In the H
The hum of the jet was low and steady, more private than Royce had expected. He sat near the window, shoulder pressed lightly to the pane, watching a quilt of bayous and subdivisions shrink beneath them. It was strange how different the world looked from above—tidy, controlled, distant.
Across the aisle, Rickie was asleep with his hoodie pulled over his eyes. Caden flipped through Twitter, nodding his head to something no one else could hear. Coach Lanning stood near the front of the cabin, murmuring to someone on a call, but his eyes drifted back every so often to check on the three of them.
Royce didn’t say much.
He hadn’t since they left Baton Rouge. He was too busy turning over phrases in his head. The media training from last week kept bouncing around in pieces.
Deflect with poise. Keep answers brief, team-focused. Stay away from trauma narratives unless you're prepared to redirect. Smile, but not too much.
He took a breath, leaned back, and closed his eyes.
By the time the plane touched down in Houston, the sun was sliding behind glass towers and freeway overpasses. The air was thick, but not Baton Rouge thick—more polished, more distant. A black SUV waited on the tarmac to take them to the hotel.
At check-in, Royce’s phone buzzed: a text from Alix.
We’re in the room. Girls already raiding the minibar. I told them to wait but you know how Simone is lol.
He typed back: Just landed. You good?
Yeah. You?
About to get dragged to prep meetings.
Don’t let them media-train the soul outta you.
Royce chuckled and slipped the phone into his pocket.
…
The media suite was already humming by the time they arrived.
Two SIDs, a digital team rep, and a PR assistant greeted them with branded folders and laminated itineraries. Everything from wardrobe suggestions to question breakdowns was color-coded and timed to the minute.
“You’ll be doing ESPN at 10:20,” Danielle, one of the SIDs said as Royce settled into a conference chair. “Then the SEC Network panel. A few beat writers will circle through in the afternoon. We’re frontloading most of your media day so Coach can take you out afterward.”
“Out where?” Royce asked. “We gotta do more shit like this?”
“Don’t worry about that yet,” she said. “Right now, let’s talk posture.”
She pointed to a high stool positioned in front of a pair of lights. Behind it, a backdrop read SEC MEDIA DAYS in clean, navy lettering.
Royce stepped into the light, squinting against the heat of the bulbs.
“Sit up straight,” Danielle called. “Angle your shoulders just a little. That’s your camera.”
Another voice chimed in from the laptop feed: “Run him through pivot drills.”
A second SID stepped up with a list of common questions and pointed at Royce. “You ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Royce said, voice low.
“Let’s go. What’s your leadership style?”
Royce blinked. “Lead by example. I don’t talk a lot. I just work.”
“Too short. Add context.”
Royce tried again: “I try to set the tone in practice. Make sure my teammates know I’m not asking them to do anything I’m not doing myself.”
“Better. Now: how do you bounce back from adversity?”
“I just—”
“Pause,” Danielle interrupted. “You want to acknowledge your history without making it a pity narrative. So start with something like: ‘Everyone’s been through something. What matters is what you do after.’ Then shift into football.”
Royce nodded slowly, absorbing it.
They kept going. Fifteen more questions, then fifteen more. He slipped up once when they asked about NIL deals—his face flinched, just barely—and they made him run it back. On the fourth attempt, he got it smooth:
“It’s a blessing, no doubt. But I’m focused on the team first. Everything else is just noise.”
By the time the mock interviews ended, the room felt smaller. The lights felt hotter.
One of the media guys offered him a bottle of water and said, “You’re good, man. You’ve got a calm presence. Just keep your rhythm tomorrow. Don’t let them throw you off.”
Royce twisted open the cap and took a long sip.
“Y’all ever get tired of pretending this matters?” he asked.
Danielle laughed softly. “Only when they’re not paying attention.”
Royce leaned back in the chair, the edges of his mind still rehearsing answers. He didn’t know what they’d ask. Not really.
But he knew how to smile. And how to keep his voice even.
And how to carry a story without letting anyone else hold the weight of it.
~~~~~~~~~~
Houston pulsed beneath them, all neon and noise. Alix leaned back against the railing of the rooftop bar, her drink sweating in her hand, a lime wedge floating crooked in the pink glow of her cocktail. The air was thick with music and humidity, people bumping shoulders and laughing too loud, lights bouncing off the glass towers that fenced the skyline in like mirrors of a better version of the night.
Simone danced beside her, hands up, eyes closed, mouthing lyrics like she was headlining. Madi was locked in a two-drink-deep giggle fit against her boyfriend’s chest. Ashlee had disappeared with hers somewhere near the bar, the glint of her sequined dress flickering through the crowd like a signal flare.
Alix smiled because it was easier than explaining why she didn’t feel like smiling. She took another sip and let her eyes drift over the scene—everyone coupled up, everyone a little buzzed, a little beautiful, a little too comfortable.
“Y’all good?” Simone shouted over the music, grabbing Alix’s hand.
“Yeah!” Alix shouted back, her voice too bright. “Just hot!”
Simone laughed and twirled away, her bangles clinking like wind chimes.
Alix turned her back to the party and stared out at the city. She pulled her phone from her purse and opened Royce’s message.
Still in media prep. Almost done. Might pull up for dinner.
That was almost an hour ago. She typed a reply and then backspaced it. She didn’t want to seem clingy. She didn’t want to seem anything, really.
Madi reappeared with another drink in hand and offered it up like a peace offering. “For the only single girl in Houston,” she joked.
Alix laughed politely and took the glass. “Thanks.”
Madi tilted her head. “You okay?”
Alix shrugged. “Just tired. Long day.”
Madi gave her a look—the kind friends give when they know you’re not telling the truth, but they’re too tipsy to press. “Well, eat something, or you’re gonna end up crying to some guy in the bathroom line.”
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” Alix muttered, sipping again.
…
They ended up at a late-night diner, chrome and cracked leather, the kind of place that smelled like old grease and felt like a reset button. Simone slid into the booth first, followed by Madi and Ashlee. The boyfriends filed in beside them, laughing about the bouncer at the last club who told one of them to “fix your posture if you want to impress women.”
Alix chose the seat at the far end. She didn’t feel like being boxed in. She stirred her water with a straw, trying not to check her phone again.
Then she felt it buzz.
She looked down. Outside.
A second later, Royce appeared at the front door. He looked... good. Crisp. Still in the team-issued jacket and polo, the LSU logo catching the overhead light just enough to announce him. But his shoulders sagged, and the lines under his eyes were new, or maybe just more visible now that she knew what to look for.
He slid into the seat next to her.
“Hey,” he said, his voice low.
“You made it,” she replied, nudging a menu toward him.
“Barely,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “Motherfuckers were acting like I was running for president or some shit.”
Simone grinned from across the table. “You look like you’ve been in makeup all day.”
Royce smiled tiredly. “Don’t need no makeup. Black don’t crack.”
Laughter rolled around the booth. For a moment, the energy shifted. Royce cracked open the menu and blinked at it like it was in a different language.
“What you want?” Alix asked.
“Don’t even know. I think I’m too tired to chew.”
She laughed softly, then reached under the table and touched his leg. He glanced at her and gave a small nod. That was all they had energy for.
He didn’t ask how her night had gone.
She didn’t tell him she’d spent most of it pretending not to feel like the extra chair at the table.
The waitress came by. He ordered a burger and fries. She ordered nothing. Just another drink.
And as the chatter rose around them again, Alix leaned back into the booth and tried to believe that proximity could fill the space that presence couldn’t.
It wasn’t that Royce didn’t care. It just didn’t always feel like he remembered to care out loud.
~~~~~~~~~~
Mike hadn’t spoken to anyone in hours. He hadn’t needed to. The campus at Northwestern State was so quiet it made sound feel optional.
He walked a slow loop past the low-slung brick dorms, past the rec center where a single basketball thudded against the court, past the student union where a flyer fluttered on a bulletin board like it was the only thing trying to get someone’s attention.
A girl passed him on a longboard, earbuds in. She didn’t look up.
Mike slid his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and kept walking.
He didn’t hate it here. Not yet, anyway. But there was something about the stillness that rubbed him the wrong way. Like the whole place was paused, waiting on someone to say the next thing.
Back home, even the silence had noise—wind through cane fields, dogs barking down the block, someone’s cousin bumping NBA YoungBoy three houses over. But here, all Mike could hear was the shuffle of his own sneakers on gravel.
He found the restaurant by accident. Tucked off a side street just past the edge of campus, its awning was faded red, the letters on the sign outside curling inward like they were tired of being read. It wasn’t much—two windows, some flowers trying to die in cracked pots, a handwritten sign taped crooked to the glass: OPEN. CASH PREFERRED. WE DON’T SPLIT CHECKS.
Mike pushed the door open and stepped inside.
It smelled like flour and fryer oil. Like cornbread and mop water. It smelled like home, minus the swamp.
Only two other tables were occupied. A TV mounted in the corner played a muted news feed. Mike slid into a booth by the window and grabbed a laminated menu already streaked with syrup fingerprints.
A minute later, the waitress approached. She looked like she’d been working the same job for thirty years and could recite the specials in her sleep.
“What you having, baby?” she asked, pulling a pen from behind her ear.
“Uh… grilled shrimp po’boy and fries,” Mike said.
“Tea?”
“Yes, ma’am. Sweet.”
“Good boy,” she said, scribbling. Then she looked at him a beat longer than he expected. “You here for school?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said again, polite as ever.
“Football?”
He nodded.
“Well, eat good. Don’t let them wear you down before you even get your number dirty.”
He smiled. She walked off. Mike exhaled and leaned back against the booth, finally letting himself feel how tired he really was.
His phone buzzed.
Treg
yo I know you up there at northwestern
you really not gonna answer a nigga huh
I know where ya mama stay
Mike stared at the messages.
Then hit delete.
Another buzz.
This time from a 318 number he didn’t recognize at first.
Coach Hale
Team meeting at 2. Film + install. Let me know if you have questions.
Mike didn’t respond right away. He just stared at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Then he double-tapped the text—added a like—and locked his phone.
He looked out the window. It was cloudy but bright. The kind of light that didn’t know if it wanted to be sun or shade.
His tea came first, then the po’boy. The bread was toasted, the shrimp peppered and overstuffed, the fries crisp and hot. He didn’t talk. Didn’t smile. Just ate, like he had somewhere to be soon but didn’t mind being late for it.
When he finished, he wiped his hands, dropped a twenty on the table, and nodded to the waitress as he passed.
She nodded back without missing a beat.
Outside, he pulled his hoodie back over his head and started walking again, not because he had to, but because movement felt more familiar than stillness.
And this place—quiet, small, flat—was going to take some getting used to.
But for now, at least, nobody was expecting anything from him. Not really.
And that part? That part he could work with.
Dying to Live
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16938
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Soapy
- Posts: 16766
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
nooticer still trying to figure out this Mike storyline. a version of Royce that doesn't make it?
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16938
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Soapy
- Posts: 16766
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16938
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Mic’D Up
The lights hit different when you were the only one sitting beneath them.
Royce adjusted the collar of his LSU polo for the fifth time, even though Danielle had already straightened it and given him the thumbs-up. The camera lenses just beyond the riser gleamed like eyes that didn’t blink. A collection of reporters shuffled their feet and refreshed their notes, waiting for the kid from Baton Rouge by way of Houma to say something worth clipping.
“Deep breath,” Danielle said, just off to the side, her tone calm but clipped. “Remember what we rehearsed. Keep it tight, keep it neutral. Pivot if it gets sticky. And smile like you’re not thinking about how bad you want to go home.”
Royce exhaled slowly through his nose. “I’m straight.”
“Good.” She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Let’s get through it.”
He stepped up to the podium and adjusted the mic. A white backdrop glowed behind him, flanked by SEC branding and sponsor logos. It made him look taller than he felt.
First question came from a reporter with a familiar face and too-tight tie.
“Royce, what’s it like to be here without some of the guys you played with last year? You’ve got a young defense now. How are you stepping into that leadership role?”
Royce didn’t miss a beat.
“We’ve got a hungry group,” he said, voice steady. “Guys that want to prove themselves. It’s on me to help set that tone, make sure the standard’s the standard, no matter who’s lining up next to me.”
Click. Click. Phones and cameras blinked to life. He spotted a boom mic over his head. The air smelled faintly like sweat and stage makeup.
Another question, this time from someone farther back.
“You’ve been through a lot, personally. Some of that’s been public. Do you feel like your past has made you a stronger leader?”
Royce let the silence settle for just a second. Then he nodded, slowly.
“Yeah,” he said. “What I’ve been through—it taught me how to focus, how to value what I’ve got in front of me. My brother, Rome… he didn’t get to keep going. I did and. So, I take that seriously because I gotta do it for both of us. But I’m here to talk about this team. That’s where my energy’s at now.”
He pivoted cleanly. Danielle, just off-stage, gave a subtle nod.
More questions came, thick and fast.
“Biggest game you’ve circled this year?”
“All of them.”
“What’s the difference between this year’s defense and last year’s?”
“We’re faster. Smarter. Hungrier.”
“What’s changed for you personally?”
Royce shrugged slightly. “I just do the work. Let everything else take care of itself.”
They asked about NIL. He steered it back to development.
They asked about NFL buzz. He smiled, said he was focused on the season.
They asked if he still talked to some of the guys who transferred out. Royce paused, then replied, “We all walk our own paths. I got nothing but love for my brothers.”
It was smooth. All of it was smooth.
But as the questions piled on, he felt himself sinking under the weight of it—like standing in the ocean and trying to make it look like dry land.
He didn’t fumble, didn’t freeze. But when it finally wrapped, and Danielle waved him offstage with a relieved smile, he let out a breath so deep it shook his chest.
Backstage, she handed him a towel for the sweat building on his temples.
“You handled that like a pro,” she said. “No hiccups. No slips. You made it easy on me.”
Royce ran the towel over his neck and cracked his knuckles one by one. “That was the easy part?”
Danielle smirked. “Oh, honey, no. That was the trailer. The movie’s just getting started.”
He chuckled, low and tired. “Great.”
“Rest up. You’ve got a panel with Caden and Rickie in twenty minutes.”
As she walked off, Royce sat down on a folding chair in the corner, phone buzzing in his lap. He didn’t look at it. Not yet.
He just sat there for a minute, in the quiet between performances, wondering how many more times he’d have to tell the same story in different words before people stopped asking.
And more importantly—whether he’d still recognize himself once they did.
~~~~~~~~~~
The streets of Houston were buzzing by noon, already thick with summer heat and weekend money. Alix walked a step behind her friends, letting Simone and Ashlee take the lead with Madi somewhere in between, her oversized sunglasses perched halfway down her nose like she was too good to wear them properly. They were loud—laughing, pointing, narrating their own window-shopping like they were in some reality show with no cameras.
Alix smiled, but didn’t say much.
They turned onto Westheimer, where the sidewalks glimmered and the storefronts got shinier, all white brick and brass fixtures. Simone was already halfway through the door of a boutique with a pink neon sign and racks full of linen sets priced like they were hand-stitched by goddesses.
Inside, cool air wrapped around them like perfume. The music was low and sugary, the kind that made you feel like you should be swaying even if you weren’t dancing. A salesgirl with braids and glossy lips looked up from a folding table.
“Hi ladies. Y’all looking for anything in particular?”
“Everything,” Simone said with a grin.
They scattered—Simone to the crop tops, Ashlee to a corner display of two-piece sets. Madi hovered near a glass case of accessories, picking up bangles and turning them in her hand like they might reveal a secret.
Alix lingered by a rack of sundresses, her fingers brushing over the fabric as she moved. She didn’t need anything. Not really. But Royce had handed her his debit card that morning before heading off to more media prep with a casual “Go get you something.” He hadn’t kissed her goodbye. Just handed her plastic and left.
She hadn’t said anything, but it had stuck with her. Like maybe that was how love looked when your boyfriend was getting more mentions on Twitter than texts from you.
She slid a pale green dress from the rack and held it up in front of her.
It was soft. Simple. Pretty.
Something about it made her feel like she might be easier to hold in it.
“You should try that on,” Madi said, suddenly behind her.
Alix jumped a little. “Yeah. I might.”
Madi folded her arms and leaned her hip against the rack. “You know he’s just trying to buy you off, right?”
Alix blinked. “What?”
Madi motioned vaguely toward the fitting rooms, where Simone and Ashlee were giggling through the curtain about how something made one of them look like a Real Housewife. “Royce. Giving you his card. Sending you out here while he’s off being Mr. Superstar.”
Alix exhaled slowly, dress still draped over her arm. “He told me to get something I liked.”
“Right. Because it’s easier than showing up and being present.”
“Madi—”
“Look, I’m not trying to fight,” Madi said, hands up. “But don’t pretend like the card isn’t his way of checking a box.”
Alix didn’t answer.
She just turned and walked toward the fitting rooms, dress pressed against her chest. Inside the small, mirrored stall, she didn’t cry. She didn’t get mad. She just stared at her reflection a little longer than she normally would’ve, watching the way the dress softened her edges.
It looked nice.
But it didn’t feel like a gift.
It felt like a receipt.
Later, they walked out with a couple of bags and a few jokes about breaking budgets. Simone swung her bag over her shoulder and said something about needing drinks and carbs. Ashlee agreed. Madi didn’t say much else.
Alix texted Royce: Found something. I’ll show you later.
He didn’t respond right away.
She slipped the card back into her purse and followed her friends down the sidewalk, the weight of the bag on her wrist light—but not enough to even things out.
~~~~~~~~~~
The apartment was too quiet when Toni came out of the bathroom.
She looked in the mirror one last time, hoop earrings catching the light, lips glossed just enough to make her feel like she had tried. Her curls were pinned half-up, a soft shimmer on her eyelids. It wasn’t too much—not flashy, not loud. Just something to feel like herself for a few hours.
She didn’t hear Deshawn come in until the door slammed.
Toni jumped.
He was still in his gym clothes, sweat slick across his collarbone, towel tossed around his neck. His eyes scanned her—slow and sharp—and stopped at her face.
“The fuck is that?” he said.
Toni blinked. “What?”
He took a step toward her, pointing at her earrings, her lip gloss, her makeup. “That shit on your lips. Your eyes. And them earrings. Who you trying to go fuck?”
Her throat tightened.
“I’m not—nobody. I’m going to Keisha’s. Yazmeen’s meeting us there. We’re just doing a little girls’ night. That’s all.”
“You think I’m fucking stupid?”
“No,” she said quickly.
“You walking around like that and expect me to believe it’s just some innocent girls’ night?”
She didn’t answer.
His voice hit a higher pitch—dangerous and cutting. “Take that shit off your face.”
He didn’t touch her. But he didn’t have to. The air had already been knocked out of the room.
Toni nodded.
Deshawn turned away, muttering something under his breath as he headed toward the bathroom.
She didn’t fix her makeup. She didn’t put on something else. She just went into her room, yanked a hoodie over her outfit, pulled her curls back into a simple bun, and walked out the door without looking back.
…
Keisha opened the door with a half-smile. “You made it.”
“Yeah,” Toni said, voice soft.
Yazmeen was already curled into the corner of the couch with a blanket and a wine glass, flipping through a rom-com on mute while music played softly over the speakers. The lights were dim. A pizza box sat open on the coffee table. It should have felt cozy.
Instead, it just felt small.
Toni sat on the edge of the couch and tugged her sleeves down over her hands. The hoodie swallowed her—oversized, plain, no earrings, no gloss, no sparkle.
Yazmeen raised an eyebrow when she looked over.
“You good?” she asked, careful.
“Yeah,” Toni said too quickly. “Just tired.”
Keisha brought over a glass of wine, holding it by the stem. “You sure? You don’t look tired. You look… muted.”
Toni offered a hollow laugh. “I’m good. I promise.”
They didn’t push.
That was the rule—don’t force the story. If someone wanted to talk, they would. But still, they noticed. The absence of gold hoops, the hoodie in July, the way Toni kept glancing at her phone even though it hadn’t buzzed once.
They talked around her—about Yazmeen’s job, Keisha’s new situationship, a TikTok trend one of them hated. Toni chimed in here and there, just enough to make it seem like she was present, though she wasn’t really.
Half an hour in, she stood up abruptly.
“I think I’m gonna head out.”
Keisha looked up. “Already?”
Toni nodded. “Yeah. I just don’t feel great.”
Yazmeen hesitated, then said, “Want one of us to walk you down?”
Toni shook her head. “No, I’m good.”
She offered a small wave and walked out.
Neither of them said anything right away after the door clicked shut behind her.
Then Keisha exhaled. “You saw it too, right?”
Yazmeen nodded, quiet.
They didn’t need to say more.
Some truths hung in the air even when no one said them out loud.
And sometimes, the loudest thing in the room was the way someone tried not to be seen.
The lights hit different when you were the only one sitting beneath them.
Royce adjusted the collar of his LSU polo for the fifth time, even though Danielle had already straightened it and given him the thumbs-up. The camera lenses just beyond the riser gleamed like eyes that didn’t blink. A collection of reporters shuffled their feet and refreshed their notes, waiting for the kid from Baton Rouge by way of Houma to say something worth clipping.
“Deep breath,” Danielle said, just off to the side, her tone calm but clipped. “Remember what we rehearsed. Keep it tight, keep it neutral. Pivot if it gets sticky. And smile like you’re not thinking about how bad you want to go home.”
Royce exhaled slowly through his nose. “I’m straight.”
“Good.” She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Let’s get through it.”
He stepped up to the podium and adjusted the mic. A white backdrop glowed behind him, flanked by SEC branding and sponsor logos. It made him look taller than he felt.
First question came from a reporter with a familiar face and too-tight tie.
“Royce, what’s it like to be here without some of the guys you played with last year? You’ve got a young defense now. How are you stepping into that leadership role?”
Royce didn’t miss a beat.
“We’ve got a hungry group,” he said, voice steady. “Guys that want to prove themselves. It’s on me to help set that tone, make sure the standard’s the standard, no matter who’s lining up next to me.”
Click. Click. Phones and cameras blinked to life. He spotted a boom mic over his head. The air smelled faintly like sweat and stage makeup.
Another question, this time from someone farther back.
“You’ve been through a lot, personally. Some of that’s been public. Do you feel like your past has made you a stronger leader?”
Royce let the silence settle for just a second. Then he nodded, slowly.
“Yeah,” he said. “What I’ve been through—it taught me how to focus, how to value what I’ve got in front of me. My brother, Rome… he didn’t get to keep going. I did and. So, I take that seriously because I gotta do it for both of us. But I’m here to talk about this team. That’s where my energy’s at now.”
He pivoted cleanly. Danielle, just off-stage, gave a subtle nod.
More questions came, thick and fast.
“Biggest game you’ve circled this year?”
“All of them.”
“What’s the difference between this year’s defense and last year’s?”
“We’re faster. Smarter. Hungrier.”
“What’s changed for you personally?”
Royce shrugged slightly. “I just do the work. Let everything else take care of itself.”
They asked about NIL. He steered it back to development.
They asked about NFL buzz. He smiled, said he was focused on the season.
They asked if he still talked to some of the guys who transferred out. Royce paused, then replied, “We all walk our own paths. I got nothing but love for my brothers.”
It was smooth. All of it was smooth.
But as the questions piled on, he felt himself sinking under the weight of it—like standing in the ocean and trying to make it look like dry land.
He didn’t fumble, didn’t freeze. But when it finally wrapped, and Danielle waved him offstage with a relieved smile, he let out a breath so deep it shook his chest.
Backstage, she handed him a towel for the sweat building on his temples.
“You handled that like a pro,” she said. “No hiccups. No slips. You made it easy on me.”
Royce ran the towel over his neck and cracked his knuckles one by one. “That was the easy part?”
Danielle smirked. “Oh, honey, no. That was the trailer. The movie’s just getting started.”
He chuckled, low and tired. “Great.”
“Rest up. You’ve got a panel with Caden and Rickie in twenty minutes.”
As she walked off, Royce sat down on a folding chair in the corner, phone buzzing in his lap. He didn’t look at it. Not yet.
He just sat there for a minute, in the quiet between performances, wondering how many more times he’d have to tell the same story in different words before people stopped asking.
And more importantly—whether he’d still recognize himself once they did.
~~~~~~~~~~
The streets of Houston were buzzing by noon, already thick with summer heat and weekend money. Alix walked a step behind her friends, letting Simone and Ashlee take the lead with Madi somewhere in between, her oversized sunglasses perched halfway down her nose like she was too good to wear them properly. They were loud—laughing, pointing, narrating their own window-shopping like they were in some reality show with no cameras.
Alix smiled, but didn’t say much.
They turned onto Westheimer, where the sidewalks glimmered and the storefronts got shinier, all white brick and brass fixtures. Simone was already halfway through the door of a boutique with a pink neon sign and racks full of linen sets priced like they were hand-stitched by goddesses.
Inside, cool air wrapped around them like perfume. The music was low and sugary, the kind that made you feel like you should be swaying even if you weren’t dancing. A salesgirl with braids and glossy lips looked up from a folding table.
“Hi ladies. Y’all looking for anything in particular?”
“Everything,” Simone said with a grin.
They scattered—Simone to the crop tops, Ashlee to a corner display of two-piece sets. Madi hovered near a glass case of accessories, picking up bangles and turning them in her hand like they might reveal a secret.
Alix lingered by a rack of sundresses, her fingers brushing over the fabric as she moved. She didn’t need anything. Not really. But Royce had handed her his debit card that morning before heading off to more media prep with a casual “Go get you something.” He hadn’t kissed her goodbye. Just handed her plastic and left.
She hadn’t said anything, but it had stuck with her. Like maybe that was how love looked when your boyfriend was getting more mentions on Twitter than texts from you.
She slid a pale green dress from the rack and held it up in front of her.
It was soft. Simple. Pretty.
Something about it made her feel like she might be easier to hold in it.
“You should try that on,” Madi said, suddenly behind her.
Alix jumped a little. “Yeah. I might.”
Madi folded her arms and leaned her hip against the rack. “You know he’s just trying to buy you off, right?”
Alix blinked. “What?”
Madi motioned vaguely toward the fitting rooms, where Simone and Ashlee were giggling through the curtain about how something made one of them look like a Real Housewife. “Royce. Giving you his card. Sending you out here while he’s off being Mr. Superstar.”
Alix exhaled slowly, dress still draped over her arm. “He told me to get something I liked.”
“Right. Because it’s easier than showing up and being present.”
“Madi—”
“Look, I’m not trying to fight,” Madi said, hands up. “But don’t pretend like the card isn’t his way of checking a box.”
Alix didn’t answer.
She just turned and walked toward the fitting rooms, dress pressed against her chest. Inside the small, mirrored stall, she didn’t cry. She didn’t get mad. She just stared at her reflection a little longer than she normally would’ve, watching the way the dress softened her edges.
It looked nice.
But it didn’t feel like a gift.
It felt like a receipt.
Later, they walked out with a couple of bags and a few jokes about breaking budgets. Simone swung her bag over her shoulder and said something about needing drinks and carbs. Ashlee agreed. Madi didn’t say much else.
Alix texted Royce: Found something. I’ll show you later.
He didn’t respond right away.
She slipped the card back into her purse and followed her friends down the sidewalk, the weight of the bag on her wrist light—but not enough to even things out.
~~~~~~~~~~
The apartment was too quiet when Toni came out of the bathroom.
She looked in the mirror one last time, hoop earrings catching the light, lips glossed just enough to make her feel like she had tried. Her curls were pinned half-up, a soft shimmer on her eyelids. It wasn’t too much—not flashy, not loud. Just something to feel like herself for a few hours.
She didn’t hear Deshawn come in until the door slammed.
Toni jumped.
He was still in his gym clothes, sweat slick across his collarbone, towel tossed around his neck. His eyes scanned her—slow and sharp—and stopped at her face.
“The fuck is that?” he said.
Toni blinked. “What?”
He took a step toward her, pointing at her earrings, her lip gloss, her makeup. “That shit on your lips. Your eyes. And them earrings. Who you trying to go fuck?”
Her throat tightened.
“I’m not—nobody. I’m going to Keisha’s. Yazmeen’s meeting us there. We’re just doing a little girls’ night. That’s all.”
“You think I’m fucking stupid?”
“No,” she said quickly.
“You walking around like that and expect me to believe it’s just some innocent girls’ night?”
She didn’t answer.
His voice hit a higher pitch—dangerous and cutting. “Take that shit off your face.”
He didn’t touch her. But he didn’t have to. The air had already been knocked out of the room.
Toni nodded.
Deshawn turned away, muttering something under his breath as he headed toward the bathroom.
She didn’t fix her makeup. She didn’t put on something else. She just went into her room, yanked a hoodie over her outfit, pulled her curls back into a simple bun, and walked out the door without looking back.
…
Keisha opened the door with a half-smile. “You made it.”
“Yeah,” Toni said, voice soft.
Yazmeen was already curled into the corner of the couch with a blanket and a wine glass, flipping through a rom-com on mute while music played softly over the speakers. The lights were dim. A pizza box sat open on the coffee table. It should have felt cozy.
Instead, it just felt small.
Toni sat on the edge of the couch and tugged her sleeves down over her hands. The hoodie swallowed her—oversized, plain, no earrings, no gloss, no sparkle.
Yazmeen raised an eyebrow when she looked over.
“You good?” she asked, careful.
“Yeah,” Toni said too quickly. “Just tired.”
Keisha brought over a glass of wine, holding it by the stem. “You sure? You don’t look tired. You look… muted.”
Toni offered a hollow laugh. “I’m good. I promise.”
They didn’t push.
That was the rule—don’t force the story. If someone wanted to talk, they would. But still, they noticed. The absence of gold hoops, the hoodie in July, the way Toni kept glancing at her phone even though it hadn’t buzzed once.
They talked around her—about Yazmeen’s job, Keisha’s new situationship, a TikTok trend one of them hated. Toni chimed in here and there, just enough to make it seem like she was present, though she wasn’t really.
Half an hour in, she stood up abruptly.
“I think I’m gonna head out.”
Keisha looked up. “Already?”
Toni nodded. “Yeah. I just don’t feel great.”
Yazmeen hesitated, then said, “Want one of us to walk you down?”
Toni shook her head. “No, I’m good.”
She offered a small wave and walked out.
Neither of them said anything right away after the door clicked shut behind her.
Then Keisha exhaled. “You saw it too, right?”
Yazmeen nodded, quiet.
They didn’t need to say more.
Some truths hung in the air even when no one said them out loud.
And sometimes, the loudest thing in the room was the way someone tried not to be seen.
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djp73
- Posts: 13215
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
bro chill i can only go to the bathroom so many times a day
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16938
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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Soapy
- Posts: 16766
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16938
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
*whistle* the previous play is under review. Video evidence shows that the trickeroo label was levied against a man in an agreed upon relationship with the necessary labels. No flag on the play. First and 10.
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Soapy
- Posts: 16766
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
oh now he claims her? respectCaesar wrote: ↑24 Apr 2025, 07:53*whistle* the previous play is under review. Video evidence shows that the trickeroo label was levied against a man in an agreed upon relationship with the necessary labels. No flag on the play. First and 10.