t see beyond that. This is what I’m trying to protect you from. Getting hurt thinking niggas like that want you, understand you,” Trell said.
He spoke into the side of her face, breath warm against her skin. The words were soft enough that only she caught them under the hum of the store.
Mireya breathed in through her nose and let it out slow. Jordan’s face flashed in her mind. The way his expression had shifted to disgusted. The way he’d looked at her. What he said to her.
She kept her face carefully blank, eyes forward, lashes low over any reaction.
Trell’s hand dragged once more over the bare line of her stomach, then stilled. “But for me? You my MVP. We locked in. Cut from the same cloth. Right?”.
He tilted his head enough that she could see him in her peripheral vision, waiting.
Mireya nodded, keeping her chin steady. “Yeah, you right.”
She let herself lean back into him for a second, letting his body take some of her weight, then shifted forward.
Trell let go of her waist and stepped away, attention already pulling back to the rows of bottles in front of him. He reached out to check another label, lips moving while he counted something in his head. The glow from his phone lit up his palm again when he raised it.
Mireya gave the guys at the end of the aisle one last look. They weren’t watching her anymore. One of them laughed at something another said, head thrown back, completely unaware.
She turned, walking back to the cart. Her hand found the handle, fingers curling around the plastic. She leaned back over it, letting the bend in her spine go a little deeper this time, shorts tugging high as she pushed the cart forward after him.
~~~
Caine hooked the grocery bags tighter around his fingers and shut the car door with his foot. Heat sat on the parking lot, thick enough that his shirt stuck a little at the back by the time he started up the short walk.
Someone moved on his doorstep.
Rylee pushed up from the step, straightening her T-shirt with one quick drag of her palms. She’d been sitting close to the door, back pressed to it, knees bent. Now she came down to meet him halfway, eyes already fixed on his face.
His eyebrows climbed a notch. The bags rustled against his jeans when he shifted them. He didn’t slow.
Rylee fell into step beside him, close enough that his arm brushed the side of her elbow once. Gravel popped under their feet. She kept her eyes ahead while he dug for his keys.
He stopped at the door, groceries cutting into his fingers, the metal of the deadbolt catching a strip of light. Rylee stayed right next to him, shoulders almost touching.
“Can we talk?” she asked.
Her voice came out rough from sitting and waiting. She pulled one hand up and wrapped it around the other, forearms tight against her ribs.
Caine looked at her then. He let his gaze sit on her face for a long second, eyes steady, jaw still. The key rested in the lock without turning.
He gave one short nod, turned the key, and pushed the door open with his shoulder. Cool air washed out around them, not cold enough to matter but better than outside. He stepped in first, carried the bags straight to the counter, and set them down hard enough that the contents shifted.
Behind him, Rylee came in and closed the door with her palm flat on the wood. The click sounded too loud in the small place. She kept her hand there a second, then dropped it and walked farther in on the balls of her feet.
Caine started pulling items out of the plastic. He stacked them in a small neat row on the counter in front of him.
“You know I gotta buy my own shit now,” he said, not looking up. “The good pastor ain’t taking pity on me and sending me food no more.”
He reached into the bag again and came up with a box of cereal. The cardboard scraped his palm when he set it down with the label facing out.
Rylee’s gaze dropped to the floor between them. She shifted her weight from one heel to the other, scuffing the toe of her shoes against a darker patch in the tile. Then she moved in closer, stopping on the other side of the counter so they faced each other.
“What was so much better ’bout Laney that I ain’t have?” she asked. “Like I ain’t no bitter married woman with kids. That gotta give me a leg up.”
She lifted her chin at the end and tried to smile, but it never made it past the tight pull of her mouth. One of her fingers picked at a loose piece of laminate on the edge of the counter.
Caine didn’t answer right away. He reached for the cereal box that had already been on the counter from before and pulled it toward him. The cardboard felt lighter. He cracked it open, peeked into the bag, and pinched the plastic between his fingers. Only a few scoops sat in the bottom. He set that box down, grabbed the new one, opened it, and slid the fresh bag out.
He tore the top of the new bag with his thumbs and poured it into the old one. Corn flakes hissed against each other as they dropped in. When the bag was full, he twisted the crinkled plastic shut, set it into the new box, and pushed the box toward the edge of the counter with his knuckles.
The box hit the lip of the garbage can and dropped in with a hollow thud.
“It ain’t about what she got that you don’t or anything like that,” he said finally. He nudged the restocked cereal into its spot in the cabinet, making sure the side lined up with the boxes already there. “I just connected with her. You cool, a good time, but we too different. Different places in life.”
He shut the cabinet door soft and reached back into another bag.
“That’s bullshit, Caine,” Rylee said.
Her hands flattened on the counter now, fingers spread, nails tapping once against the laminate before they went still. She leaned in, shoulders tight.
“How you gonna sit here and say we in different places in life,” she went on, “but you was willin’ to fuck my twenty-eight-year-old sister who been married for ten years? Last I check, you ain’t married.”
Her voice climbed on the last word. She bit it back down and pressed her lips together, eyes bright and hard on his face.
Caine lifted one hand from the groceries, palm out in a small stop motion between them.
“We both got kids,” he said. “It’s a lot of other shit, too, but there ain’t no reason to sit here and go through it all. That ain’t gonna make you feel better.”
He turned away for a second, pulled a pack of chicken from the bag, and walked it over to the fridge.
“Did you know I had feelin’s for you?” Rylee asked.
She hadn’t moved from her spot. Her thumbs rubbed over each other where her hands met in front of her stomach. The space between her eyebrows stayed tight.
Caine grabbed the plastic handle on a new bag and reached inside. A box of protein bars came out first. He set it on the counter, then grabbed another and stacked it beside the first. He opened the nearest cabinet and set the box on the lip so it balanced there.
“Yeah,” he said, glancing back at her. “Laney told me.”
Rylee’s mouth fell open just a little. She blinked once, then twice, the lashes sticking together for a beat before separating. Her shoulders shifted back.
“She knew, she told you and she kept fuckin’ you,” she said.
Her voice thinned on the last words. She swallowed, throat working, the muscle jumping once at the side of her neck. Her hand came up halfway, then dropped again with no place to land.
“You ain’t doing shit but making yourself mad,” Caine said.
He pulled open the protein bar box and slid the individual bars onto the front edge of the cabinet shelf one by one, lining them in a straight row so the names all faced him. The sound of cardboard on wood came small and steady.
“It’s out there,” he said. “It’s over. Ain’t nothing to do now but move on.”
He closed the cabinet with a quiet push and picked up another grocery bag, shaking it once so the contents settled.
“Ain’t nothin’ stoppin’ you from wantin’ me now,” Rylee said.
She shifted her weight again, hip angling toward him. One hand brushed at her hair even though nothing was out of place. She tilted her head a little, searching his face for something softer than what she’d been getting.
Caine snorted a laugh.He set a jar of peanut butter on the counter, twisted the lid to check it, then slid it toward the cabinet that always held spreads and snacks.
“You better talk to your daddy about that,” he said. “Because I’d say there is.”
Rylee’s shoulders dropped a fraction. She looked away toward the front door, jaw clenching.
She blew a breath out through her nose and dragged her palm over the front of her thigh.
“You know this is why I ain’t date when I was younger?” she said. “Every boy I’d hang out with would see Laney and always talk about how fuckin’ hot my sister was.”
Her voice had gone lower, more tired than angry. She leaned a hip against the counter now, arms wrapping around herself.
“You surprised some teenage boys got their noses open behind some older woman?” Caine asked.
He kept his attention on the groceries, but his eyes cut over at her while he spoke. A pack of tortillas joined the line on the counter, and he straightened them so the edges matched the bread bag beside it.
Rylee shook her head, hair moving against her shoulders.
“Ain’t mean I wanted to fuckin’ hear it,” she said.
Her mouth twisted on the words. She stared past him at the cabinets, at the way he kept touching and shifting things until they sat just right.
“Yeah,” Caine said, softer. “I got you.”
He pulled the last items from the final bag. Two cans went into his hand. He walked them to the cabinet, opened it, and found the gap where they belonged. Metal kissed wood when he set them down and rolled each one so the labels matched the rest.
Behind him, Rylee stayed quiet. The only sounds were the hum of the fridge and the low rush of the A/C trying to keep up.
She watched his back, the set of his shoulders, the careful way he made every box and bag line up. Her tongue pressed against the inside of her cheek. She shook her head once, small and sharp.
“This is fuckin’ stupid,” she said under her breath.
Caine looked up from the cabinet and turned enough to see her, one hand still on the shelf.
Rylee had already pushed off the counter. She headed for the door in three quick steps, soles of her sandals slapping against the floor. Her hand hit the knob hard. She yanked the door open and walked through without looking back.
The door swung in her wake and hit the frame with a heavy slam that rattled the hinges.
