American Sun

[Caesar]

Tatamani / Tlahtlani

Sara came down the front steps with her coffee in one hand, sandals slapping the brick with each step. The air was warm enough to feel on her arms but not enough to stick. She crossed the yard to the mailbox at the curb, her free hand already reaching for the lid before she got there.

She pulled it open and reached inside. A grocery circular, a coupon mailer with her name misspelled, something from the electric company. She tucked the junk under her arm and held the bill up, turning it in the light to read the return address then folded it in half and added it to the stack.

The sound of water hitting metal caught her attention.

Jabari was in his driveway, a hose in one hand and a sponge in the other, working suds across the hood of his truck in long arcs. The soap ran in white streaks down the grille and pooled on the concrete beneath the bumper. He looked up and saw her, and the hose dropped to his side, water running out onto the driveway in a widening stream that found the slope toward the street.

"There she is." He straightened up. "I was wondering when I was gonna catch you out here again."

Sara tucked the mail tighter under her arm and walked a few steps toward the property line, the grass soft under her sandals.

"I don't have to get up too early these days so you're always gone before I'm out of the house."

Jabari shook his head, the sponge dripping suds onto his wrist. "I been getting up at five since I was nineteen."

Sara smiled behind her coffee, the rim pressed to her lower lip. "I'm glad those days are behind me."

He set the sponge on the hood and bent to turn the hose off at the spigot, the water coughing once in the line before it stopped. He dried his hands on his jeans as he walked toward her, rubbing the denim across his palms and the backs of his fingers, and stopped at the edge of his driveway. He folded his arms and looked at her.

"I still can't get over you living next door. What's it been, almost twenty years?"

"Something like that." Sara took a sip of her coffee. The cup was cooling in her hand, the ceramic losing its heat to the air. "I think the last time I saw you was at a party out in the East."

Jabari nodded, his chin dipping once. "Then I hit that road with Shell. Been all over the world. Came back about three years ago when my mama got sick."

"I'm sorry to hear about your mama."

He nodded again, slower this time, the motion carrying more weight. "She passed about a year ago. Left me the house. So here I am."

"Here you are."

Jabari shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his arms still crossed, his eyes staying on hers.

"So what about you? What you been up to all this time?"

Sara lifted her coffee an inch and let it settle back down. "Raising my son, mostly. Working."

Jabari nodded toward the house behind her. "And your boy's the one who bought this place, right?"

"He's in college now. At USC, playing football."

His eyebrows went up. "USC? Like, out in LA?"

Sara nodded.

Jabari let out a low whistle, his head tipping back a fraction. "A D1 quarterback. That's something else." He paused, his arms uncrossing long enough for one hand to rest on his hip before folding back. "If you don't mind me asking, who's his pops?"

Sara looked at him over her coffee, her eyes level, her mouth held in a flat line."Calvin."

Jabari's face changed. The ease that had been sitting in his expression left it in pieces, his arms coming uncrossed, his weight shifting back. He took a half step away and stared at her.

"Calvin? My potna Calvin? Calvin Duplessis?"

"Yeah."

He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers dragging across the skin there, and shook his head. "Shit, I mean." He let out a breath. "I guess that makes sense. Y'all were thick as thieves back then."

"I guess you could call it that." Sara's thumb traced the handle of her mug, her eyes not leaving his face. "I got pregnant right around March our last year in school. Ain't seen him since."

Jabari kept shaking his head, the motion steady, almost mechanical. "That sound like Calvin. Soon as something get real, he disappear. He was like that even when we was young. You'd need him for something and he'd just be gone."

"Do you keep in touch with him?" Sara asked. "I know his family still lives off Derbigny."

"No, we fell out pretty soon after high school." He dropped his hand from his neck and let it hang at his side. "He ain't never tried to come back around when your boy started to get famous?"

"No. He always said Caine wasn't his."

Jabari stared at her. He held the look for a long beat, his jaw working once, the muscles pulling and then releasing.

"Well, you raised that boy by yourself in an unforgiving city so he just gotta answer for that at the pearly gates."

Sara took a sip of her coffee. The cup had gone lukewarm in her hand, the last of the heat gone from it. "I had help. Mi papa and mama." She lowered the mug and held it against her hip. "It's probably a good thing he's never come sniffing around."

Jabari shook his head one more time, the motion final this time, a period at the end of it. "Yeah, you're probably right. Calvin had a way of fucking things up so I'm gonna assume he's doing that wherever he's at."

He stepped back toward his truck, his sneakers finding the wet concrete, and gestured loosely with one hand.

"Well, if you ever need anything over there, I'm right here. That's what neighbors for."

Sara held up her coffee to him. "I'll keep that in mind."

She turned and walked back toward the house, the mail under her arm, her sandals finding the brick steps and carrying her up. Behind her, Jabari watched her go for a beat, his hands at his sides, the space she'd left still warm with it. Then he picked up the sponge from the hood and turned the hose back on.

~~~

Sena stood in the foyer with a small stack of mail in her hand, her shoes already on the rack by the door next to her mother's house shoes and two pairs of her father's work boots lined up by size. She flipped through the envelopes, sorting as she went. A credit card offer addressed to Sunghoon Yoon. A coupon book with the spine already cracking. Something from the dentist. She tucked the junk to the back and held the next one up, turning it to read the return address.

Minji came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron, the cloth bunched between her palms. She stopped in the doorway when she saw Sena.

"You're not staying?"

Sena looked up from the mail. "I have to study for finals, eomma. I just came for this."

Minji folded her arms, leaning her shoulder against the wall. The apron rode up on one side where her forearm pressed it. "You always have to study. Every time you come here, it's the same thing. Pick up mail, say hello, leave."

Sena tucked the mail under her arm, the envelopes pressing flat against her ribs. "That's not true. I was here for dinner two weeks ago."

"Two weeks ago." Minji let the words sit for a beat, her chin lifting a fraction. "You live fifteen minutes away, Sena."

Sena waited for whatever her mother was building toward.

Minji looked at her from the doorway. Her arms loosened and refolded, one hand gripping the opposite elbow. A pot lid rattled from somewhere in the kitchen behind her, steam hissing against metal. Minji's voice shifted when she spoke again.

"Are you seeing anyone?"

Sena's thumb pressed against the edge of the envelopes under her arm, the paper bending under the pressure. "No, eomma."

Minji shook her head and pushed off the wall, walking toward her. Her house shoes scuffed the hardwood with each step. "You spend all your time with your books and your classes and you're going to wake up one day and realize you're alone. You're twenty years old. You should be enjoying yourself."

"I enjoy school."

Minji's mouth pressed flat. She reached up and adjusted the clip holding her hair back, pushing it an inch to the right where it had been sliding all morning. Her hand came back down to her hip.

"School is school. I'm talking about your life. You need to find yourself a good boy who's going to treat you right. Someone with a future. A doctor, an engineer, something stable."

Sena shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her socks sliding a fraction on the hardwood. "I'm not really thinking about that right now."

"That's the problem. You're never thinking about it." Minji stopped a few feet from her, her arms still folded, her head tilting to the side. "Jihoon found Sophie when he was your age. Taemin found Vicky. What are you waiting for?"

"I'm waiting to get into HSC and become a nurse. Then I'll figure the rest out."

Minji stepped closer. She reached up and fixed a piece of Sena's hair, her fingers catching the strand and tucking it behind Sena's ear.

"I just don't want you to be lonely, Sena. A career is good but it doesn't keep you warm at night."

Sena let her mother's fingers finish with her hair. "I know, eomma. I'll figure it out."

Minji’s palm cupped Sena's cheek, the skin warm and rough from the kitchen, her thumb resting just below Sena's cheekbone. She held it there, her eyes moving between Sena's, and then let go.

"You promise me you'll at least try? Go out with your friends. Meet someone." She smoothed the front of her apron with both hands, flattening a crease that ran across her stomach. "You're a beautiful girl. Any boy would be lucky to have you."

Sena nodded. "I promise."

Minji looked at her for another beat, then turned back toward the kitchen. Her voice came over her shoulder as she went. "And bring him here when you find him. Your father and I want to meet him before you get too serious."

Sena crossed to the shoe rack and picked up her shoes. She sat on the bench by the door and set them on the floor in front of her, sliding her feet in one at a time, pressing down on the heel with her finger to work it past her ankle. "Okay, eomma."

She tied the laces, pulling each one tight before looping them. She stood and opened the front door.

~~~

Mireya sat in the chair across from Stephanie's desk with her thumb pressed against the side of her mouth, her nail resting on her lower lip. Her eyes moved around the room. Two diplomas on the wall behind the desk, both framed in dark wood, the text too small to read from where she sat. A box of tissues sat on the corner of the desk closest to where she was sitting, the top tissue pulled halfway out and standing in a point.

Stephanie came in with two cups, one in each hand. She set one in front of Mireya on the edge of the desk and carried the other around to her side, pulling her chair out with her foot before she sat down.

"Happy Cinco de Mayo."

Mireya took the cup. "What is this?"

"Horchata. The café downstairs started carrying it."

Mireya brought it to her mouth and took a sip. Too sweet, the vanilla thick on her tongue, the cinnamon more powder than spice. She set the cup down on the desk.

Stephanie smiled, her fingers lacing together on the folder in front of her. "I know it's probably not the way you'd want to spend the holiday. Not being able to celebrate."

Mireya shrugged, one shoulder lifting and dropping. "I wasn't really big on it before."

"Really?" Stephanie tilted her head. "I figured with your background it would be a big thing."

"Gringos took it over and made it about them."

Stephanie nodded, her chin dipping once, the smile pulling back a fraction. "Right. Of course."

She opened the folder on her desk, her eyes dropping to whatever was inside, then closed it. Her hands folded over the top, one palm on the other, her thumbs pressing together. "I wanted to ask you about something today if you're open to it. Can you tell me a little about your childhood?"

Mireya's eyes narrowed. The shift was small, the skin at the outer corners tightening, her chin dropping a fraction. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"It doesn't have to have anything to do with anything." Stephanie's voice stayed leve. "I'm just trying to give you someone to talk to, Mireya. You don't have a lot of that in your life from what I can see."

Mireya snorted a laugh. "You don't know what I got in my life."

Stephanie held her hand up, the palm open, the fingers loose. "You're right. I don't. That's why I'm asking."

Mireya looked at the cup on the desk. She picked it up again, the horchata sloshing against the sides, and took another sip. She held it in both hands in her lap, her thumbs pressed against the warm plastic, the lid fogging where her breath had caught the rim.

"My childhood was normal. I went to school, came home, did my homework, played with toys, watched TV. Normal shit."

"What about your parents?"

"What about them?"

Stephanie's fingers unfolded and refolded on the folder. "You've mentioned your mother before. You said she lives in the Ninth Ward."

Mireya nodded. "Yeah."

"And your father?"

Mireya's thumb came back up to the side of her mouth, her nail finding the spot on her lower lip where it had been before. She held the cup in her other hand, resting it against her thigh. "He left when I was six. Went back to Oaxaca and got married again."

Stephanie let that sit. The air conditioning kicked through the vent above the door, the hum low and steady, pushing cool air across the room.

"That's a lot for a six year old to process. Losing a parent at that age, especially a father, it shapes how children understand relationships. How they attach. What they believe they deserve from people."

"It wasn't like that." Mireya's voice came flat. "He just left. People leave."

"They do." Stephanie's eyes stayed on Mireya's face. "But when a child's father leaves at that age, it often creates a pattern where they start to believe that the people closest to them will always leave. And that belief can lead to them either pushing people away before they get the chance to leave or holding on too tightly to people who aren't good for them."

Mireya stared at her. Her thumb stayed at her mouth, her nail pressing into the skin at the corner of her lip, the cup resting on her thigh where her hand had gone still around it.

"I'm not saying that's what happened with you." Stephanie's voice softened at the edges, the clinical tone pulling back. "I'm just saying that it's something I've seen."

Mireya pulled her thumb away from her mouth. Her hand dropped to the armrest of the chair, her fingers wrapping around the edge of it. "We done?"

"We can be if you'd like."

Mireya stood. The cup went onto the desk, the horchata still half full, the condensation leaving a ring on the wood. She grabbed her purse from the back of the chair, the strap catching on the armrest before she pulled it free and slung it over her shoulder.

"Mireya."

She stopped. Her back was to the desk, her hand on the strap of her purse, her weight already shifted toward the door.

"You're not broken because your father left. And you're not broken because of what's happened since."

Mireya's hand tightened on the strap, her knuckles pressing against the leather, the tendons in the back of her hand pulling taut beneath the skin and she walked out of the office.

~~~

Autumn stood in the bathroom with a flat iron in one hand, pulling it through a section of hair near her temple. The plates hissed as they closed around the strand, heat pressing the curl smooth in a slow drag from root to end. She checked the line in the mirror, turned her head to the left, then the right, and ran her fingers through the finished section. The hair fell straight against her jaw and stayed there. She set the iron down on the counter next to a tube of lip liner and a compact, the cord coiling over the edge of the sink.

She picked up the liner and leaned toward the mirror, her face close enough that her breath fogged the glass at the bottom edge. She uncapped it and dragged the applicator under her lower lip, then her upper.

Her phone buzzed on the counter, the vibration carrying across the marble and into the base of the flat iron. She glanced down, the applicator still in her hand.

A text from Miles. Come open the door.

She capped the liner, dropped it on the counter next to the compact, and walked out of the bathroom. Down the hall, past her bedroom door, down the stairs with her hand trailing along the banister, her fingers bumping each post as she went.

She got to the front door and pulled it open.

Miles stood on the step, one hand in his pocket, the other hanging at his side. He wore a crewneck with slacks, the watch catching afternoon light at his wrist, the face

Autumn leaned into the doorframe, her shoulder pressed against the wood, her arms crossing. "Why didn't you use the code?"

Miles's eyes moved from her face to the doorframe and back. "Your parents ain't here. Didn't feel right."

"Since when has that stopped you?"

He shrugged, the motion small, one shoulder lifting and dropping. "I'm trying to be respectful."

"That's a first." Autumn's chin lifted a fraction. "What do you want, Miles?"

His eyes moved over her. The dress, the hair, the gloss, the earrings. He took all of it in one pass, his head tipping a degree to the side as his gaze came back up to her face. "You going somewhere?"

"That's not an answer to my question."

Miles shifted his weight onto his back heel, his hand still in his pocket, his jaw setting for a beat before he spoke. "Your daddy told me you out here messing with some roughneck hood nigga from Louisiana."

Autumn sucked her teeth, her head tilting. "My daddy needs to keep my name out of his mouth when he's talking to you."

Miles held his hand up, the palm open. "He wasn't gossiping. We were in the car and he brought it up. I think he wanted my read on it."

Autumn laughed. "Your read. Nigga, what read could you possibly have? You don't even know him."

"I know what your daddy told me." Miles's hand came down to his side. "Criminal record. Gang shit. Got two kids on the way with the same girl."

"One kid and one on the way." Autumn's arms stayed crossed, her weight still against the doorframe, her eyes level on his face. "And since when is that your business?"

"It ain't my business. But if Mr. Tate is asking me about it, it's clearly bothering him."

Autumn pushed off the doorframe, her arms uncrossing, her weight coming forward onto both feet. "What's bothering him is that his daughter is a grown woman making her own decisions. And you coming over here playing concerned ex-boyfriend doesn't help that."

"I'm not playing anything."

"You are. You always are." Autumn's voice stayed even, her eyes pinned to his. "Every time you show up here with some excuse, it's the same shit, Miles. You think if you keep showing up, I'm gonna change my mind."

His jaw worked once, the muscles pulling along the hinge, his hand coming out of his pocket and hanging at his side. He let a beat pass before he spoke. "I just don't want to see you get hurt."

Autumn stared at him, her eyes flat, the gloss catching light at the edges of her mouth. "You don't need to be worried about what I'm doing. Or who I'm doing it with. You work for my daddy. That's the beginning and the end of what you are to me."

"That ain't fair."

"Fair is me not telling my daddy to tell you that you need to update your fucking resume, nigga."

Miles's hand came out of his pocket and he held both of them up. "Alright. I hear you."

"Go find you some Becky to fuck tonight, so you can stop doing this pathetic ass shit, nigga."

She stepped back and closed the door. She stood in the foyer, her hand still on the knob, and listened. His footsteps moved off the step, down the walkway, each one softer than the last until they reached the driveway and she heard the beep of a car unlocking. She let go of the knob and turned toward the stairs, her hand finding the banister, and headed back up to finish getting ready.

~~~

Caine stood at the kitchen island with a bottle of Casamigos in the middle of the marble, shot glasses spread around it in a loose ring. The city pressed flat against the windows behind him, the downtown lights stacked and blurred through the glass, the sprawl running out past them in every direction until it hit dark. The penthouse smelled faintly of cologne and the tequila that had already been poured twice.

Cam leaned against the opposite side of the island, his phone face down on the counter, already two shots in. His eyes were glossed at the edges, the liquor sitting warm behind them. Derron sat on one of the barstools with his hood up, spinning an empty glass between his fingers, the base turning on the marble in slow circles. Alonzo and Angel stood shoulder to shoulder near the end of the island, Alonzo's phone held between them, both of them looking at the screen. Rachaad leaned against the refrigerator with his arms crossed, a glass in one hand, his weight settled into his heels.

Caine poured a round, tipping the bottle over each glass in a line, the tequila catching light from the pendants overhead. He slid the glasses down the marble, each one stopping within reach.

Cam picked his up and held it out. "To all the big booty Latinas I'm about to fucking crack tonight, niggas."

They threw the shots back. Cam's face pulled tight for a second before he exhaled through his nose. Derron swallowed and shook his head. Rachaad brought his glass down and set it on the counter behind him. Angel reached for the bottle before his own glass had touched the marble and refilled his and Alonzo's, the pour heavy, tequila climbing the sides.

Alonzo turned his phone around and held it toward the group, the screen bright in the dim kitchen. "Bruh, y'all remember them twins me and Angel was telling y'all about?"

Cam leaned forward, squinting at the screen. "The IG ones?"

Angel nodded, his chin lifting once. "We linked up with them last weekend."

Derron stopped spinning his glass. "Both of y'all?"

Angel looked at him. "No, nigga, it was 15 of us. Yes, both of us."

Alonzo swiped through something on the phone, his thumb moving across the screen, the images changing in quick flashes of color. "We pulled up to their spot in Glendale and they was already on some shit. Had candles lit, music playing, the whole setup."

Angel brought his refilled glass to his mouth and took a sip. "And they coordinated, bro. Like they had a system."

Cam sucked his teeth, his head pulling back. "That's some Alabama shit, my nigga. Y'all had twins, sisters, pussy out in the same room."

Alonzo held his hand up. "Hey, that ain't got shit to do with me. They said they was cool with it."

"They ain't fuck each other anyway," Angel said.

Rachaad shook his head from his spot against the fridge, his arms still crossed. "Let you tell it, nigga."

Derron leaned forward on the barstool, his elbows on the counter. "Knowing you niggas, y'all was probably doing weird shit."

Angel pointed at Alonzo with the hand holding his glass, the tequila sloshing against the rim. "This nigga was trying to get them bitches to eat ass."

Alonzo shrugged, both shoulders coming up and dropping. "It ain't gay if a bitch doing it."

Caine snorted a laugh, his head dipping. "Nah, that shit really fucking gay."

The kitchen cracked open, all of them going at once.

Cam looked at Caine, the laugh settling into a grin. "I know you was on some wild shit in Georgia."

Caine took his shot, the glass tilting back, the tequila sitting on his tongue for a half second before he swallowed. He set the glass down on the marble. "Nothing like that. Wildest shit I did was fuck with two sisters."

Derron's head came up. "At the same time?"

Caine shook his head. "Not at the same time."

Cam leaned on the counter with both forearms, his grin widening. "You a nasty nigga. One of them was probably married."

Caine held his hands up.

The group went still for a beat. Then it erupted.

Derron slapped the counter. "This nigga was fucking a married bitch and her sister. In fucking Georgia. In the country."

Alonzo nodded, his phone dropping to his side. "That's some Southern shit. Them small town bitches be the freakiest."

Angel held his glass up. "How you even pull that off?"

Caine shrugged, one shoulder lifting. "I was working at they daddy church, man. One thing led to another."

Cam shook his head, his laugh coming in short bursts between words. "The church, nigga? Nah, you foul."

"I ain't religious but I heard Jesus forgive, don't he?"

Derron wiped his face with both hands, pulling them down from his forehead to his chin. "The husband probably done offed everyone. You know how them whites be doing."

Caine snorted a laugh. "Nah, he was on some weird shit."

Rachaad pushed off the refrigerator and set his glass on the counter, the base clicking once on the marble. "Y'all about ready to go or we just gonna stand in this nigga kitchen talking about old pussy all night when they got new pussy out there to be had?"

Cam grabbed the bottle and poured one more round, the Casamigos running low, the last of it splitting uneven between the glasses. He slid them out and picked up his own, holding it above the counter. "Last one before we out."

They threw the shots back. Caine grabbed his keys and his phone off the counter, the keys jingling against the marble as he pulled them up.

Angel looked around the group. "Who paying for the Uber?"

Cam pointed at Caine with the hand that still held his empty glass. "Caine. That nigga rich."

Caine shook his head. "And what the fuck you are?"

Derron slid off the barstool, his hood still up, his hands going into his pockets. "Not fucking rich, nigga."

[djp73]

Minji finna shut up when Sena brings Mireya home

[Captain Canada]

Minji finna shut up when Sena brings Mireya home

Shit, who wouldn't

Autumn disrespectful as hell, hope she remembers this when Caine got her crying with snot coming down her nose on his autistic schtick.

Love that Stephanie already got a good read on how much of a trauma case Mireya got going here.

[redsox907]

Mireya pissed that someone actually cares about her for more than her looks

forgot to mention it earlier - wasn't Morgan hanging around some other hood dudes when Caine first met her? Setting things up

[Caesar]

Minji finna shut up when Sena brings Mireya home

Well, she'd just assume Mireya's a friend since it's clear Sena has not informed her parents of her sexuality.

Minji finna shut up when Sena brings Mireya home

Shit, who wouldn't

Autumn disrespectful as hell, hope she remembers this when Caine got her crying with snot coming down her nose on his autistic schtick.

Love that Stephanie already got a good read on how much of a trauma case Mireya got going here.

Confident and assertive Black women are not disrespectful.

I mean, Stephanie is a social worker.

Mireya pissed that someone actually cares about her for more than her looks

forgot to mention it earlier - wasn't Morgan hanging around some other hood dudes when Caine first met her? Setting things up

That person is coming from a standpoint of state overwatch, too.

She was but that was just some club ho shit, trying to get a baller.

[Caesar]

Lakampa / Ihcali

E.J. stood at the bathroom sink with his toothbrush working the back of his teeth, his eyes on his own reflection in the mirror. He spat into the basin and held the brush under the water, tapping it twice against the porcelain edge before setting it down beside the soap dish.

He pulled a shirt over his head, rolling his shoulders once to settle the fabric across his back. The hallway was dim, the overhead light burned out for two weeks. He walked through it with one hand trailing the wall until the kitchen opened up on his left.

He picked up his keys and phone, slid the phone into his pocket and looped his finger through the keyring. The metal was cold against his knuckle. He was reaching for the door when the deadbolt turned from the outside.

The door pushed open and Tessa stepped through it with a duffel bag over one shoulder, her hair pulled back, her keys already in her hand. She set the duffel on the floor just inside the threshold and closed the door behind her with her heel, the latch catching on the second try.

She looked at the apartment.

The sink had dishes in it. Two plates stacked on a bowl, a fork handle sticking up between them, a coffee mug turned on its side with a brown ring dried inside it. The trash bag near the kitchen was full and tied at the top but hadn't been taken out, the plastic stretched tight over whatever was inside, the knot sitting crooked where he'd pulled it. A pair of his sneakers sat in the middle of the living room floor where he'd kicked them off, the tongues folded back, one of them on its side.

Her eyes moved over all of it.

E.J. leaned against the counter, his keys still in his hand.

"I was about to head out."

Tessa nodded, her hand coming up to push a strand of hair off her forehead where it had pulled loose from the tie.

"I figured."

The refrigerator hummed behind him, the compressor kicking on with a low rattle that ran through the counter and into his hip where he leaned against it.

E.J. sucked his teeth, low, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Look, I fucked up. Aight? I know I fucked up. That shit with Nyla was some dumb shit and it shouldn't have happened."

Tessa's eyes came to his face, her weight settled even on both feet, her bag strap still dented into the shoulder of her shirt where the duffel had been.

E.J. kept going.

"I ain't trying to make no excuses. You was gone doing your shit and I was here bored out my fucking mind and she was right there. It ain't mean nothing."

He watched her face for something. Nothing he was expecting came.

Tessa said "Okay."

E.J. blinked. His hand tightened around the keys, the ridges of them pressing into his palm.

"Okay?"

Tessa bent down and picked up the duffel bag, slinging it back onto her shoulder. She walked past him toward the hallway, her steps even on the linoleum.

"I said okay, E.J. I accept your apology,” she said over her shoulder.

She went into the bedroom. E.J. heard the duffel land on the bed, the springs compressing under the weight, then the zipper pulling open in one long drag.

He stood in the kitchen with his keys still looped around his finger, watching the empty hallway. He could hear her moving in the bedroom, the soft sounds of clothes being pulled from fabric, hangers shifting in the closet.

E.J. pushed off the counter and walked to the bedroom doorway.

Tessa was pulling clothes out of the duffel and putting them back into her dresser drawer, folding each piece before she set it down. A shirt laid flat, the sleeves tucked under, the collar smoothed with the heel of her hand. Then the next one. Then a pair of jeans folded lengthwise and rolled. Her movements were calm, unhurried. She worked through the bag the same way she folded laundry on Sunday mornings, methodical, each crease pressed flat before the next piece came out.

E.J. leaned against the doorframe, his shoulder pressing into the wood, watching her.

"Where you been staying?"

Her hands kept moving over the fabric in the drawer, adjusting the stack to make room for what was coming in.

"At Heather's. Then Whitney's for a couple days. Then back at Heather's."

E.J. nodded at the floor, his tongue pressing into the inside of his cheek.

"For five weeks."

"Almost six."

She folded a shirt and set it in the drawer and reached for the next one. The duffel was half empty now, the sides collapsing inward where the clothes had been holding it up.

E.J.'s jaw worked once, the muscle bunching at the hinge. His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek again, harder this time, holding there.

"You ain't got nothing else to say to me?"

Tessa closed the drawer. The runners caught for a second and she lifted the front edge and pushed it in the rest of the distance until it sat flush with the dresser face. She turned around, leaning back against the dresser with her hands resting on the edge behind her.

"What do you want me to say, E.J.? You apologized. I accepted it. We can move on."

His fingers tightened around the keys in his hand, the metal pressing into his palm hard enough that he could feel the teeth of the apartment key cutting a line into the skin below his thumb.

"You went and fucked somebody."

Tessa's head tilted, just slightly, her chin moving a fraction to the left. "I didn't say that."

"You ain't have to."

Tessa pushed off the dresser and walked past him out of the bedroom, her shoulder close enough to brush his arm in the doorframe. She went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, the seal pulling apart with a soft pop, and looked inside at whatever he'd left in there over the past few weeks. She pulled out a bottle of water, cracked the seal, and took a drink. Her throat moved twice.

E.J. followed her into the kitchen, stopping on the other side of the counter. "Tessa."

She took another drink, capped the bottle, and set it on the counter. The plastic clicked against the surface. She looked at him over the bottle, her hand still on it, her fingers loose around the label.

"You said you were heading out. So head out."

E.J. held there for a moment, his eyes on her face. He sucked his teeth, shook his head, and walked to the door. He pulled it open, stepped through, and pulled it shut behind him. The latch caught and held.

Tessa stayed at the counter with the water bottle in front of her, her hands flat on the surface.

~~~

Mireya pulled up to the house on St. Bernard and put the car in park. The engine idled under her, the vibration running up through the steering column into her hands where they stayed on the wheel. The street was empty except for a truck parked two houses down with its tailgate open, and a cat moving along the edge of the gutter across the road, stepping over a drain grate without breaking stride.

Sena looked at the house through the windshield. Then she looked over at Mireya. "This is where she lives?"

Mireya nodded, her thumbs resting against the bottom of the wheel. "This is Caine's house. The other one. She moved over here when I moved into the other one with Camila."

She picked up her phone from the cupholder, the screen lighting up under her thumb. She checked it. No new emails. She dropped it back into the cupholder and turned the car off.

Sena watched her. Her hand rested on her thigh, her fingers still. "You still haven't opened it?"

Mireya shook her head. "I told you I wasn't opening it without her."

"Your child’s father’s mother."

Mireya’s eyes held on Sena's face. "It’s a lot to explain."

She got out of the car. The door shut behind her and the sound carried across the street. Sena followed, pulling her door closed and coming around the front of the car to meet Mireya on the sidewalk. They walked up the path to the door, Mireya a step ahead, her keys already out of her pocket before they reached the steps.

She pulled her keys out and unlocked the front door, the deadbolt turning over with a click, and pushed it open. She stepped inside and Sena followed, the transition from sunlight to the hallway dimming the edges of everything for a second before her eyes adjusted.

Mireya called out ahead of her. "Sara?"

Sara's voice came from the kitchen. "Estoy aquí, mija."

Mireya walked toward it and Sena followed. Her posture straightened, her shoulders pulling back, her chin leveling.

Sara came around the corner from the kitchen with a dish towel over her shoulder, her hair pulled back from her face, her hands dry. Her eyes found Mireya first. They stayed on her for a beat. Then her eyes moved past Mireya to Sena.

Sara looked at Sena steady and open, her chin level, her mouth relaxed. Her eyes moved across Sena's face in a single pass and held there.

Mireya said "This is Sena. My friend that I met at UNO."

Sara stepped forward and extended her hand. "It's nice to meet you, Sena."

Sena took her hand. Sara's grip was warm, firm without pressing, and she held it for a second longer than a stranger would have before she let go.

"It's nice to meet you too, Ms. Guerra."

Sara smiled, the expression settling into her face. "Sara is fine."

She looked at Mireya. Her eyes moved over Mireya's face in a slow pass. Her hand came up and pulled the dish towel off her shoulder, folding it once and holding it at her side.

"You haven't opened it yet."

Mireya shook her head.

Sara nodded, her chin dipping once. "Then let's go sit down."

They moved to the living room. Sara sat on the couch, settling into the cushion with her back against the arm and one leg tucked under her. Mireya sat next to her, close, her thigh pressing against Sara's, her body angled so her shoulder touched Sara's arm.

Sena took the armchair across from them. She sat with her back straight, her hands folding together in her lap, her feet flat on the floor.

Mireya pulled her phone out and opened her email. Her thumb scrolled slow through the list, the screen reflecting off the undersides of her fingers as they moved. Each message passed upward under her thumb. She stopped.

Sara's hand came up and rested on the back of Mireya's head. Her fingers settled into Mireya's hair, spreading through the strands at her crown, the pads of her fingers pressing against Mireya's scalp.

Mireya leaned into it, a fraction of her weight shifting toward Sara's shoulder, her spine curving in a degree, the muscles in her neck releasing enough that her head tipped toward the pressure of Sara's hand.

Sena watched this from the armchair. Her hands stayed folded in her lap, her fingers laced, her thumbs resting against each other. Her eyes moved between Sara's hand in Mireya's hair and Mireya's face.

Mireya tapped the email. The page loaded, the progress bar running across the top of the screen and disappearing. She read the first line.

Her eyes closed.

Sara's fingers tightened in her hair, pulling gently, a small gathering of the strands between her fingers that drew Mireya's head up a fraction. Sara said " Dime."

Mireya opened her eyes and looked at Sara. Her mouth was closed, her jaw set, but her eyes were full and bright.

"I got in."

Sara pulled her in. Both arms wrapped around Mireya's shoulders, her hand still in her hair, her other arm crossing Mireya's back and pulling her close until Mireya's body was against hers. She smoothed Mireya's hair down from her crown to the nape of her neck.

Mireya's forehead dropped against Sara's shoulder.

"Estoy tan orgullosa de ti, mija. Tan orgullosa,” Sara whispered.

Mireya nodded against her shoulder. Her hand came up and grabbed the fabric of Sara's shirt at her back, her fingers bunching the cotton into her fist, pulling it tight against Sara's skin.

Sena sat in the armchair watching them. Sara's hand moving through Mireya's hair in that long, repeating stroke. Mireya's body gone soft against Sara, her shoulders dropped, her spine curved, the tension she carried in her neck, her jaw and her hands absent from her. Sara holding her, absorbing her weight, settled under it.

Sara opened her eyes over Mireya's shoulder and looked at Sena.

Her eyes moved over Sena's face, covering it in a single slow pass. Her hand kept moving through Mireya's hair, the rhythm unbroken, the same long stroke from crown to nape. Her expression didn't shift. She held the look, steady, open.

Sena held the look.

Sara closed her eyes and pressed her lips to the top of Mireya's head, her mouth settling against the dark hair, holding there.

Sena looked down at her own hands in her lap. She unfolded them and pressed her palms flat against her thighs.

~~~

Caine walked through the student union with his hands in his pockets, scanning the food counters. Half of them had the metal gates pulled down, the slats locked into the floor tracks, the lights behind them off. The ones still open were running reduced menus, handwritten signs taped to the glass listing what they had left and what they didn't. Grilled chicken. No beef. Fountain drinks only. One counter had crossed out three of the five items on its sign and written SORRY in block letters underneath.

A girl behind one of the counters leaned on her elbow, scrolling her phone. The trays behind her were mostly empty, one of them holding a few pieces of something breaded that had been sitting under the heat lamp long enough for the edges to curl.

Caine stopped in front of the options and looked at what was there. The counter on the left had rice and some kind of sauce in a warming pan, the surface of it dried and cracked where the ladle had scraped through. The counter on the right had a stack of wrapped sandwiches in a cooler case, the plastic tight over bread that had gone soft.

He sucked his teeth and pulled his phone out, his thumb already moving to the delivery app, about to order something to the penthouse, when a voice called out behind him.

"¡Mano!"

Caine turned. Memo was crossing the floor toward him, a backpack over one shoulder, a stack of flyers tucked under his arm. Memo's stride was long, his free hand already out.

He dapped Caine up, pulling him into the one-armed hug, their shoulders meeting once before they stepped apart.

"Bro, everything's closed. I've been eating out of a vending machine for two days."

Caine slid his phone back into his pocket. "I was about to just go home. Ain't shit open."

Memo shook his head, shifting the flyers under his arm. "Come eat at my mom's house. She cooks every day regardless. It's like an hour drive but it's worth it."

Caine looked at him. "Where you stay?"

"Hesperia. Out past San Bernardino."

"That's the desert, ain’t it?"

Memo shrugged, one shoulder lifting under the backpack strap. "That's where the rent is, mano. You coming or what?"

Caine looked back at the closed counters. The girl behind the open one was still scrolling, her elbow pressed into the counter, her chin in her hand. He looked at Memo.

"Yeah, I’m gonna drive though."

---

Caine pulled the Lexus onto a street in Hesperia where the houses sat low and stucco, the yards small, the landscaping sparse. A few lawns had gravel instead of grass. A couple of cars parked on the street had covers pulled over them, the fabric faded and dusty, the shapes underneath rounded by heat and wind.

Memo pointed to a house on the right. "That one."

Caine pulled into the driveway behind an older Camry, the paint on its hood chalked from the sun. He put the Lexus in park and cut the engine.

They got out and Memo pushed the front door open without a key, the hinges giving without resistance, and called out ahead of him. "¡Mamá, traje un amigo!"

A woman's voice came from somewhere in the back of the house, muffled by walls and the sound of something sizzling in oil, the pop and hiss of it carrying over her words.

Caine stepped inside and it hit him.

The smell first. Oil and garlic and something starchy and rich, layered over itself from hours of cooking, an accumulation from a kitchen that had been running since morning. It settled in his throat and sat on his tongue, warm and thick, and he could taste it before he'd taken his second step through the door.

Then the sound. A television playing in a room, the volume up too loud, gunfire and music from whatever was on the screen. A kid's voice arguing with another kid's voice over something, the words running together fast enough that Caine caught the tone before the content. A woman's voice cutting across both of them from the kitchen without breaking from whatever she was doing, a single sharp sentence that didn't stop the argument but lowered its volume by half.

Caine stopped in the doorway and took it in.

A younger boy, maybe eleven or twelve, was sitting on the floor in front of the television with a controller in his hands, his legs crossed, his head tilted back as he shouted something at a girl a few years younger sitting on the couch behind him. Her arms were folded across her chest, her jaw set, her eyes locked on the back of her brother's head.

Memo said "Bro, chill. We got company."

The boy looked over, his mouth still open from whatever he'd been saying. He saw Caine. His eyes went wide, the controller dropping an inch in his hands.

He scrambled to his feet, the controller landing on the carpet.

Memo said to Caine, "That's my little brother Mateo. And that's my sister Lucía."

Mateo's chin lifted. "You’re tall. You play football?"

"Yeah."

"Bro, that's sick."

Lucía looked at Caine and then back at her brother with her arms still folded, her expression unchanged.

Memo walked Caine into the kitchen. The tile floor was clean but worn in the traffic patterns, the grout dark between the squares where shoes had tracked over it for years. A window above the sink let in light that fell across the counter and caught the steam rising from the stove.

Memo's mother stood at the stove with a wooden spoon in one hand, her hair pinned up, an apron tied at her waist. She turned and looked at Caine, then at Memo, then back at Caine. She pointed the spoon at him and said something to Memo in rapid Spanish, the words coming fast enough that the sentences ran together.

Memo held his hands up, palms out. "Mami, he's Honduran. He speaks Spanish."

Yesenia's expression shifted. The spoon came down from where she'd been pointing it. She stepped toward Caine, looking him over, her eyes moving from his face to his shoulders to his shoes and back up. She asked "¿De dónde eres?"

"Soy de Nueva Orleans pero mi familia es de Honduras. Mis abuelos y mi mama."

Yesenia's free hand came up and patted the side of his face, a single firm pat, her palm warm and dry against his cheek. She turned back to the stove.

"Siéntate, mijo. Ya casi está."

A door at the back of the kitchen opened and a woman came in from the yard, a gardening glove on one hand, the other bare and dusty. She was small, her hair white and pulled back tight, her posture straight despite her size. Her eyes found Caine sitting at the table and she stopped, the door swinging shut behind her.

Memo said "Abuelita, este es mi amigo Caine. Es hondureño."

Sofía walked over to Caine and put both hands on his shoulders, the gardening glove rough against his shirt, and looked up at him. Her eyes were dark and clear, the skin around them creased deep.

"Hondureño. Que bueno. Estás muy flaco."

Caine laughed, the sound coming out easy. "Mi abuela used to say the same thing. Cuando era niño."

Sofía patted his shoulder and went to the stove, taking over from Yesenia, waving her away with the gardening glove. Yesenia rolled her eyes but stepped aside, moving to the counter where she started pulling plates down from the cabinet. Sofía moved between the pots, lifting each lid and leaning in, tasting from a small spoon she pulled from a drawer, her lips pursing as she considered each one. She reached for a jar near the back burner and added something without measuring, her wrist turning once, the granules falling into the pot and disappearing.

Caine sat at the kitchen table and watched them work. Yesenia set plates down in front of each chair, the ceramic clicking against the wood. Forks and knives followed, the silverware arranged without ceremony, handles turned the same direction. A stack of napkins pulled from a holder on the counter. A pitcher of water already sweating from the heat in the kitchen.

Sofía brought the food to the table herself, carrying each dish in both hands, setting them down with the care of someone who had cooked every meal in this kitchen for longer than anyone else in the house had been alive. Gallo pinto, the rice and beans dark and fragrant, the grains separate. Tajadas, the plantain slices fried golden and stacked on the plate, the edges crisp. Queso frito, the cheese browned in slices, the surface bubbled where it had hit the oil. A bowl of something thick and dark that Memo told him was indio viejo, the corn masa and shredded meat rich with tomato and achiote.

Sofía served Caine first, piling his plate high, the spoon going back twice for the gallo pinto, then once more for the tajadas. She set the plate in front of him and stood behind his chair with her hand on the back of it, watching him.

Caine took the first bite of the gallo pinto. He nodded, his eyes closing for a second, the taste settling against the roof of his mouth.

Sofía smiled and patted the back of his head. "Come, come. Hay más."

Mateo and Lucía came into the kitchen and sat down, Mateo pulling his chair close to the table, his eyes cutting toward Caine between bites. Lucía ate with her focus on her plate, her fork moving in small, precise motions. Memo ate with one hand and scrolled through his phone with the other, his thumb moving over the screen between bites. Yesenia reached over and pushed the phone face down on the table without looking at him. Memo picked it back up. Yesenia pushed it down again, her hand flat on the back of it, holding it there for a beat before she pulled away. Memo left it.

Caine ate everything on his plate and Sofía refilled it before he could say anything, a second helping of tajadas set in front of him, the plantain still warm from the oil, and a glass of pinolillo placed beside it.

Caine took a drink of it. "This is good."

Doña Sofía said "Claro que sí."

She sat down next to him and started asking him questions in Spanish, her hands folded on the table in front of her, her eyes on his face. Where was his family from? Did his grandmother cook? Did he go to church? Did he have a girlfriend? Caine answered each one, his Spanish coming easy, the rhythm of the conversation settling into something familiar.

The kitchen was loud around them. Mateo and Lucía arguing again over something neither of them would remember in an hour. Yesenia telling them to stop, her voice rising over theirs without effort. Memo laughing at something on his phone that his mother had already pushed face down twice.

Caine looked around the table and his hand stilled on his fork for a moment. Then he picked it back up and kept eating.

~~~

Ramon had a lemon pepper flat in his hand, pulling the meat off in one clean strip, his thumb running along the bone to catch what was left. The table between them held a tray of bones and wax paper smeared with sauce, lemon pepper on one side, mango habanero on the other, the two colors bleeding together where the paper creased. Tyree sat across from him with a toothpick in his mouth, working it from one side to the other, his jaw rolling with the motion. His pile of bones sat stacked higher than Ramon's, the clean ones crossed over each other in a mound that tilted toward the edge of the tray.

The television mounted above the counter ran a basketball game with the sound off. The closed captions scrolled at a delay, the words appearing two or three seconds behind the play, the text cutting off mid-sentence before jumping to the next line. A player drove the lane and the captions still said something about the previous possession.

Ramon tore into the flat, the skin pulling away from the cartilage at the joint and dropped the clean bone on the pile. He reached for a napkin from the dispenser at the edge of the table, pulling two free and wiping his fingers one at a time.

Tyree said "I still think you wrong about Zion."

Ramon shook his head, balling the napkin and dropping it on the tray. "Nigga, I ain't arguing about this shit with you no more. That man is cooked. He been cooked."

Tyree pulled the toothpick out and pointed it across the table, holding it between his index finger and thumb. "You said the same shit three years ago and that nigga averaged twenty."

"And what he win?"

Tyree put the toothpick back in his mouth, his jaw working around it, the wood settling into the groove between his molars. "Niggas always move the goalpost."

Ramon reached for another flat, his fingers closing around it, grease catching the light on his knuckles. He pulled it toward him and started working the meat from the bone, his thumbnail splitting the skin along the ridge. "Ain't nobody moving nothing. You either win or you don't. That's it."

Tyree leaned back against the booth, his arms spreading along the top of the seat on either side of him. "You know what your problem is? You don't appreciate greatness while it's here."

Ramon didn't look up. "I appreciate winning. Greatness don't mean shit without a ring. And the Pelicans booty."

Tyree sucked his teeth, the sound sharp. His jaw shifted and the toothpick rolled to the opposite corner of his mouth.

The door opened.

Naomi walked in with another woman, the two of them mid-conversation, Naomi's hand moving as she talked, her fingers cutting the air in front of her to punctuate whatever point she was making.

She stopped when she saw Ramon and Tyree in the booth.

The friend looked between them and then at Naomi, her mouth still open from whatever she'd been saying, the sentence dying between her teeth. Naomi said something to her, low enough that the words didn't carry to the booth, and the friend went to the counter to order.

Naomi walked over and stood at the end of the booth, one hand on her hip, her weight settled onto her back foot. She looked down at the tray of bones between them and then at Ramon.

Ramon looked up at her, his fingers still greasy from the flat, the meat halfway off the bone. "Naomi."

Tyree's eyes moved over her, starting at her shoes and working up. He shook his head once, a small motion, and looked down at the tray. The toothpick rolled between his teeth.

Naomi said "I need to talk to y'all about Ant."

Ramon picked up another wing. "What about him?"

"Something's about to happen to him. I can feel it. Them niggas he got working for him been acting different. Scotty been having little meetings without telling Ant about them. Shad too."

Ramon took a bite of the wing. He chewed, his jaw working slow, his eyes on the bone in his hand.

Naomi waited. Her hand stayed on her hip, her fingers pressing into the fabric there. The counter behind her buzzed with the fryer running, the oil popping in a rhythm that filled the gaps in the conversation.

"I know y'all ain't potnas with him or nothing but I'm asking y'all to help. Talk to him. Warn him. Something."

Ramon set the bone down on the tray and wiped his hands on a napkin. He balled it up and dropped it on top of the pile. He said "I ain't getting involved in that. That's y'all shit."

Naomi's chin lifted. "It wasn't y'all shit when I gave you information about Trell?"

Ramon looked at her. His eyes held steady on her face, his hands flat on the table. "That was different. That was business."

"And this is my man's life."

Ramon shrugged, one shoulder lifting and falling, his expression unchanged. "My suggestion is that Ant leave town or leave the game before whatever you think is gonna happen happens. Niggas always gonna be gunning for the throne with the king gone. That's the best advice I can give you."

Naomi’s jaw pulled tight, the muscle at the hinge visible under her skin. Her hand stayed on her hip, the fingers pressing harder now, the knuckles standing out.

"You know he ain't gonna do that."

Ramon said, "Then I don't know what to tell you."

Naomi looked at Tyree.

Tyree kept his eyes out the window, his toothpick moving slow between his teeth.

She shook her head, and walked back to the counter where her friend was waiting with a bag. The friend said something to her and Naomi didn't answer, just pushed through the door. The friend followed. The door swung shut behind them, the glass shuddering once in the frame before it settled.

Tyree watched the door close. He pulled the toothpick out and set it on the tray, the wet end resting against a clean bone.

"Damn. She looked good as fuck."

Ramon's head turned toward him.

Tyree caught himself, his hand coming up, palm out. "The friend. I'm talking about the friend, nigga."

Ramon stared at him. His mouth was already pulling at the corner, the grin building before he could stop it. He said "I ain't say nothing, brudda."

Tyree pointed across the table, his finger aimed at Ramon's chest. "Don't fucking start."

Ramon held his hands up, palms open. "I ain't starting shit."

He picked up another wing.

Tyree snatched the toothpick back off the tray and jammed it into his mouth, his jaw set, the wood pinched between his back teeth. His eyes went to the television above the counter, his body squared to the screen.

Ramon took a bite, chewed, and said without looking up, "She probably trans, too, though."

Tyree flicked the toothpick at him.

~~~

Caine sat on the edge of his bed, his phone in his hand, his thumb moving over the screen in a scroll that covered ground without stopping on anything. The city pressed flat against the windows across the room, the buildings downtown catching the light in long strips that ran down the glass faces and disappeared into the haze below them.

Autumn's voice came from inside the walk-in closet, hangers scraping along the rod in a steady rhythm as she moved through them. The sound was deliberate, each hanger pushed aside with a pause before the next one followed.

"Caine."

His thumb kept moving over the screen, the content passing under it in a blur of text and images he wasn't processing.

"Caine."

He looked toward the closet doorway.

Autumn stepped into the frame holding a hoodie by the shoulders, the fabric hanging limp from her fingers, the arms drooping toward the floor. She looked at it, then at him, then back at the hoodie. Her head tilted.

"How many of these do you have?"

"I don't know. A few."

Autumn disappeared back into the closet. More hangers scraped along the rod, faster this time, the metal clicking against each other as she pushed through them. She came back out holding a second hoodie in her other hand, both of them extended at arm's length, her eyebrows raised, her mouth flat.

"These are the same hoodie."

Caine looked at them. They were both black. One had a small Nike logo on the chest and the other didn't. He said "They're different. One's Nike."

Autumn looked at the one without the logo, then the one with it. She held the Nike one up higher, turned it, and brought it back down level with the other.

"Oh, you're right. This changes everything. You're basically a stylist."

She dropped them both on the bed, the fabric landing in a heap next to his thigh and walked back into the closet. He could hear her moving things, hangers clicking against each other in clusters, something sliding off a shelf with a soft thud against the closet floor.

She called out from inside, her voice carrying through the doorway. "You have seven hoodies, four pairs of sweats, three pairs of jeans that all look the same, a bunch of Nike shit still in the plastic and one jacket."

"I got more than one jacket."

Autumn came back out with a pair of his jeans folded over her arm. She held them up, turning them until she found what she was looking for, and pushed her finger through a hole in the pocket, the fabric parting around her knuckle, the lining visible underneath.

"These have a hole in the pocket."

She turned the pocket inside out and wiggled her finger through the tear, the tip of it poking through to the other side.

"I keep meaning to get rid of those."

"But you didn't. Because you would've had to go buy new ones and that would require you to set foot in an actual store."

She tossed them onto the bed on top of the hoodies. The pile was growing.

"I order shit online."

"You order the same shit online. That's not shopping, that's restocking."

She put her hand on her hip, her head tilting, her eyes moving from him to the growing pile on the bed and back. Her weight settled onto one foot, her body angled toward him.

"Your whole wardrobe looks like a broke college football player."

"I am a broke college football player."

Autumn sucked her teeth. "You live in a penthouse downtown, nigga. You drive a Lexus. You got a Nike deal. You are not broke. You just dress like you are."

Caine held his hands up, his phone still in one of them. "Ain’t nobody ever complained about my clothes before."

"That's because you were in Georgia and New Orleans, baby. Those girls would've been impressed if you showed up in a clean pair of Dickies. This is the Land."

"What that gotta do with anything?"

"Everything."

She walked over to the bed and picked up one of the hoodies, shaking it out and holding it against his chest, the fabric bunching where it met his shoulders. She looked at it with her head tilted, her eyes narrowing, studying the fit against him. Then she pulled it away and held it at arm's length, her arm straight, the hoodie dangling from her grip.

"This is what you wore on our first date."

"That wasn't no date. You invited yourself to walk with me to the Village."

Autumn tossed the hoodie back on the pile. It landed half-folded, one sleeve hanging off the edge of the bed.

"It was a date. You just didn't know it yet."

She walked back into the closet. He heard her phone camera click, the shutter sound sharp in the enclosed space. Then another click. She was taking pictures.

She called out from inside, her voice muffled by the racks. "Do you own a single button-down?"

Caine thought about it. His eyes moved to the ceiling and came back. "I got plenty."

Autumn came out, her phone still in her hand, the screen facing her. She leaned against the closet doorframe, one shoulder pressed into the wood, her ankles crossed.

"Three. You own three button-downs."

"I don't need a lot of fancy shit clothes. I throw a football. Who I’m trying to impress?"

Autumn looked at him. Her mouth pulled at the corner, the expression arriving slow, settling into her face. Her eyes held on his.

"You're trying to impress me."

Caine kept his eyes on her and his mouth closed.

Autumn nodded once. "That's what I thought."

She looked at her phone, her thumb scrolling through something, her eyes tracking the screen as it moved. She scrolled for a few seconds, stopped, scrolled again, and stopped on whatever she'd been looking for.

"I'm gonna have to upgrade you."

"Sound like you saying you ain’t trying to have me looking busted next to you."

"That’s exactly what I’m saying. You ain’t gotta shop. You just have to show up, stand there, and let me do everything. Which, based on what I've seen so far, you're already good at."

Caine shook his head, a laugh coming through his nose. "You bossy as fuck."

"And you dress like a broke nigga. So we both got problems."

She walked over and sat down on the bed next to him, close enough that her thigh pressed against his, the mattress dipping under their combined weight. She turned her phone toward him, the screen showing a store page, a brand he didn't recognize, the layout clean and the prices absent from the thumbnails.

"This is where we're starting. Saturday."

Caine looked at the screen, then at her. Her face was close, her chin turned toward him.

"You already had this planned before you went in there."

Autumn locked the phone and dropped it in her lap. She leaned back on her hands, her palms flat on the bed behind her, her arms straight, her shoulders back.

"Baby, I've had this planned since the first time I saw you wear the same hoodie twice in one week."

"It was a clean hoodie."

Autumn patted his thigh twice, firm, her palm landing flat against the denim, and stood up from the bed in one motion.

"That's not the flex you think it is, nigga."

She picked up the pile of clothes off the bed, the hoodies and jeans bundled together under her arm, the fabric spilling over her elbow. She walked back toward the closet, her stride even, her free hand already reaching for the doorframe.

Caine watched her go, shaking his head.

She called out from inside, her voice carrying clear through the doorway. "And I'm throwing these jeans away. Don't look for them."

Caine held his hands up.

~~~

Mireya pushed through the dressing room door with her money bag against her hip.. A couple of the other girls were at their mirrors in various states of undress, one of them pulling a robe on over her shoulders, another working a brush through a wig she'd set on a styrofoam head. Someone's playlist ran through a speaker propped against a bottle of body oil near the end of the counter, the bass turned low enough that the vocals sat on top of it, a woman's voice running through a verse that nobody in the room was listening to.

Mireya dropped into the chair at her station next to Jaslene.

Jaslene was already seated, one leg crossed over the other, her phone in her hand, her robe open at the waist, the collar falling across her collarbone. She looked over at Mireya, her eyes moving across her face before she said anything.

Mireya opened her money bag and started pulling bills out, sorting them onto the vanity by denomination, her fingers pressing the creased ones flat against the surface. The twenties went to the left. The fives went to the right. The tens in between. A few ones she separated into their own stack at the far edge, the bills limp and damp from being held in hands all night.

Jaslene set her phone face down on the vanity. "You came off the stage early."

Mireya kept counting. Her thumb ran along the edge of a twenty, smoothing a fold out of the corner before she set it on the stack.

"I couldn't get into the laybacks. Every time I tried to hook and lean back it felt like something was pressing up into my ribs. Like there wasn't enough room in there for me to bend and the baby at the same time."

Jaslene's hand came up and rested on Mireya’s arm.

"The inversions too?"

Mireya nodded, separating a stack of twenties from the fives. "The inversions are worse. I got up there and tried to flip and my core just wouldn't hold it right."

She stopped sorting and sat back in the chair, her spine pressing into the cushion. The heel of her hand came up and pressed into the spot below her ribs where the discomfort had been, her fingers spreading across the bottom of her ribcage, pressing in.

"The climbing is fine. I can still climb and spin. But anything where I have to compress or fold, my body's not letting me do it anymore."

She dropped her hand and leaned forward again over the money. She picked up where she'd left off, the bills moving through her fingers in a practiced count, each one flipped from the front to the back of the stack.

"I'm gonna have to do more VIPs and floor work to make up for it. Pick up some extra nights. The money's still there, I just have to go get it differently."

Jaslene watched her. Her fingers stayed curled over Mireya’s arm. "Or you could just stop."

Mireya's hands kept moving through the bills. "Jas."

" Escúchame. Your body is telling you it's done with the pole. That's not a small thing, mi amor. The pole is what you do best. And now you can't do it the way you need to."

Mireya stacked the twenties and tapped the edges even against the vanity, the bills hitting the surface in two sharp taps that brought the stack into a clean rectangle.

"I can still work. I just have to adjust what I'm doing."

Jaslene leaned in closer, her elbow on the arm of Mireya's chair, her body turning toward her. Her voice dropped, the volume coming down to a register that stayed between the two of them.

"You told me you got into HSC."

Mireya looked at her.

Jaslene held her eyes, her face close enough that Mireya could see the light from the vanity bulbs reflected in her pupils.

"You got into nursing school. On the same day your body won't let you do your job the way you've always done it. Maybe that's a sign that it's time."

Mireya turned back to the vanity and picked up the stack of fives. She counted them, her thumb flipping through each bill, the paper making a soft sound against itself as each one folded to the back.

"Those are two different things. One doesn't have anything to do with the other."

"No lo son. Sabes que no lo son. You always said this was temporary. That you were doing this until you figured something else out." Jaslene's hand left Mireya’s arm and settled on her own thigh. "Bueno, ya lo tienes. You figured it out."

Mireya finished counting the fives and rolled the bills together, her fingers pressing the stack tight before she snapped a rubber band around them. The rubber caught and held. She dropped the roll into her bag and started on the tens.

"No voy a rendirme, baby. Te lo dije. When it gets too hard, I'll stop. It's not too hard yet. It's just different."

"You can't invert. You can't layback. You can't do splits without it hurting. That sounds too hard to me."

Mireya's thumb moved through the tens, each bill flipping over the last, the count steady. "It sounds like I need to do more VIPs. Which I'm good at. Which I've always been good at. That some would say I’m better at."

She looked at Jaslene, her eyes steady, her hands still on the money. "Necesito esto. I'm not ready."

Jaslene held her eyes for a long moment. She pulled a breath in through her nose and let it out slow, her chest rising and falling with it, her jaw holding the shape of whatever she wanted to say next before she said it.

"Y cuando ya no puedas hacer nada de eso, ¿qué vas a hacer?"

Mireya picked up the tens and started counting. bills moved through her fingers one at a time, her thumb working the edge of each one.

Jaslene watched her for another beat. Then she picked her phone back up off the vanity and unlocked it, her jaw still set, her body turned toward Mireya in the chair even as her eyes went to the screen.

Mireya kept counting.

[redsox907]

oh EJ gonna be one of those dudes that fucks any bitch, but gets mad when his girl gets some revenge strange?

them boys taking too long to roll Ant up, he gonna just murk em all

Caine never beating the allegations

and Mireya ain't ever gonna cut hoing

[Captain Canada]

Mireya being addicted to throwing ass for money is so funny to me.

[djp73]

Autumn trying to change Caine doesn't feel like it's going to end well.

[Caesar]

oh EJ gonna be one of those dudes that fucks any bitch, but gets mad when his girl gets some revenge strange?

them boys taking too long to roll Ant up, he gonna just murk em all

Caine never beating the allegations

and Mireya ain't ever gonna cut hoing

E.J. said this Communist China. He does what he wants. She does what he says.

They trying to get the connects.

What Caine did?!

She getting a financial boost right now. Might as well keep it going.

Mireya being addicted to throwing ass for money is so funny to me.

Addicted to being good at something*

Autumn trying to change Caine doesn't feel like it's going to end well.

Maybe si. Maybe no. We'll have to see.