Saul sat on the floor with his back against the couch and Angel asleep on his chest. The baby's head was turned to one side, his cheek pressed flat against the cotton of Saul's shirt, his mouth open and his breath coming in small, damp pulls that left a wet spot spreading slow across the fabric.
Ava was curled up on the couch behind him, her legs pulled up, her socked feet tucked under the throw pillow at the far end. Her hand rested on Saul's shoulder, her fingers tracing absent patterns on the fabric of his shirt. Her hair was still damp from her shower and the smell of her shampoo came down to him each time she shifted.
Saul scrolled through the listings with his thumb. One bedrooms in Prairieville. Two bedrooms in Gonzales. Studios in Donaldsonville that had been converted from something else, the photos showing kitchens crammed into corners and bathrooms with no windows. He passed one that listed amenities as "close to highway" and kept going. The next one had water stains on the ceiling in the listing photos. The one after that didn't have photos at all.
He stopped on a listing and held the phone up over his shoulder toward Ava, the screen angled so she could see it from the couch.
"What about this one? Two bedroom in Prairieville. It's close enough to your mama's that she could still come by."
Ava shifted on the couch, leaning forward enough to see the screen. Her chin came to rest on his shoulder, her breath warm against his neck. The listing showed a brick duplex with a covered carport and a strip of grass running along the front. The kitchen had white cabinets and a window over the sink. The bedroom photos were small and dim, taken at angles that made the rooms look bigger than they were.
"How much?"
"Nine fifty a month."
Ava exhaled. "That's almost my whole check, Saul."
"That's why it'd be both of us. Together." He locked the screen and brought the phone down to his lap, his thumb running along the edge of the case.
Ava pulled back, settling into the couch again. Her hand came off his shoulder and found the back of his neck, her fingers resting in the short hair there before she pulled them away and folded her arms across her stomach.
"I know you want to do this. I want to do it too. But right now we're not paying rent, my mama watches Angel when I work, and we're barely keeping up as it is."
Saul locked his phone and set it on the carpet beside him. His hand came up to rest on Angel's back, both palms covering the baby now, the rise and fall of his breathing pressing against Saul's fingers.
"I just don't want to be living in your parents' house when he starts walking, you know?" He kept his voice low, the words aimed at the top of Angel's head. "I want him to have his own room. His own space. I want us to have our own space."
"We will. Just not right now."
Angel's breath caught once, a small hitch in the rhythm, and Saul's hand pressed flatter against his back until it smoothed out again.
"Your mama called him her little Mexican again yesterday."
Ava closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them she was looking at the ceiling, her jaw set, the muscles along the side of her neck pulling tight. "I know. I talked to her about it."
"And?"
"She said she's just playing. You know how she is."
"Yeah, I do." Saul's thumb moved once across Angel's back, a slow arc from one shoulder blade to the other. "That's part of why I want our own place."
Ava reached down and ran her fingers through his hair, starting at the crown and moving back, her nails dragging lightly against his scalp. "She means well. She just doesn't think about how it sounds."
Saul looked down at Angel, at the boy's hand curled into a fist against his shirt, the fingers so small they barely made an impression in the fabric. He adjusted the baby's position, shifting him higher on his chest, his palm spread wide across his son's back.
"I just keep thinking about how my family does shit." He said it to the room, to the empty television screen across from him where his reflection sat with a baby on his chest and a girl on the couch behind him, the image dark and flat. "I don’t want him feeling crowded. I want him to grow up in a house that's ours."
"That sounds really good, baby. It does." Ava's hand stopped in his hair. Her fingers curled once against his scalp and held. "But we need to be realistic about what we can afford right now."
Saul’s jaw worked once, the muscle at the hinge jumping, and he let his head fall back against the cushion behind him.
"I know. I just get tired of being realistic all the time."
Ava laughed. "Welcome to being a parent."
Angel stirred on Saul's chest. His body tensed, the muscles in his back going rigid under Saul's hand, his face scrunching until his features disappeared into a knot of skin and pressed-shut eyes. His legs drew up and his fists curled tighter against Saul's shirt.
Saul froze. His hand went still on the baby's back. He held his breath and waited, his eyes on Angel's face, watching the scrunch deepen.
"Don't do it, mijo," he whispered. "Go back to sleep."
Angel's mouth opened. His fists curled against Saul's shirt. The cry came out all at once, loud and sharp, his legs kicking against Saul's stomach, and whatever stillness the house had been holding broke apart.
Ava dropped her head back against the couch. "There it is."
Saul shifted Angel up to his shoulder, one hand cupping the back of his head, the other arm hooked under his legs, and pushed himself up off the floor. He bounced the baby against his chest, his weight rocking from one foot to the other, his hand patting a slow rhythm on Angel's back.
"I got him, I got him."
Angel screamed louder. The cry filled the living room and bounced off the walls and came back at them from every direction. His face was red and wet, his mouth wide, his body arching away from Saul's chest with each breath he took to fuel the next one.
Saul walked the length of the living room, past the television and the bookshelf and the framed photos on the wall, bouncing Angel with each step, his voice low and steady against the noise. He turned at the far wall and came back. Turned again.
Ava watched them from the couch, her arms folded, her body still except for her eyes tracking Saul's path across the room. "He's hungry. There's a bottle in the fridge."
Saul walked to the kitchen with Angel wailing against his neck, the baby's mouth open and hot against his skin. He pulled the refrigerator door open with one hand, the seal breaking, the cold air pushing out against his forearm. He grabbed the closest one and bumped the door shut with his elbow.
He set a pot on the stove and turned the knob with his free hand, the gas clicking twice before the flame caught. Angel kicked against his ribs and screamed, his fingers gripping at the collar of Saul's shirt, pulling it sideways.
Saul looked down at his son. The boy's face was a fist, red and creased and furious, his eyes squeezed shut. His whole body shook with the force of each cry.
Saul looked back toward the living room, toward Ava on the couch with her legs pulled up and her head tilted to one side, watching him.
"Nine-fifty a month don't seem like that much when you think about it."
Ava shook her head, a tired smile pulling at her mouth, her eyes half closed. "Ask me again when he sleeps through the night."
~~~
Mireya stood in the doorway of Sara's house on St. Bernard with Camila on her hip and a bag over her shoulder. The strap cut into the muscle where her neck met her collarbone and she shifted it, her hand coming up to hook a thumb under the nylon and pull it an inch to the left. Camila had her legs wrapped around Mireya's waist, her sneakers pressing into Mireya's hip bones, her head turned toward the inside of the house where the hallway stretched back toward the kitchen.
Sara was already there, already reaching, her hands sliding under Camila's arms before Mireya was fully through the door. She lifted Camila away from Mireya's body in one motion, the girl's weight transferring between them without resistance, Camila's arms unwinding from Mireya's neck and wrapping around Sara's in the same movement.
"Abuela."
Sara pressed her mouth to Camila's hair and held it there. Her eyes closed for a second, her hand coming up to cup the back of Camila's head, her fingers spreading through the dark strands. She pulled back and looked at Camila's face, turning her chin gently with one knuckle.
"Hola, mi vida. ¿Tienes hambre?"
Camila nodded, her chin moving against Sara's hand.
Sara carried her toward the kitchen, Camila's legs bouncing against her side with each step, and said over her shoulder to Mireya, "Come in. I made arroz."
Mireya set the bag down by the door, the strap sliding off her shoulder and the bag dropping to the floor with a soft thud against the hardwood. She pushed the door shut behind her and followed them in.
Rice and sofrito filled the kitchen, the garlic and onion sitting thick enough in the air that she could taste it at the back of her throat. A pot sat on the stove with the lid tilted to one side, steam curling from the gap. A second pot beside it, smaller, the lid on tight. The counter held a cutting board with the remains of a pepper on it, seeds scattered across the surface, and a knife resting in the groove at the edge.
Mireya leaned against the kitchen counter and crossed her arms, her back against the lip of the marble, her weight settling into her heels. She watched Sara put Camila in the chair, the girl's legs swinging once she was seated, her feet not reaching the floor. Sara pulled the chair in closer to the table and started fixing a plate, spooning rice from the pot with one hand, the other resting on top of Camila's head, her thumb moving in a small arc across the girl's hair.
She added beans from the second pot, ladling them over one side of the rice, and set the plate in front of Camila. She pulled a spoon from the drawer beside the stove and handed it down to her. Camila took it in her fist, the handle disappearing inside her grip, and started eating. Both hands worked at the plate, one holding the spoon and the other scooping rice that had fallen off back onto the pile. The spoon came up loaded and half of it dropped before it reached her mouth. She chewed with her lips parted, grains of rice stuck to her chin.
Sara wiped her hands on a towel and turned to Mireya. She looked at her for a long beat, her eyes moving across Mireya's face. The towel hung from one hand, her other hand resting on the counter behind her.
"¿Has hablado con tu mamá?"
Mireya's jaw set. The muscles along the hinge pulled tight and the shift was visible, the skin at her temple going taut. "About what?"
Sara folded the towel over the handle of the oven, taking her time with it, smoothing the fabric flat before she let go. "You know about what. About the baby."
Mireya shook her head, a single motion, sharp. " No. Y no lo voy a hacer."
Sara leaned against the counter across from her, arms folded, her posture mirroring Mireya's. The two of them stood on opposite sides of the kitchen with Camila between them at the table, the girl's spoon scraping against the plate in a steady rhythm.
"Mija."
"I'm serious. I'm not telling her."
"She's going to find out eventually. It's better if it comes from you."
Mireya snorted, the sound pushing through her nose, her chin lifting with it. "Better for who?"
Sara's expression didn't change. Her arms stayed folded, her weight stayed settled, her eyes stayed on Mireya's face. "She's your mother."
"Hardly. That woman isn’t fit to have that title for anyone" Mireya held Sara's eyes across the kitchen. "You know that better than anyone."
Sara held the look for a moment. Then her eyes moved to Camila, who was scooping rice off the table with her fingers and putting it back on the plate, pressing each grain down with her thumb to make it stay. Sara walked over and bent beside the chair, her hand closing gently around Camila's fist, adjusting the grip on the spoon, rotating the handle until Camila's fingers sat where they were supposed to. She curled Camila's thumb over the top and held it there for a second before letting go.
She stayed bent next to the chair when she spoke. "I'm not going to tell you what to do, mija. But she's going to hear about it from somebody and it's going to be worse if it isn't you."
Mireya folded her arms tighter, her fingers digging into the fabric of her sleeves. "Pues que sea peor. No me importa."
Sara straightened up and looked at her. Mireya held the look, her jaw tight, the tendons in her neck standing out above the collar of her shirt. She shrugged, one shoulder coming up and dropping.
"If you want to tell her, you can tell her. But I'm not. I'm not going over there,” Mireya said.
Sara ran her hand over Camila's hair, smoothing it back from her forehead, her fingers pulling through a tangle near the girl's temple and working it loose without Camila noticing. The girl kept eating, her spoon moving between the plate and her mouth, rice dropping in a trail across the table.
"No voy a hacer eso. Eso es cosa tuya y de ella, mija."
"Then it ain’t happening."
Sara picked up the towel from the oven handle and wiped a spot of rice off the table near Camila's plate, her hand moving in a small circle, collecting the grains in the fold of the fabric. She set the towel down and rested her hand on the table beside the plate, close enough that Camila could reach her if she wanted to.
Camila looked up at Mireya, her mouth full, her cheeks round, a smear of bean across her bottom lip. "Mami, you gonna eat too?"
Mireya's face softened. The jaw unclenched. The muscles along her neck released. She pushed off the counter and walked over to the table and sat down next to Camila, the chair scraping against the floor as she pulled it in. She reached across and pulled the plate between them, angling it so Camila could still reach her side.
"Yeah, mija. I'll eat too."
Sara watched them from the counter, her hand resting on the towel, Mireya's head bent close to Camila's as the girl loaded the spoon and held it up toward her mother's mouth. Sara turned to the stove and started fixing another plate.
~~~
Sena sat on the couch with her laptop open on her thighs, the screen casting a white glow up across her chin and the underside of her jaw. A textbook lay spread across the cushion beside her, facedown, the spine cracked at a chapter she'd been going back and forth between for the last hour.
A knock came at the door.
Sena looked up and her fingers stopped on the keyboard. She closed the laptop and set it on the cushion next to the textbook and pushed the blanket off her feet. She crossed the living room in her socks and checked the peephole.
Her hand came off the door, and she stood there for a moment with one palm flat against the wood and the other resting on the deadbolt, her thumb on the latch. She could see Alex's face through the distorted lens, the shape of her pulled wide at the edges.
Sena turned the deadbolt and opened the door.
Alex stood outside with her hands in the pockets of the hoodie, the cuffs of it frayed where her fingers had worked the fabric over the years. The hood lay flat against her back. Her hair was down, tucked behind one ear, and the smile came full and immediate when the door opened.
"Hey."
Sena leaned against the doorframe. "How do you know where I live, Alex?"
Alex shrugged, her shoulders coming up inside the hoodie and dropping. "Priya told me. I asked her after we ran into each other at the po'boy place."
Her expression didn't change but something moved behind her eyes, a small adjustment. She stayed in the doorframe, her body filling the gap between the door and the jamb.
Alex shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her hands still buried in the front pocket. "Can I come in? I just want to talk."
She held the look for a beat, her jaw set, her eyes moving once across Alex's face. Then she stepped aside.
Alex walked past her into the apartment. Her eyes moved across the living room, the kitchen counter visible beyond the half wall, the hallway leading back to the bedrooms. She scanned the space, taking inventory, cataloging the layout and the details before she settled. She sat down on the couch, pulling one leg under her, her arm stretching along the back of the cushions. Her fingers brushed the edge of Sena's textbook and she glanced down at it, then looked back up.
Sena closed the door and walked to the kitchen counter, leaning against it with her arms folded, the marble pressing into the small of her back through her shirt.
"You look good, Sena."
Sena’s arms stayed folded, her weight settled into the counter behind her. "What do you want, Alex?"
Alex pulled her hands into her lap, her fingers lacing together, the knuckles going white for a second before she loosened them. "I miss you. I miss us. I want our friendship back."
Sena's jaw tightened. The muscle at the hinge jumped once and held. "You're the reason we don't have a friendship."
Alex nodded. Her expression shifted, the smile dropping away, something else moving into its place that sat between her brows and pulled at the corners of her mouth. "I know. I know what I said to you was fucked up. I've thought about it a lot."
"Have you?"
"Yes." Alex leaned forward on the couch, her elbows dropping to her knees, her hands still clasped between them. "I was young and scared and I handled it wrong. I shouldn't have said those things to you."
Sena stared at her from the counter. Her arms stayed crossed, her fingers pressing into the fabric of her sleeves. The air conditioning clicked off and the apartment went still, the television noise from next door dropping away at the same moment until there was nothing between them except the sound of Alex breathing and the faint tick of a clock Sena couldn't see from where she was standing.
"You called me a dyke, Alex." Her voice came out flat, each word placed down with the same weight. "You told people that I kept trying to fuck you even though you were always the one who started. Do you understand what that did to me?"
Alex looked down at her hands. Her thumbs worked against each other, pressing and releasing, pressing and releasing. "I do. And I'm sorry. I really am."
Sena let the silence sit. The light came through the window behind the couch and fell across the carpet in a long pale square. Alex's shadow cut through it where she sat.
Alex looked back up. Her eyes found Sena's and held them. "I mean it, Sena. I want you in my life again. You were my best friend. Nobody's ever known me like you did."
Sena pushed off the counter. She walked to the window and stood with her back to Alex, her arms still crossed, her eyes on the street below. A car passed, the sound of it muffled through the glass. She watched it turn at the end of the block and disappear.
"You can't just show up here and say sorry and expect everything to be fine."
"I'm not expecting it to be fine overnight." Alex's voice came from behind her, closer now, as though she'd shifted forward on the couch. "I'm just asking for a chance."
Sena turned around and looked at Alex, at her sitting on the couch with her body angled toward the window, her hands between her knees, her face arranged into something that asked to be believed.
"A chance to do what?"
Alex held her eyes for a moment. Her tongue moved across her bottom lip, slow, wetting it, and she leaned forward on the couch, her forearms pressing into her thighs. "To be close again. Like we were."
Her fingers drummed once against the cushion beside her knee, the sound soft against the fabric.
"Actually, David and I have been talking and, you know, we're pretty open about things. He thinks you're cute. If you ever wanted to, the three of us could, you know."
Sena stared at her.
Neither of them spoke. Three seconds. Four. The air conditioning kicked back on and the vent above the kitchen pushed a thin stream of cold air into the room.
"Get out."
Alex's eyes widened. Her hands came up from her lap. "Sena, I didn't mean it like that. I just thought maybe it could be a way for us to reconnect and for you to feel comfortable with—"
"Get the fuck out of my apartment, Alex."
Alex stood up from the couch. Her hands dropped to her sides and came back up again, the gesture lost, searching for something to do with themselves. "Come on, I'm just being honest with you. I thought you'd appreciate—"
Sena walked to the front door and opened it. She held it wide, her hand on the edge, her arm straight. "You came here to apologize for calling me a slur and then you offered me a threesome with your boyfriend. You haven't changed at all."
Alex grabbed her phone from the couch and walked toward the door. She stopped in front of Sena, close enough that Sena could smell her perfume and the fabric softener in the hoodie. "Sena, please. That came out wrong. I just—"
"Leave."
Alex stepped outside. She turned back, her mouth opening.
Sena closed the door in her face. The latch caught and she turned the deadbolt, the bolt sliding home with a solid click. She stood there with her hand flat against the door, her forehead pressed to the wood, her eyes shut.
~~~
Caine pulled the glass door open and stepped into the lobby. The receptionist looked up from her desk and smiled, her fingers pausing over the keyboard. She waved him through, her hand lifting once from the desk and dropping back down, and Caine nodded at her as he turned down the hallway.
Tatum stood at the whiteboard on the far wall, a dry-erase marker in his hand. He wore a charcoal crew neck over slacks, the sleeves pushed to his forearms, his watch catching the afternoon light from the windows behind his desk. The whiteboard had a column of brand names written in block letters, some circled, some underlined, and Tatum was adding another to the bottom of the list, the marker squeaking against the surface as he printed the letters. He capped the marker and tossed it onto his desk when Caine came through the door.
"There he is. The most controversial quarterback in college football."
Caine crossed the office and dropped into one of the leather armchairs, one ankle over his knee, his hands settling onto the arms of the chair. " That reporter asked a dumb fucking question."
Tatum sat down across from him, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped between them. "I know. And I loved every second of it. You know how many people watched that clip?"
"One of them interns with athletics said twelve million."
Tatum held up three fingers. "Thirty-one million as of this morning. It's still climbing." He ticked the outlets off, each one landing with the weight of someone who'd been tracking the numbers since they started moving. "CNN picked it up. ESPN ran a whole segment. Fox News tried to spin it and got ratioed into oblivion."
Caine shook his head. "All I was doing was answering the fucking question."
"That's exactly why it worked." Tatum's hands separated and came back together, one palm hitting the other once for emphasis. "You can't manufacture that shit. The second you try to be authentic on camera, it reads fake. You just are what you are and people respond to it."
"The AD wasn't too happy about it."
Tatum waved that off, his hand cutting a short arc through the air between them. "No one’s worried about the AD. As long as Riley isn’t trying to put you on the bench for it then my job doesn’t change."
He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, his hands coming to rest on the arms of the chair. "Now, let me tell you where we're at on the business side because that's why you pay me."
Caine nodded.
Tatum stood and walked to the whiteboard. He pointed at the column of names with his finger, tapping the first one. "Nike is locked in. The Spanish-language campaign is confirmed. Seventy thousand for that alone." His finger moved to the next name, tracing the letters without touching the board. "On top of what they're already paying you for the main campaign, you're looking at close to two hundred from Nike this year."
"That's good."
Tatum tapped another name on the board, his knuckle rapping once against the surface. "Beats reached out yesterday. They want you for a back-to-school campaign timed with the season opener. They're talking about a hundred, maybe one-twenty depending on how many spots they want."
He moved down the list, his finger sliding to the next name. "Gatorade wants a meeting. They're not committing yet but they're sniffing around. If they come in, that's another six figures easy."
Caine looked at the board. The names ran in a column from top to bottom, each one printed in Tatum's block letters, some with dollar figures circled beside them, others with question marks.
"What about the spring game shit? Any of these people spooked?"
Tatum shook his head. "The opposite. Every brand I've talked to this week has said the same thing. They don't want a robot. They want someone who connects with young consumers and young consumers don't give a fuck about what some sixty year old donor thinks about your friends."
He walked back to his chair and sat, his weight settling into the leather. "The only people who are upset are the people who were never going to buy what you're selling anyway. The people who are buying, they're buying more now."
Caine nodded. "So we just keep going."
"We keep going." Tatum leaned forward. His voice dropped half a register, the casual energy in his posture tightening into something more direct. "But I need you to understand something."
He held Caine's eyes. "There's a difference between being yourself and being reckless. What you said at the spring game was you being yourself. If you start popping off on Twitter or getting into shit that gives them a reason to pull out, that's different. I can't protect the bag if you light it on fire."
Caine held his eyes. "I don’t do shit on Twitter. Talking on social media ain’t never been my thing."
Tatum nodded, his chin dipping once, the motion definitive. "Good. Because right now, we're building something that's going to pay you long after you stop playing football. You just gotta let me do what I do."
"That's why I got you."
Tatum grinned, leaning back, the tension leaving his posture as quickly as it had arrived. "That and because I'm the only agent in this city who knows what a po'boy is."
Caine snorted a laugh.
Tatum clapped his hands once, the sound sharp in the office. "Alright, let me call Beats back and lock this shit down. You got anything else for me?"
Caine shook his head and stood, pulling his weight up from the armchair in one motion. "Nah, I'm good."
Tatum stood and they dapped up, hands meeting and pulling in, shoulders bumping once before they separated. "I'll send you the paperwork for the Spanish campaign tonight. Sign it and send it back before you forget."
Caine nodded, pulling the door open. "I got you."
Tatum called after him as he walked down the hallway, his voice carrying past the open door. "And stay off the internet for a few days. Let the clip do its thing."
Caine held his hand up as he walked toward the lobby.
