Summary: Failed relationships make Elijah and Annie throw themselves into work, not leaving much room for anything else. A failed delivery leads them to each other, and an instant attraction makes them question themselves.
CW: Modern AU, explicit language, use of the n-word, mentions of parental loss, mentions of childhood trauma, mentions of DV
Pairings: Smoke x Annie with a little Stack x OC
AO3 Link
Part One- Lost In Transit
Part Two- Resolution
Part Three- Clarity
Part Four- Assistance
Spent some time plotting the next few chapters of the fic and decided to make this! Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy!
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Annie left the Mississippi Delta with a broken heart and a full-ride scholarship, determined never to look back. Now a celebrated professor in Chicago, she’s called home to care for her mother—and the last thing she expects is to run straight into him.
Elijah "Smoke". Her first love. Her first everything.
He disappeared the summer after graduation, leaving only unanswered calls and a goodbye she never got. Now he's back in town, running a moody, magnetic blues lounge with his twin brother, playing late into the humid Southern nights like he’s pouring his soul out just for her.
Annie wants to hate him. She wants to forget the way he made her feel. But one look from those stormy eyes, and she’s seventeen again—burning, aching, and lost in the man he’s become.
He left without a word. But now? He wants to finish the story they never got to end..
Characters: Annie x Elijah " Smoke" Moore (Modern AU)
Themes: SMUT, Angst, Fluff, Mention of Abuse, Vulgar Language, Sexual content & more...
Summary: In the middle of Aunt Cheryl’s backyard, with half of Clarksdale watching, eight years of silence finally cracks open and neither of them is prepared for what comes spilling out. Neither of them has been telling themselves the same story. For the first time though, they're finally forced to compare notes.
W/C: 14k
A/N: Be gentle with me…. 🫠
Jada Wilson wasn’t the type of girl who liked to lose.
It wasn’t because she was mean, and it wasn’t because she thought she was better than everybody else. She liked working hard and seeing results. If she studied for a test, she expected a good grade. If she auditioned for something, she expected the spot. If she walked into a room, she expected to leave an impression. Most of the time life made sense to her because effort and reward usually moved together. Teachers remembered her because she participated. Boys noticed her because she was pretty. People gravitated towards her because she was funny. None of that felt complicated.
It felt earned.
That was probably why Anissa “Annie” Landry irritated her so much.
She didn’t dislike her at first. At first Annie was barely a blip on her radar. Nothing more than another smart girl in her Honors Biology. They sat near each other, partnered on projects occasionally, and shared enough classes that familiarity came naturally. Jada liked her then. Everybody liked Annie. The problem was Annie seemed completely unaware of the effect she had on people. Teachers, classmates, and even complete strangers trusted her, confided in her, and listened when she spoke. Annie never seemed to chase attention, yet attention found her anyway.
By October, most of the freshman class already knew whose names lived at the top of the grade rankings. Annie. Jada. Malcolm. Sometimes another student slipped into the conversation, but those three stayed there consistently enough that everybody noticed. Jada noticed because she cared. Annie only seemed to notice only when somebody pointed it out.
Jada could admit that she paid more attention to Annie than Annie ever paid to her. Annie shrugged off good grades like they were nothing to celebrate, like success was something that simply found her whether she reached for it or not. She didn’t treat life like a competition. In fact, Jada found it frustratingly difficult to tell whether Annie ever competed for anything at all. Every conversation she had with Annie left her feeling like she was in a race by herself. Annie never bragged, gloated or rubbed anything in anybody’s face. If she had, Jada might’ve found it easier to straight up dislike her. Instead, Annie never seemed to fight for attention, yet attention found her anyway. That made everything worse.
And then there was Elijah “Smoke” Moore.
She had World History with him and Stack, and found herself gravitating toward him. It wasn’t just because he was fine. All the girls thought he was fine as hell. Stack too. The difference was that after a while, his looks stopped being the thing she noticed first. He was quiet without being shy, smart without showing off, and funny whenever he actually felt like talking. She mentioned him in conversation casually enough that nobody thought much of it, including Annie. Looking back, she wasn’t even sure when curiosity became attraction. She started looking for him in crowded hallways and listening for his laugh across cafeterias. Which would’ve been embarrassing if it hadn’t happened to half the girls at school. It was the fact that he didn’t react to her the way other boys did. Most boys either flirted immediately or spent so much time trying not to stare that it became awkward. Smoke did neither. There was a quiet confidence about him. A steadiness that felt older than seventeen. The kind of confidence that never needed announcing.
He talked to her like everybody else. He remembered things she told him. Laughed at her jokes. Held entire conversations without once making her feel like he was trying to impress her or fuck her. At first she found it refreshing. Then she found it confusing.
The more time she spent around him, the more she paid attention to him. She noticed that the “quiet reputation” people gave him wasn’t entirely true. Smoke wasn’t shy. He just didn’t waste words. So when he did speak, people listened. There was a steadiness to him she didn’t find in other boys their age.
Mike was sweet.
Isoo was funny.
Stack was…Stack. Impossible to ignore.
But Smoke was something different. Being around him felt easy, and she wanted more of it. More of him.
By the middle of freshman year she started doing things she’d never admit to out loud. Lingering after class. Choosing seats closer to him when she could. Finding reasons to continue conversations that should’ve ended five minutes earlier. The frustrating part was that Smoke never treated her like a girl he was trying to avoid. He talked to her. Laughed with her. Sat beside her in class when the seating chart put them together. If he’d been rude, she probably would’ve gotten over her crush on him.
Instead, he was kind.
And kindness left far more room for imagination than rejection ever could.
If somebody had watched them from a distance, they probably would’ve assumed he liked her. Hell…she almost convinced herself of the same thing.
But she never expected Annie to factor into the equation.
One afternoon after school, a crowd of students lingered outside waiting for rides while the Mississippi heat rose from the pavement in visible waves. Stack was in the middle of a story and Smoke stood nearby having his own conversation with Mike. Jada walked over and joined them, enjoying the small satisfaction of making Smoke laugh at something she said.
Then something happened. Something that anybody else would’ve overlooked. It should’ve been forgettable. Instead it became one of those memories that stayed rent free in her mind for years.
Stack yelled something from across the parking lot and Smoke turned. Jada expected him to look at his brother. Instead his attention drifted somewhere over her shoulder. The movement was subtle enough that most people would’ve missed it, but she didn’t. She followed his line of sight and when it landed, her heart dropped. Annie stood near the curb with Pearline and a few other girls, her backpack hanging from one shoulder laughing at something one of them said. Smoke was looking right at her. Annie wasn’t flirting. She wasn’t loudly trying to get anyone’s attention. In fact, she looked completely unaware that Smoke was even looking hee way at all.
Jada glanced back toward him and felt something in her chest tighten unexpectedly. His expression hadn’t changed much. There was no grin. No obvious reaction or giveaway that would’ve made the answer easy. What she saw instead was interest. Pure interest. The kind that settled naturally and comfortably, like he’d found exactly what he was looking for without meaning to. When Jada looked back, Annie looked up. Her and Smoke’s eyes met for barely a second before surprise crossed her face in that honest, unguarded way people managed when they weren’t expecting to be seen. Smoke looked away first and the moment disappeared so quickly that nobody else seemed to notice it had happened. The conversation picked right back up. Everything went back to normal as though a five-second interaction in a parking lot hadn’t just rearranged something inside her.
And Jada couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d just seen.
The truth landed harder than she wanted it to. Smoke liked Annie. And not in the casual way boys claimed to like half the girls at school. It wasn’t in the temporary way crushes came and went every few weeks. He liked her. Liked her.
The part Jada couldn’t understand wasn’t that Smoke liked somebody. It was that the somebody was Annie. Annie wasn’t louder than anybody else. She wasn’t chasing him. Half the time she seemed completely unaware of him. And yet, out of all the girls walking those hallways every day, his attention found her.
Why Annie?
The question stayed with Jada long after that afternoon ended. Not because she thought Annie wasn’t pretty, smart, or worth liking. Annie was all of those things. What bothered her was that she couldn’t figure out what Annie had that made Smoke look at her differently.
The more she watched them over the following months, the more that question followed her around, and the harder it became to pretend she didn’t already know the answer. Once she noticed it, she started seeing it everywhere—in the way Smoke listened when Annie talked, in the way his attention settled on her naturally no matter who else was around, and in the quiet consistency of his choices. There were no grand gestures, no public declarations, nothing dramatic enough to become gossip. What existed between them was built from a hundred small moments most people would’ve overlooked and a hundred more that Jada couldn’t stop noticing.
At some point she started testing it. Nothing obvious or anything she couldn’t explain away afterward. A comment here. A joke there. Sitting a little closer than necessary. One time at a party she picked up Smoke’s cup and took a sip while she was talking, mostly because she could. Smoke didn’t notice. Annie didn’t react the way she envisioned. The conversations kept moving. At first she thought she’d proven nothing. Later she realized she’d proven exactly what she’d been afraid of. Neither of them acted like there was anything to compete for because they belonged to each other already.
That was the part Jada hated most.
Whatever existed between them had been there long before either one of them said it out loud.
Life eventually moved on the way life always did. High school ended. Annie left for North Carolina during their senior year and, for a while, it felt like she took part of the town with her. It wasn’t because people sat around talking about her every day, but because certain stories suddenly stopped being told. People changed.
Smoke most of all.
Jada noticed that too.
The version of Smoke everybody knew after Annie left wasn’t an angry one. If anything, he became quieter. More closed off. He still laughed when something was funny, showed up when people called, and still worked, helped, and handled business the way he always had. But something about him felt absent, as though a door had closed somewhere inside and nobody knew how to open it again.
But life carried Jada away too, before she had much time to dwell on it. College came next. An engagement. Then a marriage. Neither lasted the way she’d hoped. By the time she moved back home and started building a career in real estate, she was older, smarter, and considerably less interested in fairy tales.
Then she ran into Smoke again.
One of his construction crews had been working on a property she was helping list and for a second she thought she hadn’t recognized him. Then he looked up and gave her a half smile and just like that, she was sixteen again. The attraction came back embarrassingly fast. Older now. More controlled.
But still there.
The difference was that adulthood gave her advantages she hadn’t possessed in high school. She didn’t have to sit around wondering whether a boy liked her. She could simply ask him to dinner. So she did. One dinner turned into another. Then another. At some point the conversation drifted toward old classmates the way it always did when people got older.
“Whatever happened to Annie?” Jada asked.
The reaction was immediate. Something closed. Smoke took a drink and looked away. “She live in North Carolina.”
Jada laughed. “I thought y’all would’ve been married with twenty kids by now.”
Smoke didn’t laugh. The silence that followed answered more than words ever could. A few minutes later he changed the subject entirely.
Jada never brought Annie up again. Later that same night she asked if he was seeing anybody.
“No.”
“You lookin’?”
“No.”
The answer should’ve discouraged her. Instead she smiled. “Well, lucky for you, neither am I.”
The arrangement that followed worked because neither of them pretended it was anything else. They spent time together. Ate dinner once in awhile. Called sometimes. Shared her bed often enough. Smoke was kind to her. Respectful. But from the beginning he made one thing clear.
He didn’t want a relationship.
He told her more than once that she deserved somebody capable of giving her what she wanted. More than once he told her that if she found that person, she shouldn’t let him stand in the way of it.
Jada heard every word.
The problem was…she kept hoping.
Not because Smoke encouraged it, but because she thought time might. She thought consistency might. She thought enough good days stacked together could eventually become something neither of them planned. Maybe that was foolish. Maybe it wasn’t. Either way, she had started believing they still had time.
Then Mary called the day of the cookout.
Jada had been at the showing she was covering for a colleague. The conversation started normal enough, which should have been her first warning sign. Mary was never normal when she had gossip. By the time she finally got to the point, Jada wasn’t smiling anymore.
“Bitch, Annie’s back!”
Suddenly all those years she hadn’t spent thinking about high school came rushing back at once. The words settled somewhere unexpected. Surprising. The surprise lasted exactly three seconds before Mary delivered the second piece.
“The cookout at Pearline’s aunt house… it’s a party for Annie coming back home.”
That was the moment everything else disappeared. The noise of the clients asking about square footage faded into the background. The showing stopped mattering. Even Mary’s voice asking her what she was going to do became distant as another thought slid immediately into place.
For the first time since hearing Annie’s name, she wasn’t thinking about high school anymore.
She was thinking about Smoke.
He had been acting strange. Distracted. Quieter than usual. Looking at his phone more than normal. Now she understood exactly why he hadn’t seemed like himself. Some old shit came back up…. I ain’t figured out what to do with it yet. The pieces connected so quickly that Jada almost laughed.
Annie.
By the time she pulled into Aunt Cheryl’s yard, she already knew who she was looking for. The problem was she hadn’t expected to find them standing together.
And she for damn sure hadn’t expected to find them holding hands.
Smoke was holding Annie’s hand.
On its own, that didn’t mean anything.
People touched, hugged, and got caught up in conversations and forgot who was watching.
What unsettled her was everything wrapped around the gesture.
The look that had passed between them before Smoke finally let go. The way neither of them seemed aware of anybody else until she spoke. The strange sense that she’d walked into the middle of something already in progress.
For a moment nobody said anything.
The sounds of the cookout continued around them as though nothing unusual had happened. Children ran through the yard screaming over water guns. Two men at the dominoes table accused each other of cheating. Mrs. Cheryl was threatening bodily harm if they didn’t quit acting stupid. The music changed somewhere behind her. Life continued moving.
Yet standing there, looking between Smoke and Annie, Jada couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d interrupted a conversation neither of them had wanted to end.
The hand didn’t bother her nearly as much as Smoke’s face had. Over the past year she’d seen him tired, irritated, amused, distracted, and halfway asleep after a fourteen-hour workday. She’d seen him fresh off job sites and fresh out of the shower. She’d seen him after bad days and worse weeks. What she’d just seen standing across from Annie felt different.
There had been a lightness to him she couldn’t remember seeing, as though some invisible weight had disappeared without warning. Now the distracted silences, the moments he’d stared at his phone and seemed somewhere else entirely, made perfect sense.
What unsettled her more was how he looked at her. The surprise on his face had disappeared quickly enough.
The irritation hadn’t.
It was subtle. Most people would’ve missed it. Smoke wasn’t expressive enough for dramatic reactions. But Jada had spent too much time learning his moods not to recognize one when she saw it.
Every time she spoke, his attention drifted back toward Annie. When Annie looked away, his eyes followed her. And when he did look at Jada?
The expression wasn’t warm.
It wasn’t guilty either. It looked closer to frustration. Like she’d walked into the middle of something he wasn’t finished with yet.
The realization settled heavily in her chest. She recognized that look too.
From high school.
Back when she’d stand beside him talking and catch him looking over her shoulder at Annie. When she’d convince herself she imagined it.
Back when she still thought being patient would eventually change the outcome.
Still, Jada smiled. She had spent too many years learning how to smile through discomfort to stop now.
“Annie.” Her voice came out warm and easy, exactly the way it was supposed to. “It’s been a long time.”
Annie smiled back automatically, but there was a delay to it that immediately caught Jada’s attention. She looked like somebody still trying to catch up to a conversation everyone else had already started. “Yeah. It has.”
“When did you get in town?”
“Thursday.”
“No kidding.” Jada adjusted the strap of her purse and glanced briefly toward Smoke before looking back at Annie. “Smoke didn’t tell me you were back.”
The sentence left her mouth easily enough, but she knew exactly why she’d said it.
She wanted to see.
So Jada watched Annie carefully. The confusion arrived first, then recognition. Then something else.
Jada recognized that look because she’d worn versions of it herself before. The moment when information rearranged itself into understanding. If she was being completely honest, some small, selfish part of her wanted Annie to understand. Wanted her to know she wasn’t just another person at the cookout. That Smoke existed in her life too.
Maybe that made her petty or even insecure. Maybe it made her exactly the same girl she’d been in high school. Whatever the reason, she couldn’t deny the small flicker of satisfaction when she saw it finally click for Annie.
Whatever Annie had expected when she came back to Mississippi, this wasn’t it. Jada watched her expectations crumble behind her eyes and Jada immediately felt guilty for her own smugness that followed. It wasn’t Annie’s confusion she enjoyed. It was the confirmation that she wasn’t invisible. For years she’d been the girl standing on the outside of whatever existed between Annie and Smoke. Now, for the first time, Annie was being forced to acknowledge that Jada occupied space in his life too.
Across the yard, movement caught her eye. Mary had finally wandered close enough to be useful and dangerous at the same time. The woman was carrying a red cup and looking entirely too pleased with herself. One glance toward Stack confirmed he had already figured out exactly who was responsible for this shit. Pearline looked ready to strangle somebody. Probably Mary. Maybe Stack. Maybe Jada. Possibly all three.
Jada almost laughed.
Almost.
Because standing there between Smoke and Annie, she had the uncomfortable feeling that this situation was about to become everybody’s problem.
“No kidding... Smoke didn’t tell me you were back.”
Annie wasn’t sure how to respond to that. The statement felt simple enough on the surface, but something about it snagged in her chest.
Jada laughed softly and shook her head.
“Then again, he ain’t really been himself lately.”
The comment was delivered so casually Annie almost missed it.
Almost.
Annie looked toward Elijah before she meant to. His attention was already on her.
Not Jada.
Her.
The conversations around them hadn’t stopped, but something in his posture had changed. His shoulders were tighter now. His expression quieter. Like he was listening to a conversation he couldn’t quite hear but already knew he wasn’t going to like the ending of.
Annie tried to focus on what Jada was saying to her. She really did. Jada was standing right there asking normal questions in a normal voice, smiling the same way she always had, and nothing about the interaction should have felt strange.
People moved on. People dated. People built lives. Eight years had passed since Annie left Mississippi. She knew all of that. She understood it so completely that she almost became angry at herself for struggling with something that should have been obvious.
Still, her attention kept snagging on small things she couldn’t seem to ignore. The ease in Jada’s posture. The familiarity in her voice. And now that one sentence kept replaying itself in Annie’s head.
He ain’t really been himself lately.
It wasn’t what Jada had said. It was how she’d said it. Like she knew what normal looked like. Like she’d been close enough to notice the difference.
But Elijah wasn’t looking at Jada at all. Every time Annie glanced up, his eyes found her again. Concern. Like he could see something growing and didn’t know how to stop it.
Annie couldn’t process that at the moment. She couldn’t stop noticing that nobody around them seemed surprised Jada was standing there. Not Stack and definitely not Pearline. The realization arrived gradually, settling into place one piece at a time.
Jada wasn’t visiting Elijah’s world. She was already a part of it.
“Mississippi must seem different now,” Jada said with a small laugh.
Annie looked at her. “What?”
Jada smiled. “I said Mississippi must seem different now.”
“Oh.” Annie forced a smile. “Yeah.”
The conversation continued around her, but Annie found herself looking past Jada and toward Pearline. The glance was brief. It didn’t need to be longer. Something flickered across Pearline’s face the moment their eyes met, and Annie felt her stomach drop before her mind fully caught up.
Suddenly the entire day looked different.
Pearline sitting on the edge of the bed while Annie changed clothes for the hundredth time. Her listening to her talk about Elijah. Her watching her spend an entire afternoon slipping back into old memories she should have known better than to trust.
None of those moments had felt unusual at the time. Standing here now, they rearranged themselves into something else entirely.
Pearline looked away first.
And that hurt more than anything Jada had said.
Annie smiled automatically when somebody laughed at a joke she hadn’t heard. The expression felt strange on her face. Around her the cookout continued without interruption. Auntie Max was waving a paper plate around while telling a story loud enough for half the neighborhood to hear. Everything looked exactly the same as it had fifteen minutes ago, yet everything felt completely different now.
She looked toward Elijah before she could stop herself and immediately regretted it.
He was still looking at her.
He wasn’t really talking anymore. Stack had said something. Mary laughed. Jada answered somebody’s question. Elijah hadn’t reacted to any of it. His attention remained fixed on Annie, his expression growing more troubled the longer she stood there pretending everything was fine.
Concern sat plainly across his face now, and the sight irritated her more than it should have. Concern meant he knew something was wrong. Concern meant he could see it happening. Concern meant he was watching her fall apart in real time.
That was the final straw.
Because Annie could handle disappointment. She could handle awkwardness. She could even handle finding out Elijah had moved on.
What she couldn’t handle was standing here feeling exposed.
Feeling foolish.
Feeling like the only person who hadn’t known what was happening.
The humiliation crept in quietly, attaching itself to every memory she’d made since getting off the plane. Every conversation. Every question. Every moment she’d allowed herself to hope for something she had never said aloud. By the time she finally spoke, her voice sounded perfectly normal.
“Excuse me.”
Nobody would have noticed anything wrong. Nobody except Elijah and Pearline.
Annie saw it immediately when Elijah straightened and took a small step forward. The movement was instinctive, the kind people made when they sensed trouble coming. For a second it looked like he might say something. Explain something. Stop her. Annie didn’t give him the chance.
“Y’all enjoy yourselves.”
The smile never left her face as she turned toward the house. She heard Pearline call her name before she reached the steps, but she kept walking anyway. The screen door opened and closed behind her, muting the sounds of the cookout almost instantly. Only then did she allow herself to stop pretending she was fine.
The bedroom door clicked shut behind her, muting the noise from the backyard without silencing it completely. Music still drifted faintly through the floorboards. Every few minutes a burst of laughter floated up from downstairs, followed by the low hum of conversation and the occasional shout from Aunt Cheryl whenever somebody touched food they weren’t supposed to touch. The sounds were familiar enough to be comforting. Instead they made Annie feel trapped. The cookout was still happening. Everybody was still down there.
The world hadn’t stopped just because hers suddenly felt off balance.
She crossed the room and dragged her suitcase onto the bed. The zipper caught halfway open and she jerked it harder than necessary, dislodging the contents inside. A shirt disappeared into one corner. A pair of jeans landed on top of it. One sandal followed before she stopped and stared at the mess she’d created. Nothing about it resembled packing. The blue sundress she’d rejected earlier that morning still hung over the chair near the window. Seeing it there brought back the memory of standing in front of Pearline’s mirror for nearly an hour while her friend laughed and told her she looked fine. At the time she’d told herself she was nervous about coming home. Looking at the dress now, she realized that hadn’t been entirely true.
Nobody spent forty-five minutes deciding what to wear to a family cookout unless some part of them cared who might be there.
The thought followed her to the dresser. The bottle of tequila sat exactly where she’d left it earlier, half-forgotten beside a hairbrush and a tube of lip gloss. For a second she just stared at it. Then she twisted the cap off and took a long swallow straight from the bottle.
The liquor burned all the way down, sharp enough to make her wince. She stood there waiting for it to do something useful. Numb her. Distract her. Slow her thoughts down. Instead the burn faded almost immediately and left everything else untouched.
Jada’s face remained exactly where Annie had left it.
So did the sound of her voice.
Smoke didn’t tell me you were back.
That was the problem.
Jada had said them the way people said ordinary things, the way people spoke when they weren’t thinking twice about what they were revealing. There had been familiarity in the statement. History. Conversations Annie hadn’t been a part of. Enough conversations that her return to Mississippi had become information Jada expected to have. Annie took another drink and walked toward the window before she could think too hard about it.
The backyard stretched beyond the trees in patches of movement and color. She couldn’t make out individual faces from here, only clusters of people gathered around tables and lawn chairs while smoke drifted lazily upward from the grill. Somewhere down there Elijah was probably sitting beside Jada.
The thought arrived uninvited and irritated her immediately.
Smoke could date whoever he wanted. He wasn’t married. He wasn’t obligated to explain himself to her. Eight years was a long time. Long enough for people to build entirely different lives.
She knew that.
She believed that.
The problem was that knowing something and feeling it turned out to be two very different things.
Every time she tried to reason her way through it, her mind circled back to the same uncomfortable place. Not that Elijah had moved on, it was that she’d spent the entire day realizing she never had.
She took another shot. The tequila burned less this time, or maybe she was just getting used to it.
What she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about was Jada.
It was because it was Jada.
The same girl who always seemed to be measuring herself against Annie back in high school. The same girl who smiled while making comments that left Annie wondering whether she’d imagined the insult. The same girl who spent years trying to figure out why Smoke paid attention to Annie and not her.
Annie closed her eyes. Immediately she hated herself for thinking it. It wasn’t fair. Elijah didn’t know any of that.
Not really.
He knew Jada the same way everybody knew Jada. Funny. Smart. Beautiful. He hadn’t been standing beside Annie during those hallway conversations. He hadn’t seen the looks. He hadn’t felt the subtle edge hiding beneath the smiles.
Still, the thought lingered.
Did he know?
Annie stared back out the window.
Didn’t he know how she felt about Jada? Didn’t he know she’d never really trusted her? Didn’t he know enough about Annie to know that this, out of everything, would fucking hurt?
The questions sounded ridiculous the second they formed, because what exactly was Elijah supposed to do with information like that?
Avoid a woman for eight years because his high school girlfriend didn’t like her?
The idea was absurd. Annie knew it was absurd. Yet somehow that didn’t stop it from hurting.
The truth was she hadn’t spent the day grieving what Elijah had with Jada. She’d spent the day imagining what might still exist between her and Elijah. That was the part she couldn’t forgive herself for.
Not the jealousy.
The hope.
That truth settled over her slowly as she sat on the edge of the bed. The photographs. Geneva talking about Elijah carrying her inside when she fell asleep on his shoulder. The way everybody at the table had spoken about them like they were inevitable. The way Elijah had looked at her after learning she never wanted to leave.
The warmth of his hand around hers.
None of those moments would’ve mattered if some part of her hadn’t been carrying hope onto that plane from North Carolina. She hated admitting that, even to herself. Hope felt childish at twenty-five. Hope felt irresponsible after eight years. Yet the evidence sat all around the room. The dress she’d changed out of three times. The suitcase she’d never fully unpacked. The mixtape buried somewhere among her things. She hadn’t come to Mississippi looking for closure.
She’d come looking for possibility, and now she felt stupid for pretending otherwise.
Another swallow of tequila disappeared before she realized she’d picked up the bottle again. The burn barely registering anymore. What did register was the growing discomfort that had nothing to do with Jada and everything to do with Pearline.
The longer Annie sat there, the more the last two days began rearranging themselves. Pearline encouraging her to come. Pearline listening to every story about Elijah. Sitting on the edge of the bed that morning while Annie changed clothes. Watching her spend an entire afternoon slipping back into old memories she should’ve known better than to trust.
None of those moments had felt strange when they happened. Looking back now, they felt different. Heavier. Like pieces of a puzzle she hadn’t realized she was assembling.
Annie stared at the bedroom door and tightened her grip on the bottle. She didn’t know exactly how long she’d been sitting there, but she knew Pearline well enough to know what would come next.
Pearline hated conflict. Hated disappointing people even more. There was no chance she was leaving Annie up here alone. Sooner or later those footsteps would come down the hallway. Sooner rather than later the door would open. The thought should’ve prepared her.
Instead it made the hurt settle deeper.
Because for the first time since walking into the house, Annie stopped thinking about Jada standing beside Elijah and started thinking about her best friend downstairs, the one person who had known exactly how much hope Annie had carried back to Mississippi and said nothing at all.
Pearline didn’t knock.
The door opened slowly before Annie could tell her not to come in, and the look on her face was so familiar Annie almost hated her for it. Concern. Caution. The expression Pearline wore whenever she thought somebody was about to make a bad decision.
Unfortunately for both of them, Annie had already made several.
Neither of them spoke at first. Pearline’s eyes moved from the open suitcase to the tequila bottle resting beside Annie’s leg before finally settling on Annie herself. Annie knew exactly what she saw. Red eyes. A half-packed suitcase. Clothes scattered across the bed. One sandal near the bathroom door and the other somehow buried beneath a blouse sleeve hanging halfway out of the luggage. The packing wasn’t real. Annie knew it. Pearline probably knew it too. She’d managed to put three shirts into the suitcase and somehow remove four. Every few minutes she found herself folding the same piece of clothing she’d already folded before throwing it into a different corner of the room.
“How much of that you done drank?”
Annie glanced down at the bottle. “Enough.”
Pearline sighed and stepped inside, closing the door behind her.
The sound made something tighten in Annie’s chest.
“You ain’t finna leave.”
Annie laughed under her breath and reached for another shirt. “The hell I’m not.”
“You drunk.”
“I’m buzzed.”
“Annie.”
“I’m grown.”
Pearline rubbed a hand across her forehead.
The movement irritated Annie so bad. The careful voice irritated her. The patience irritated her. The concern irritated her. All of it felt like somebody trying to calm her down before she’d even been allowed to be upset.
She shoved another armful of clothes into the suitcase and immediately regretted it when the zipper refused to cooperate. The tequila bottle found its way back into her hand before she even realized she’d reached for it.
Pearline watched her struggle with the suitcase for another minute before speaking again.
“I was gonna tell you.”
Annie stopped. She couldn’t help it. The words settled somewhere deep enough to hurt.
Slowly she looked up. “No you wasn’t.”
“I was.”
“When?”
Pearline opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
Annie laughed. The sound wasn’t pleasant. “Exactly.”
“I didn’t know how.”
The answer hit Annie harder because it sounded honest. Honest and useless at the same time. She looked away before Pearline could see it landed.
Outside Annie could hear laughter. She hated them for laughing.
“You could’ve started with the truth.”
“I didn’t know what the truth was.”
Annie took another swallow from the bottle. The burn was gone. “What truth?”
Pearline hesitated. “Them.”
The word sat between Annie and Pearline.
“I thought they was just fuckin’.”
Pearline shifted from foot to foot. “It didn’t look serious.”
Didn’t. Past tense. Annie heard it. Her stomach dropped.
“What changed?”
Pearline froze.
The hesitation told Annie almost everything.
“What changed, Pearline?”
For a second it looked like Pearline might refuse to answer. Then she sighed. “I saw them Thursday.”
Annie frowned.
Thursday.
The word rolled around in her head before settling into place. The restaurant. That strange feeling she’d had all night. The uncomfortable certainty that somebody familiar was nearby. The way she’d caught herself looking around for no reason she could explain.
Pearline acting strange afterward. Starting a sentence and never finishing it. Looking at her like she wanted to say something before changing her mind.
The pieces connected so quickly Annie almost felt sick. “He was there.”
Pearline didn’t answer.
“He was there with her.”
Still nothing. The silence told her everything she needed to know.
Annie stared at the bottle in her hand before taking another drink. The tequila was more than half gone now. At some point she’d stopped counting. Her face felt warm. Her thoughts felt loud. Every emotion she’d spent the last eight years carefully suppressing seemed determined to show up all at once.
“You saw them and still said nothin’.”
“I wanted to.”
Annie laughed.
The sound came out sharp enough to make Pearline flinch.
“No you didn’t.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t, ’cause if you did, you would’ve.”
“I really did, Annie.”
Annie shook her head and looked away.
Outside, the yard erupted into laughter after. The sound drifted through the screen window and landed in the room like an insult.
She took another swallow from the bottle.
“Fuck, Pearline, I could’ve handled him messin’ with ANYBODY else.”
Pearline’s face changed immediately.
“Annie—”
“No. I’m serious.” She laughed again and wiped at her eyes. “I could’ve handled some random girl.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “Some girl from Jackson. Memphis. Atlanta. Hell, California.”
Pearline stayed quiet.
“But Jada?” Annie shook her head. “Jada of all people?”
The room fell silent, because Pearline knew. Maybe not every detail.
But more than enough.
Enough to remember the little imsults disguised as jokes. The competition Annie never agreed to participate in. The way Jada always seemed to know exactly where she stood with Elijah. Enough to understand why hearing her name hit differently.
“You should’ve told me from jump.” Annie looked down at the bottle in her hand. “You should’ve told me the second you saw them.”
Pearline sighed. “She ain’t hate you, Annie.”
“Don’t do that shit.” The warning came fast. “Please don’t sit up here and act like you don’t know what I’m talkin’ about.”
Pearline looked away.
Exactly.
“That’s what I thought.” Annie laughed and immediately wished she hadn’t, because now she sounded bitter.
Maybe she was.
“I know it sound stupid.” Her voice cracked. “I know he don’t owe me shit.” Another laugh. Smaller this time. “And I know he got every right to move on.” She stared toward the window. “But for some reason hearin’ it’s Jada make me sick to my fuckin’ stomach.”
The confession hung between them. Raw. Embarrassing.
Honest.
“And that’s why I’m mad at you.”
Pearline frowned.
“Cause you knew that.” Annie looked back at her. “You knew exactly how that was gonna hit me.”
Annie sank onto the edge of the bed and looked down at the shirt in her hands. At some point she’d stopped packing and started moving things around just to keep her hands busy. The same shirt had gone into the suitcase three separate times and somehow kept ending up back on the bed. The tequila wasn’t helping anymore. It had moved past the point of making her feel better and settled into that dangerous place where every thought felt louder than it should.
“You know what the crazy part is?”
Pearline looked up. “What?”
Annie laughed, but there wasn’t any humor in it. “I still would’ve came.”
For a minute neither of them said anything.
Annie picked up the shirt and started folding it. Then unfolded it. “I would’ve still got on the plane.”
The words surprised her because she hadn’t realized they were true until she’d said them out loud. She would’ve come for Aunt Cheryl and Uncle Lewis. For Geneva and Auntie Max. For Pearline. For Stack. For the cookout. For every piece of home she’d spent years pretending she didn’t miss. And somewhere in that list sat Elijah too. Not that she expected anything from him. Or because she thought eight years could disappear in a weekend. But because he mattered whether she wanted him to or not.
Pearline watched her carefully.
Annie laughed again and wiped at her face. “That’s the part that got me.” She looked down at the bottle. “You should’ve told me anyway.”
Pearline lowered her eyes. “I thought if y’all talked—”
“There you go.” The words came out tired more than angry. Annie shook her head. “That’s the part you keep missin’.”
Pearline started to talk, then stopped.
Annie looked toward the window where the sounds of the cookout drifted in through the screen. “You keep tellin’ me what you thought.”
Her voice cracked. “What about me? What about what I wanted?”
Pearline’s face tightened immediately.
Annie hated herself a little for saying it. The regret didn’t make it less true. “You knew.” The words came quieter now. Which somehow made them worse. “You knew and watched me get off that plane.”
Silence.
“You knew and watched me talk about him.”
Pearline looked away.
“You knew and sat on this bed while I changed clothes fifty fucking times.”
The tears finally came. Hot. Embarrassing. Impossible to stop.
“And you still brought me here.”
Pearline looked devastated now.
Good.
A terrible thought. An ugly thought. One Annie hated the second it crossed her mind. But it was there anyway.
“You watched me hope.”
The room seemed to shrink around them as Annie’s words settled into the space between them. Outside, somebody shouted something followed by laughter. The sound drifted through the screen window and disappeared into silence neither woman seemed willing to break.
Pearline stared at her. Then something in her expression changed.
Exhaustion.
“You think I wanted this?”
Annie looked away.
“You keep talkin’ like I sat around plottin’ on how to hurt you.”
“I ain’t say that.”
“You don’t gotta say it.” Pearline wiped at her face with the heel of her hand before crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “For two fuckin’ days I’ve been watchin’ this happen knowin’ eventually you was gonna look at me exactly like this.”
Annie didn’t answer because she was looking at her exactly like that.
“You think it was easy watchin’ you get off that plane smilin’?” Pearline laughed once, but there wasn’t any humor in it. “You think I didn’t know why you was really nervous?”
“Pearline—”
“No. Let me finish.” The words came out sharper than anything she’d said all evening. “You wasn’t nervous about no cookout and you know it.”
Annie looked down at the shirt twisted in her hands.
“You talked about him the whole ride from the airport.” Pearline’s voice softened again. “You talked about him while you unpacked.”
Another breath. “You talked about him when we went to breakfast.” Another. “You talked about him every time his name came up like you was tryin’ real hard to convince yourself it didn’t matter.”
The tears Annie had been fighting rose all over again.
Pearline shook her head. “And every time I thought about tellin’ you, I’d look at your face and think maybe I was wrong. Maybe Smoke and Jada wasn’t serious. Maybe they would’ve ended whatever they had goin’ on by now. Maybe y’all could finally sit down and talk.”
Annie swallowed hard. The words should’ve made her feel better. Instead they somehow made everything worse. For the first time since the argument started, she could see exactly how Pearline had convinced herself to stay quiet. Not that she thought she knew best, but she wanted the same impossible thing Annie wanted.
“I was hopin’ too, Annie.”
Annie closed her eyes.
The confession hit differently than everything else Pearline had said. Anger she knew how to carry. Embarrassment too. But this felt heavier. It forced her to acknowledge something she’d been trying very hard not to look at. Pearline hadn’t been trying to hurt her. Pearline had been hoping right alongside her, building entire possibilities out of half-finished conversations and old memories that she wanted so badly for them to be true.
Pearline looked down at her hands. “Remember when I told you I left my charger at Stack’s apartment?”
Annie frowned. The question felt random enough to pull her briefly out of her own misery. “Yeah.”
“I ain’t leave no damn charger.”
Annie stared at her while her facial expression said DUH.
Pearline laughed once and shook her head. “I went back and straight up asked him.”
The room grew quiet.
“I wanted to know if what I saw was real.”
Annie’s stomach tightened.
Pearline rubbed her palms against her jeans. “I asked Stack straight up.”
“What’d he say?”
“That Smoke and Jada wasn’t together.”
The answer came immediate. Like she’d replayed the conversation a hundred times already.
“He said they wasn’t serious. Said they wasn’t in no relationship.”
Despite herself, Annie almost laughed.
Pearline kept going. “I asked him twice.” The confession sounded pathetic now. “I kept askin’ different ways hopin’ he’d tell me somethin’ else.”
Annie looked away.
“Cause if he would’ve told me they was serious…” Pearline swallowed. “If he would’ve told me Smoke was in love with that girl or plannin’ a future wit’ her or somethin’ like that, I’d have told you right then.”
The words settled heavily between them.
“Shit, Annie, I would’ve told you before we even got to Cheryl’s house.” Pearline’s voice cracked slightly. “That’s why I didn’t know what to do.”
Annie stared at the floor because that sounded exactly like something Pearline would do—convince herself this was reasonable. It sounded exactly like something done with love that still managed to hurt anyway.
“You still didn’t let me choose.”
The words came out quiet.
Pearline’s shoulders dropped. For a second she looked as tired as Annie felt. Her mouth opened slightly before closing again. Whatever explanation she’d been holding onto all evening seemed to collapse beneath the weight of those six words.
Annie reached for another pile of clothes and shoved them into the suitcase harder than necessary. The zipper caught again. Frustrated, she yanked at it. Something beneath the clothes came loose, and a plastic case slid free, tumbling across the comforter before bouncing onto the floor near her feet.
Both women looked down.
The mixtape.
Not the mixtape Elijah made her all those years ago. Not the one she’d refused to listen to all those years ago, but somehow carried with her through college, breakups, apartments, and every version of herself she’d become after leaving Mississippi.
This was a new one.
The one she’d spent weeks putting together before coming home. The one hidden beneath folded shirts because she hadn’t been brave enough to admit why she’d packed it in the first place.
For a long moment neither woman moved. Then Annie bent down and picked it up.
Pearline’s eyes followed the plastic case before lifting back to Annie’s face.
Something flickered there. Understanding. Somehow Annie hated that most of all, because now Pearline knew.
Not that she still loved Elijah.
But how much.
The truth settled quietly between them. Annie wrapped her fingers around the mixtape, tucked it beneath her arm, grabbed the suitcase, and forced the zipper closed.
“Annie—”
“Fuck all y’all.”
Pearline took a step forward. “Annie.”
“No.” She wiped angrily at her face. “I came down here lookin’ stupid as fuck.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.” Her voice cracked hard enough to make her wince. “I did.”
The tears started again. Hot. Humiliating. Impossible to stop.
“And I blame you for lettin’ me.”
Pearline flinched.
Annie hated herself for saying it. Hated herself even more for not taking it back.
Then she grabbed the suitcase handle and headed for the door before Pearline could stop her.
Smoke kept his eyes on the house long after Annie disappeared inside.
Around him the cookout continued without interruption. Some old head at the dominoes table accused a young nigga of cheating. Again. Tired of hearing Aunt Cheryl fussing, Uncle Lewis stepped in and threatened to throw both of them out of the yard if they didn’t shut the fuck up. Children ran through the grass screaming while music drifted lazily from the speakers near the patio.
The normalcy of it all felt strange considering how quickly the afternoon had changed. Ten minutes ago he’d been standing beside Annie listening to her laugh. Now she was inside the house and Pearline had gone after her wearing the same expression people wore when they already knew trouble was waiting on the other side of a door.
He replayed the last few minutes in his head whether he wanted to or not. Annie’s hand in his. Jada’s voice. The way Annie’s guard went up the moment she understood Jada wasn’t standing there as an old classmate. The look she’d given Pearline afterward stayed with him most. There had been hurt in it. Confusion too. But beneath both sat recognition, like she’d suddenly understood something nobody had bothered to explain to her.
Smoke didn’t know every piece of what had just happened, but he recognized the result. Annie thought he and Jada were together. Not casually seeing each other. Together-together. The certainty settled heavily in his chest because it explained the expression he’d seen on her face before she walked away.
What unsettled him wasn’t that she’d misunderstood the situation.
It was that seeing him with another woman had hurt her at all.
Somebody shoved a plastic cup into his hand.
Stack.
“The good shit,” his brother said before dropping back into his chair.
Smoke glanced down at the bourbon. Aunt Cheryl only brought it out for family and special occasions. Under different circumstances he probably would’ve appreciated it. Instead he took a swallow and tasted almost none of it.
A few minutes later he found himself reaching for a cigarette.
The lighter clicked.
Smoke took a slow drag and watched the front porch through a haze of smoke that did absolutely nothing to settle his nerves.
Beside him, Jada smoothed a hand over her blouse and adjusted her position in the chair.
“Thought you had a showing today.”
The question made her blink. “I did.”
“You said you wasn’t comin’.”
“I changed my mind.”
Smoke nodded once, but his attention had already drifted back toward the house. The answer sat wrong with him for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. She hadn’t called. Hadn’t texted. Some part of him couldn’t stop wondering whether things would’ve unfolded differently if he’d known she was coming. The thought irritated him. Jada hadn’t done anything wrong by showing up to a public cookout. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that the afternoon had veered off course the moment she stepped into it.
“You mad I’m here?”
That pulled his attention back to her.
“No.”
The answer came easily because it was mostly true. He wasn’t mad she came. He just couldn’t understand why she hadn’t mentioned it. Over the last year they’d fallen into routines. Nothing serious. Nothing that required explanations. Still, telling somebody you were showing up somewhere after saying you weren’t seemed like information worth sharing.
Jada studied him for a moment. “You ain’t really looked at me since I walked over here.”
The words were light. Teasing. At least they tried to be.
Smoke glanced at her. “What?”
“You keep starin’ at that house.”
His jaw tightened around the cigarette. The expression vanished almost immediately, but not before Jada caught it.
He knew she did. Over the last year she’d gotten good at reading him. Unfortunately, Annie had always been better.
Before Jada could say anything else, Mary wandered over carrying a red cup and entirely too much satisfaction. Stack noticed her at the exact same time.
“There she go.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “Oh Lord.”
“Nah.” Stack pointed directly at her. “Nah. Bring yo’ ass over here.”
Smoke looked between them. Mary suddenly became very interested in her drink. That alone made him suspicious.
“You ain’t change your mind.”
Jada’s eyes flickered. “Elijah—”
“You was already comin’.” The words landed quietly. “You could’ve told me.”
The silence that followed was answer enough.
Something tightened in his chest. He turned his attention to Mary. “What you do?”
“I ain’t do shit.”
“That’s a muthafuckin’ lie.” Stack exclaimed.
“It ain’t.”
Stack laughed. “Jada just magically decided to show up after tellin’ my brother she wasn’t?”
Jada’s head turned. Mary looked away. Smoke’s eyes narrowed. The silence lasted a little too long.
“Mary.”
“I was just talkin’.”
“There it is.” Stack threw his hands up. “There it is right there. That’s the shit I be talkin’ about. You stay runnin’ yo’ fuckin’ mouth.”
Mary looked offended. “How was I supposed to know she’d actually come?”
Stack stared at her. Then at Jada. Then back at Mary. “You serious?”
The pieces settled into place one by one. Smoke looked at Jada. Then Mary. Then back toward the house.
Something tightened in his chest.
Pearline still hadn’t come back outside. The front door remained closed. The upstairs windows remained dark. From where he sat, the entire house looked still. Meanwhile his mind kept returning to Annie’s face. Not the smile she’d forced before excusing herself. The look right before it. The moment she’d looked from Jada to him and then toward Pearline. The hurt in her eyes had been so quick most people probably would’ve missed it.
He hadn’t.
That was the problem. He hadn’t missed any of it. Not the confusion, the disappointment, or the moment it all clicked.
The feeling settled heavy in his stomach because he knew exactly what she’d seen. Maybe not every detail. Maybe not the history. But enough. Enough to think he and Jada were something they weren’t. Enough to believe she’d shown up in Mississippi only to discover he’d moved on.
The thought bothered him more than it should have.
Life kept moving around him, but Smoke couldn’t. Every few seconds his eyes found the house again. The cigarette burned down between his fingers. The bourbon now gone.
Stack watched him do it. Then he sighed. “You need to go talk to her.”
“Pearline with her.”
“For now.”
Smoke leaned back in his chair. “What that supposed to mean?”
“It mean Annie upstairs cussin’ Pearline the fuck out right now.”
Despite everything, a small smile threatened at the corner of his mouth.
Stack pointed toward the house. “You know I’m right.”
Unfortunately, he was.
The smile disappeared as quickly as it came.
Smoke rubbed a hand across his jaw and looked back toward the front door. The longer Annie stayed inside, the worse the feeling became. Something closer to dread. Annie had spent eight years running from difficult conversations. He knew because he’d spent eight years wishing she’d stayed for one.
Then the front door opened.
Every thought in his head disappeared at once.
Annie stepped onto the porch with a suitcase in one hand and a plastic case tucked beneath her arm.
Before he realized what he was doing, Smoke crushed the cigarette beneath his sneaker, set the cup on the nearest table, and started walking.
“Annie.”
Smoke was calling her name halfway across the yard before he realized people were starting to watch. At first it was only a few people. Aunt Cheryl paused beside the grill with the tongs still in her hand. Geneva lowered her cup. Maxine turned away from whatever story she had been telling. Then more heads began to turn because Annie was not exactly subtle carrying a suitcase through the middle of a family cookout, and neither was the look on her face. Even from thirty feet away he could see she had been crying, and the sight settled heavy in his chest before he could prepare himself for it. Pearline had barely made it back onto the porch behind her, wiping at her own face, and Stack was already moving toward her with concern written plainly across his. Whatever had happened upstairs had gone bad enough to leave both women in tears.
Smoke was not surprised. The moment Annie had looked at Jada, then at him, then at Pearline, he had known something was coming. What surprised him was how quickly everything had unraveled. Less than an hour ago she had been laughing beside him beneath the shade tree. Less than thirty minutes ago he had been standing there holding her hand without thinking about it. Now she was heading toward the driveway with a suitcase like she planned on disappearing before sunset, and the familiarity of that made something old and bitter twist inside him. Annie leaving before a conversation could catch her was not new. He knew that move. He had lived with the damage of it for eight years.
“Annie.”
She didn’t stop. The suitcase rolled awkwardly through the grass as she continued toward the driveway, and whether she genuinely hadn’t heard him or was pretending not to hear him didn’t matter. Smoke knew her too well to believe either would be enough to stop him.
“Anissa!”
That stopped her.
When she finally turned around, the look on her face hit him hard. The tears were obvious. The anger was not. That lived deeper, somewhere behind the red eyes and tight jaw, tangled up with something older and far more familiar. It was the same hurt he had caught a glimpse of before she disappeared into the house, only now it wasn’t masked anymore. The music still played behind them. Somebody laughed near the dominoes table before realizing nobody else was laughing. Children ran through the yard with a water guns bigger than them. Life kept trying to continue around them, but Smoke could feel the whole cookout slowly holding its breath.
“Can we talk?”
The laugh that left Annie wasn’t loud, which made it worse. Loud would have been easier. Loud would have given him something obvious to answer. Instead, she sounded tired, like someone who had finally run out of ways to be disappointed.
“Oh, now you wanna talk?”
The words landed uncomfortably because he knew exactly what she meant. Not the sentence itself. The accusation underneath it. When she finally called him after eight years. Eight years of missed conversations and assumptions. Eight years of silence neither one of them had been able to outrun.
Smoke opened his mouth, but Annie was already shaking her head.
“No. Don’t do that.”
His brow furrowed. “Do what?”
“Act like this ain’t exactly what you wanted.”
Confusion flashed across his face before frustration followed close behind it. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
Annie stared at him as though she couldn’t decide whether he was lying or genuinely that oblivious. Then she laughed again, wiped angrily at her face, and pulled something from beneath her arm and threw it at him. The plastic case struck his chest hard enough that instinct took over before thought could. Smoke caught it automatically and looked down. For a moment, he didn’t understand what he was holding. Then his eyes moved over the case, the handwriting, the familiar shape of something he had once given her in another lifetime, and it dawned on him slowly.
Annie pointed toward it before he could speak.
“I made that for you.”
Smoke looked down at the plastic case.
The words came out sharper than she probably intended, not because she was trying to hurt him, but because she was already hurting and had nowhere else to put it.
“I spent two damn weeks makin’ that.” Annie laughed. The sound was ugly. “Ain’t that some shit?”
She wiped angrily at her face. “I’m twenty-five years old makin’ a mixtape.” Annie shook her head. “I brought it all the way from North Carolina.”
Her voice dropped. “I brought it because some stupid part of me thought…” The sentence died there.
Annie laughed again. “Never mind.”
Around them the cookout had grown noticeably quieter. Smoke was aware enough that Aunt Cheryl was no longer pretending to focus on the grill. Geneva had stopped mid-conversation and Maxine stood beside her with her mouth pressed into a tight line. He was aware enough that Mary suddenly looked like she regretted every decision she had made that afternoon, and Jada had gone completely still in her chair. Annie didn’t seem to notice any of them, or maybe she did and simply couldn’t bring herself to care.
“Go ’head,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the backyard. “Maybe you and your girlfriend can listen to it together.”
Smoke’s jaw tightened immediately. “Jada ain’t my girlfriend.”
The look Annie gave him was so full of disbelief it almost would’ve been funny under different circumstances. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“Don’t.”
He took a step closer. “Don’t do that.”
The hurt in her face deepened, and Smoke knew before she even spoke that whatever came next had been sitting inside her for years.
“Oh, now we don’t wanna do that?”
The memory hit him before he could stop it. The conversation. The frustration. The moment he had shut something down instead of opening it, thinking silence would keep them from making things worse. Annie saw the recognition cross his face and nodded once, her eyes shining with a kind of hurt that made his stomach tighten.
“What happened to ‘we ain’t doin’ that, huh?’”
This time there was no laughter in her voice. No sarcasm either. Just eight years of hurt finally finding somewhere to go. Around them, the cookout kept trying and failing to pretend nothing was happening. Aunt Cheryl had completely abandoned the grill now. Geneva stood beside her with one hand pressed against her chest. Across the yard, Stack had reached Pearline and was asking questions she clearly was not answering. Even the dominoes game had stopped, the players still seated around the table with untouched tiles between them.
Annie wiped angrily at her face again and shook her head. The tequila had blurred the edges of her embarrassment enough to make honesty feel easier than silence, but Smoke could see the cost of it. She looked exposed. Furious about it. Hurt because of it. Still, she stood there with the suitcase in one hand and the rest of the cookout watching while years of silence crowded up behind her.
“You know what pisses me off the most?”
Smoke didn’t answer. The question felt rhetorical.
“Everybody knew but me.”
The words hung there longer than Annie intended. Once they left her mouth she couldn’t take them back. It felt like saying them out loud made the humiliation feel real in a way it hadn’t five minutes ago. She looked past Smoke toward the crowd gathered behind him. Pearline stood beside Stack with red eyes and a guilty expression. Aunt Cheryl had completely abandoned the grill. Geneva looked like she was debating whether to intervene or pray.
Everybody.
Everybody had apparently known except the one person standing in the middle of it.
“Pearline knew. Stack knew. Mary’s ass obviously knew.”
“Why I gotta be in this?” Mary called from somewhere behind Smoke.
“Cause yo’ ass always in everythin’.”
The response came from so many directions at once that a brief burst of laughter rippled through the yard before disappearing just as quickly. Annie wasn’t laughing. The knot in her chest had only grown tighter. Every time she replayed the afternoon in her head she found something new to be embarrassed about. Every conversation. Every look. Every moment she’d spent thinking she was simply reconnecting with old friends while apparently everybody else was aware of something she wasn’t.
“I spent all day lookin’ stupid.”
“You wasn’t lookin’ stupid.”
The answer came immediate. Too immediate. Annie laughed and pointed at him. “There you go.”
Smoke frowned. “There I go what?”
“That thing you do.”
“What thing?”
“When I tell you somethin’ and you decide it ain’t true just ‘cause you don’t like hearin’ it.”
His jaw tightened. “Annie—”
“No.” Her voice cracked hard enough that she hated it. “You asked to talk. So let’s talk.”
The yard went quiet again. Annie looked at him for a long moment before shaking her head. “You know what makes this shit worse?”
Smoke waited.
Annie laughed without humor and glanced toward Jada. “Her.”
Jada visibly stiffened.
“Annie—”
“No. Cause ain’t nobody finna sit here and act confused.”
The alcohol had long since stopped making her feel better. Now it was just making honesty easier.
“Outta everybody, Elijah?” Her eyes landed on Jada again. “Her?”
Smoke frowned. “What that supposed to mean?”
Annie laughed. “See? That’s exactly what I mean.” She wiped at her face. “You ain’t even know.”
The words weren’t really directed at him anymore. “You never paid attention to none of that.”
Smoke’s brow furrowed deeper.
Annie shook her head. Her laugh sounded tired. “Why would you?”
The alcohol was doing most of the talking now. Not enough to make her incoherent. Just enough to lower every wall she’d spent years building.
“You don’t know what it felt like bein’ around her.”
Jada stiffened slightly.
Annie noticed. But kept going anyway. “Maybe she didn’t do nothin’. Maybe it was all in my head.” The words sounded doubtful even to her. “But every time she walked into a room, I felt it.”
She looked back at Smoke. “And now I come back home and find out you’re with her?”
The question hung between them.
For a while Annie wanted it to be about Jada. Wanted to be able to point at one woman and blame her for the way her chest hurt. But the longer she stood there, the harder it became to pretend Jada was the real problem.
Jada had simply been the thing that cracked everything open.
The hurt and the truth sat somewhere deeper than that.
The real truth was that seeing Elijah with anybody would’ve hurt. Him being happy and moving on with anybody else would’ve hurt. Seeing him living a life that no longer had room for her would’ve hurt.
Nobody spoke or moved. Everyone seemed to understand at the same time that Annie and Smoke were no longer talking about Jada, or the cookout, or the mixtape in his hand. They had moved backward without warning. Back into the years nobody in that yard had been able to touch for them.
Annie laughed again and shook her head. “You know what North Carolina was like?”
The question caught him off guard. For the first time since she had walked out of the house, uncertainty crossed his face because the answer was no. He didn’t know. Not really. He knew where she had lived. He knew the city she moved to. He knew she had graduated. He knew random pieces gathered over the years through social media, mutual friends, and accidental conversations he pretended not to care about. But he didn’t know what it had been like. Not the real version.
Annie looked away briefly before looking back at him. “I hated it.”
Smoke felt something in his chest twist because that was not what he had expected her to say.
“I hated every fuckin’ minute of it.” Her voice shook now, but she did not look away again. “I didn’t know nobody. I didn’t have Pearline, Aunt Cheryl, Stack. I didn’t have…”
She stopped long enough to swallow, and when she looked directly at him, the rest of the yard seemed to fade around them.
“I didn’t have you.”
Smoke wasn’t prepared for that. He had spent eight years telling himself she had moved forward because that was the only way to make sense of the silence. Annie in North Carolina had become a version of her he could survive imagining. Busy. Happy. Adjusting. Growing into a life that no longer had space for him. But standing in front of him now with tears on her face and a suitcase in her hand, she was telling him something completely different, and the new version did not fit into any of the places he had built for the old one.
For a moment Annie saw it.
Really saw it.
The years she had spent imagining Elijah untouched by her absence suddenly felt less certain. She could see the hurt sitting on him now. Not fresh hurt. Old hurt. The kind people carried so long they stopped noticing the weight of it.
And yet none of it changed what came next. Because understanding that he suffered wasn’t the same thing as knowing he had.
Annie laughed and immediately seemed to hate the sound of it.
Smoke blinked.
“So what, Elijah?”
The use of his name landed exactly the way she intended it to. A warning.
“You think I was supposed to know that?” she asked, pointing at him. “You think I knew what the hell you was feelin’?”
His jaw tightened. “You ain’t ask.”
“Neither did you.”
Stack looked away. Pearline closed her eyes. Smoke felt the hit land exactly where she meant for it to, and the worst part was that she wasn’t wrong.
Annie wiped at her face again and shook her head, her voice breaking around the edges as the anger started turning into something less controlled.
“You keep standin’ here talkin’ like I wasn’t alone. You think I wasn’t drivin’ around a city I ain’t know? You think I wasn’t callin’ Pearline cryin’? You think I wasn’t sittin’ in my mama’s house every holiday wishin’ I was home?”
Smoke’s expression switched before he could stop it, and Annie saw it. Good, her face seemed to say. Let him hear it.
“You keep talkin’ like I chose all this.” The tears were coming faster now, and she stopped trying to hide them. “I was seventeen. I was seventeen, Elijah. I was a kid. I was scared!”
Smoke closed his eyes briefly, and Annie saw that too. Saw the way his face tightened. Saw something flicker across it before disappearing again. For the first time since this started, she understood that he was not angry because he did not care. He was angry because he did. Maybe because he always had. The answer should have made her feel better. Instead, it seemed to make her furious because if that was true, then eight years suddenly felt even more unnecessary.
“You know what I kept waitin’ on?” she asked.
Smoke didn’t answer.
“I kept waitin’ on you.”
Even Mary looked stunned by that. Annie looked away as soon as the words came out, embarrassment crawling up her throat too late to stop anything now. “I kept thinkin’ maybe one day you’d show up. Maybe one day you’d come get me.”
Smoke stared at her, and the disbelief moved across his face before he could hide it. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe she had waited. He couldn’t believe what she had been waiting for. Annie saw it. Saw exactly what he was thinking. Something passed between them then, heavy and terrible, and for the first time since she got off the plane, Annie looked like she was realizing neither of them had been waiting for the same thing. Neither of them had been telling themselves the same story.
Smoke stood there for several seconds without speaking. He could still hear the cookout somewhere around them. A baby started crying near the patio before someone scooped them up and carried them away. Music drifted from the speakers like it belonged to another yard entirely. Aunt Cheryl probably still standing beside that grill, food getting colder by the minute, but none of it felt real anymore. The only thing that felt real was Annie standing in front of him talking about waiting as though he had simply let her go without trying.
“You waited on me?”
The question came out quieter than he intended.
Annie laughed bitterly. “Yeah.”
Smoke looked away, dragging a hand across his jaw while the hurt he had been holding onto all afternoon changed into something sharper and older. Nothing about this conversation was unfolding the way he had imagined. Not once. Not in eight years. Not today. Not now.
“Annie…” His voice cracked slightly, not enough for most people to notice, but enough for Stack to notice. Enough for Pearline. Enough for Smoke himself. “You think I wasn’t tryin’?”
The confusion on Annie’s face stopped him cold. For a second neither of them moved, and then Smoke realized she genuinely didn’t know. She had never looked more honest or more confused, and the sight twisted painfully in his chest.
“You think I just let you go?”
Annie opened her mouth, then closed it.
“I called you every fuckin’ day.”
The words left him before he could stop them. Annie blinked once, then again, and the color seemed to drain from her face in real time.
“What?”
Smoke laughed, but the sound came out broken. “I called you every day.”
The memory came back all at once. His room. The phone. The ringing. The waiting. The voicemail. Again and again and again until the sound became part of the shape of those months. “I called so much my mama started askin’ if I was goin’ to pay the phone bill.”
The crowd around them seemed to understand at the same time that they were no longer listening to an argument. They were watching two people discover that they had lived through entirely different versions of the same heartbreak.
Smoke couldn’t stop now. Not after eight years. Not after hearing Annie say she had waited. “I wrote you.”
Annie stared at him. “What?”
“I wrote you.” His jaw tightened because the word sounded ridiculous now. Ancient and pathetic and still true. “Letters. Birthday cards. Christmas cards. I sent every fuckin’ thing I could think of.”
Annie looked like she had forgotten how to breathe. Smoke noticed. He simply could not stop anyway.
“You think I was sittin’ around muthafuckin Mississippi havin’ the time of my fuckin’ life?” His voice rose for the first time, not much, but enough. “You think I wasn’t lookin’ and waitin’ for you?”
Fresh tears started slipping down Annie’s face, confused now more than angry. Smoke saw them and kept going because the truth had finally cracked open, and if he stopped now, he was not sure he would ever say it again.
“Then one day you stopped answerin’.” His voice dropped again, the sentence wounded in a way anger could not cover. “You stopped callin’ back.”
Annie shook her head slowly like she could not understand what he was saying. “I never—”
“Yeah.” Smoke laughed again, rougher this time. “That’s what I thought too.”
For the first time all afternoon, fear appeared in Annie’s eyes. Not fear of him, but fear of the possibility that something had happened neither of them knew about, because suddenly neither version of the story made sense. Smoke could see her realizing it at the same time he was.
“I never got them.” Her voice was so quiet he almost missed it. “I never got those letters.”
Smoke stared at her, then slowly shook his head. “Yeah, you did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You had to.”
“Elijah, I didn’t.”
The certainty in her voice chipped away at some of his anger. Not enough to erase it, but enough to confuse it. Annie wiped at her face, looking younger somehow. “My mama would’ve gave ’em to me.”
Smoke looked away because maybe she was right. Maybe she wasn’t. But the problem was that the possibility didn’t change what those years had felt like from his side.
“I called,” he said, quieter now.
“I know.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You don’t.”
At first she answered. He remembered that part too clearly. The strange phone calls where neither one of them knew how to speak naturally anymore but tried anyway. The pauses. The awkward laughs. The ache that settled in his chest every time they hung up. Annie remembered too; he saw it in the way her eyes closed briefly, the way guilt moved across her face before she could hide it.
“You answered,” he said. “Then you got busy. Then you started callin’ back less.”
The silence that followed was answer enough.
“One day I realized I was the only one still callin’.”
Annie flinched. The movement was small, but Smoke saw it, and some wounded part of him was glad she did. He still remembered exactly what that had felt like.
“I wasn’t doin’ it on purpose,” she said.
The defense sounded weak the second it left her mouth. Not because it was not true, but because the truth of it did not undo the damage. Smoke nodded slowly.
“I know.”
Annie frowned. “You know?”
“Yeah.” He looked at her for a long moment, and the anger she seemed to expect was not there anymore. “I know. You was seventeen. You was scared. You was in a new place. You was tryin’ to figure shit out.”
For a second she could not breathe because he was not describing her now. He was describing the girl she had been. The girl he had somehow understood all along. Then his eyes met hers again, and the hurt surfaced in him fully.
“And I knew every one of them reasons,” he said. “But they ain’t stop the shit from hurtin’.”
Everyone remained where they were. The whole yard seemed to understand that this was no longer an argument. This was grief. Eight years of it standing in the middle of Aunt Cheryl’s backyard.
“I kept makin’ excuses for you,” Smoke said, and the confession seemed to surprise even him. Annie’s face crumpled immediately, but he kept going. “I told myself you was busy. I told myself school was hard. I told myself you’d call tomorrow. And then eventually I had to stop tellin’ myself that shit.”
Annie had no answer for that. For the first time since she walked out of the house, she seemed unable to find one. The tequila was not helping her anymore. Whatever warm numbness she had been chasing upstairs had disappeared completely, leaving every emotion exposed and every memory sharper than before. She hated that everyone was watching and seeing her crying. Hated that Elijah was standing in front of her looking just as miserable as she felt. Most of all, she hated that some part of her believed him, because believing him changed things. Not everything, but enough.
“You could’ve came.”
The words left her before she could stop them. Smoke blinked, and Annie immediately looked away because the sentence sounded childish now. Stupid. Still, it was true. It had always been true.
“You could’ve came and got me,” she said, the hurt returning instantly, seventeen-year-old hurt and twenty-five-year-old hurt all tangled together. “You knew where I was.”
Smoke stared at her until the confusion on his face slowly gave way to recognition. Now he understood what she had been waiting for, and somehow that broke his heart worse than anything else she had said.
“You wanted me to come get you?”
Annie laughed through her tears, the sound cracking halfway out. “I don’t know. I just…” She shook her head, struggling to organize a truth that had probably never made sense outside her own chest. “I thought if you loved me bad enough, you’d come.”
The confession settled over them with the weight of something painfully young. Childish. Seventeen. The impossible expectation people place on love when they are too young to understand that love still requires words. The belief that if something is real enough, the other person will somehow know exactly what to do.
Smoke dragged a hand across his face, looking exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the hour or the heat. “Annie,” he said, barely above a murmur. “I was seventeen too.”
The words hit her harder than anything else he had said. In every version of the story she had told herself, Elijah had always seemed older somehow. Stronger. More certain. More capable of handling things. But he was right—he had been seventeen too. Just as lost. Just as scared. Just as heartbroken.
“You keep talkin’ like I knew what to do.” Smoke laughed once, no humor in it, and a few people actually smiled despite themselves because it sounded like him. Real. Unfiltered. “I didn’t know shit. I didn’t know how to fix shit.” His eyes found hers again.
“I didn’t know how to make you stay.”
The tears Annie had finally gotten under control started again because none of this was supposed to happen. She was supposed to come home, see old friends, survive one awkward conversation with Elijah, and go back to North Carolina pretending she had finally moved on. Instead she was standing in the middle of a backyard realizing neither one of them ever really had.
For one impossible moment, it felt like they were seventeen again. Not because anything had been repaired, but because they were staring at each other with the same unfinished ache they had carried out of high school and into adulthood, and neither one of them seemed to know what to do with it now that it had finally been named.
Then Smoke broke eye contact, and Annie watched something change in his face. The softness that had been there moments earlier slowly disappeared beneath something older and far more dangerous. The understanding faded next, followed by the grief that had kept his anger tempered throughout most of the conversation. What remained was not rage. It was exhaustion. The kind that settled deep inside a person after carrying the same hurt for so long it stopped feeling separate from them.
Smoke looked at her for a long moment before finally shaking his head.
“You keep talkin’ like I left you.”
The words were not loud, and that made them worse. Annie froze because for the first time all afternoon, she was not sure what her response was supposed to be. Smoke laughed once under his breath and looked away, but nothing was funny. After everything they had just said, he still couldn’t believe they were standing here having this conversation.
“You keep tellin’ this story like I walked away.”
Annie opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Smoke looked back at her. His eyes were red now too, though she was not sure when that had happened. “You talk about North Carolina. You talk about missin’ me. You talk about waitin’.” He shook his head, his voice steady in a way that made every word harder to hear. “But every version of this story end the same.”
Annie tightened her grip around the suitcase handle.
“You leave.”
Smoke didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even sound angry. If anything, the absence of anger made the words harder to hear. They landed between them with the weight of something he had repeated to himself so many times it no longer felt like an opinion. To him it was simply fact. Annie left. Everything else had happened afterward.
“You leave,” he said again. “You stop answerin’. You stop callin’.”
Annie shook her head immediately. “It wasn’t like that.”
Smoke laughed, and the sound broke halfway through. “See?” His eyes closed briefly. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
Tears gathered again, blurring Annie’s vision. “I was seventeen.”
“SO WAS I!!!!!”
The response came so quickly it startled both of them. Years of hurt sat between them, heavier than anything either one had said before. Smoke dragged a hand across his face and looked away toward the house, toward the trees, toward anywhere but her. When he spoke again, his voice sounded rougher.
“Do you know what the fucked up part is?”
Nobody moved. Nobody interrupted. Stack stood beside Pearline with one hand hovering near her back. Aunt Cheryl had lowered her eyes. Mary had finally stopped fidgeting. Jada sat very still, watching a man she knew in one way grieve a girl he had clearly known in another.
Smoke looked back at Annie, and whatever she saw in his face made her stomach drop.
“All these years…” His voice cracked once before he caught it. “…I thought you knew.”
Annie stared at him.
Smoke laughed again, but this time there was nothing left in it to protect him. “I thought you knew how much I fuckin’ love you.”
The tears hit Annie instantly. Hot. Merciless. Impossible to stop. Smoke nodded slowly, like he had known this was going to hurt them both before he ever said it.
“And somehow…” He swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving hers. “…you still look at me like I’m the one who left.”
The silence that followed didn’t t feel empty. It felt full of every year they had spent telling themselves stories that only held up because the other person had not been there to challenge them. Nobody spoke.
Annie stared at Smoke, and Smoke stared back, and for the first time since she came home, she realized she had absolutely no idea what happens next.
End Note: I promise we are almost done....cause I can't take it. But let me know what you think in the comments, please! I love every one of your thoughts. 💜
"Toni Morrison is far too talented to remain only a marvelous recorder of the Black side of provincial American life. If she is to maintain the large and serious audience she deserves, she is going to have to address a riskier contemporary reality."
A quote from Sara Blackburn's review of Sula, on how focusing on the Black perspective in America was limited "in its narrowness".
Imagine, IMAGINE saying this about Toni Morrison. Imagine being told that you will never be famous if you focus on Black characters, that your talent is wasted on writing about the experiences of people that look like you. That it's "not reality" to do so.
OH WAIT- this is a current reality 🤣 anyone who has ever written original fiction or fanfiction or comics or anything centering a Black character has understood this message before, implicitly: if you do not have central white characters, if you do not bring up *our* perspective, we will not promote you. We will not support you. You will go unsung. Your talents are "too good" to "waste" on Black characters.
Summary: At the cookout, Annie discovers that memory is a dangerous thing. Old photographs surface. Family members tell stories nobody realized they remembered. Smoke and Annie spend an entire afternoon remembering each other. Unfortunately, the present eventually shows up.
A/N: This chapter did NOT go as I planned. But I hope ya'll still like it!
W/C: 14+
The summer before junior year felt endless. It was hot enough for the air to still stick to your skin long after the sun went down. Everybody knew who was having people over. Sometimes it was a cousin home from college. Sometimes a classmate whose mama was working the night shift. Music played way too loud in somebody's backyard while the neighborhood kids wandered in and out the gate like they lived there.
This one sat behind a small brick house a few streets over from the Moores’. Cars lined both sides of the curb. Music rattled the chain-link fence while people crowded around folding tables covered in chips, soda, beer bottles, and half-melted ice. Smoke from the little charcoal grill drifted thick through the yard along with the smell of lighter fluid and somebody’s cheap cologne.
Stack stood near the speakers arguing with two boys over what song to play next.
“Nah, y’all killin’ the vibe.”
“You always say that, bruh.”
“Cause y’all music trash.”
An older boy near the grill yelled for Stack to bring more charcoal and he finally wandered off still talking shit the entire way.
Pearline rolled her eyes from her lawn chair nearby. “Stack, shut up.”
He grinned immediately. “You so fine.”
“Boy.”
Annie laughed softly beside her, knees tucked up against the chair while she sipped from a warm Sprite Smoke handed her twenty minutes earlier. Her curls were pulled back loosely, thick around the edges from the heat and humidity. The silver hoops in her ears glinted in the afternoon sun.
Across the yard, Smoke leaned against the fence talking to one of the older boys from the neighborhood. Black tee. Long shorts. White Air Forces already dirty around the edges from summer. One hand hooked inside his pocket while the other held a sweating cup low near his thigh.
Jada watched him from across the yard.
Annie noticed first. “Mhm,” she muttered, nudging Pearline.
Pearline glanced over. “What?”
Annie tilted her head slightly toward the drinks table.
Pearline’s eyes moved automatically.
Jada stood near the coolers laughing loudly at something another girl said, honey-brown curls bouncing around her shoulders while her attention kept drifting back toward Smoke every few seconds. She was pretty. Everyone thought so. Curvy already, tube top, and tiny shorts showing off thick thighs every boy talked about when she walked passed.
Except Smoke—he barely looked over there at all. Jada was pretty. He mostly remembered she laughed loud.
That should’ve made Annie feel better. Instead something still irritated her.
Pearline caught the look on her face instantly. “Girl…”
“I ain’t sayin’ shit.”
“You don’t gotta.”
Annie rolled her eyes hard and looked away first.
Across the yard Stack suddenly yelled—“ANNIE.”
He pointed dramatically toward the folding table. “Bring me a bag of chips.”
“You got two hands.”
“Please! You love me.”
“I actually don’t.”
Stack clutched his chest while everybody around him laughed.
Smoke looked over then and immediately found Annie. Every time. Didn’t matter how many people stood around her either. His eyes always landed there first. The look on his face changed too. Softer. Like seeing her settled something in him automatically.
Pearline saw that part and snorted quietly beside her. “Girl that boy obsessed with you.”
Annie tried not to smile. Failed a little anyway. She stood and headed toward the chips table near the drinks before Stack could start yelling again.
Pearline grabbed her cup and followed behind slower, already watching Jada out the corner of her eye.
Halfway there, Smoke peeled away from the fence and met Annie without saying much.
“You ate?”
Annie blinked at him. “Yes, Elijah.”
“You lyin’.”
She laughed immediately. “I had chips.”
“That ain’t food.”
He grabbed a paper plate off the table and started piling food onto it before she could argue again.
Annie leaned lightly against the table watching him move around the grill. “Why you keep makin’ me plates?”
Smoke shrugged once without looking up. “Cause you need to eat.”
“I eat.”
“Not enough.”
Annie rolled her eyes softly. “Smoke, I promise the world not gon’ end if I miss one plate.”
That finally made him look at her. His eyes moved over her once before settling back on her face again.
“Nah,” he said quietly. “But I might.”
Annie’s breath caught before she could stop it.
And right on cue—Stack gagged loud as hell behind them. “Mane, if y’all don’t leave each other alone for five minutes—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Smoke muttered.
Everybody near them laughed.
Smoke ignored all of it. That was the thing. He ignored everything when Annie stood close enough.
Jada came over to where they were a minute later with Mary and two other girls trailing behind her, all loud laughs and glossy lips beneath the fading summer light.
Pearline stood up straighter immediately. “This bitch…,” she muttered under her breath.
Mary waved dramatically the second she spotted Stack. “There go my man.”
Pearline rolled her eyes so hard Annie almost laughed. “Your man?” Pearline muttered. “Girl please. Stack flirt wit’ everybody.”
“Jealousy ugly on you, Pearl,” Mary called back instantly.
Pearline looked up slow and smiled. “Bitch, I can’t be jealous of community dick.”
Stack barked out laughing.
Mary’s mouth dropped open. “Community dick?!”
Pearline shrugged. “You ain’t special, ho.”
Stack barked out laughing before Mary walked over smacking his arm. Jada drifted easily toward the grill instead.
“Damn,” she said, looking down at the plate in Smoke’s hand before glancing toward her friends. “Smoke don’t do nothin’ but feed Annie.”
Stack barked out laughing instantly. “Cause that’s his girl.”
Smoke frowned slightly. “What?”
Jada smiled. “Nothin’.” But her eyes slid briefly toward Annie before looking back at Stack.
“I’m serious,” She continued. “He act like she the only girl out here.”
Stack opened his mouth immediately. “Cause to him she is.”
Smoke finally handed Annie her plate. “Move before Stack fat ass steal yo’ food.”
“Wow nigga,” Stack said. “You rude.”
Annie was focused very hard on balancing the paper plate in her hands even while warmth kept crawling up the back of her neck. Beside her, Pearline sucked her teeth quietly into her cup.
Jada laughed softly and reached for Smoke’s cup sitting on the table, taking a sip without asking.
Annie noticed immediately. So did Pearline.
Annie’s fingers tightened slightly beneath the paper plate, before she could stop herself, her body was leaning forward a fraction towards Jada. Pearline caught the reaction instantly, one hand touching Annie’s wrist beneath the excuse of reaching for a chip. Subtle. Quick enough nobody else seemed to notice.
Except Jada.
Smoke barely reacted—mostly because he was already looking at Annie again. “You want somethin’ else to drink?”
Jada lowered the cup slowly.
Annie saw that too, and suddenly the heat outside felt heavier than before. “I’m good,” she answered quietly.
“I been tellin’ y’all Smoke don’t talk to nobody but Annie,” Jada said, laughing lightly as she nudged Stack with her shoulder. “It’s weird.”
Mary snorted softly beside Stack, already watching the whole interaction unfold. “One hundred percent true,” Mary jumped in immediately.
Smoke looked genuinely confused. “I talk to y’all.”
Stack barked out laughing instantly. “Nigga no you don’t.”
Mary laughed harder. “You barely even looked over here.”
Annie looked away immediately before Smoke could catch her laughing.
Pearline covered her mouth instantly trying not to laugh because there it was. Exactly what she’d been saying. Smoke really did miss half the shit girls tried to do around him.
Jada looked thrown off for maybe half a second before recovering smoothly. “I’m sayin’ you act different with Annie.”
Smoke frowned like he genuinely didn’t understand the point. “That’s my girl.”
Simple. Certain.
Mary made a loud fake throwing-up noise while Stack nearly folded over laughing beside her.
Annie felt warmth crawl straight up her neck.
Jada laughed too, but this time it sounded tighter. Her eyes met Annie’s.
A small smile pulled at Annie’s mouth before she could stop it. Bitch.
Jada’s smile stayed in place.
But barely.
Present Day
The memory faded slowly beneath the low hum of Smoke’s truck engine.
Sunlight flashed through the windshield in uneven patterns as he drove, one hand loose against the steering wheel while warm air moved steadily through the cracked window beside him. His other hand tapped once against his thigh before going still again.
Then the truck speakers crackled softly.
Incoming call. Jada.
Her name spread bright across the dashboard. Smoke stared at it for a long second. Long enough for the phone to ring twice.
Three times. Then he hit ignore. Silence settled back inside the truck immediately afterward. Ever since Annie walked back into town, his thoughts hadn’t stayed where he put them. Eight years gone—and somehow seeing her again still felt too close to touching a live wire.
Aunt Cheryl’s house already smelled like seasoning and heat by the time Annie and Pearline finished getting dressed.
Music drifted through nearly every room. Beyoncé’s II Hands II Heaven played low from the Bluetooth speaker sitting on the guest bathroom counter. Outside, somewhere deep in the backyard, a blues guitar rolled through the open windows mixed with the sound of laughter, dominoes slamming against folding tables, and Aunt Cheryl’s husband Lewis loudly arguing with somebody over whether Bobby Womack was better than Marvin Gaye.
Pearline’s aunt—her mama Maxine’s younger sister, had always been the kind of woman whose house never really belonged to just her. Doors stayed unlocked more than they should. People were always sleeping over. Some needed a hot meal. Someone always got fussed at and fed in the same breath. Growing up, Annie had spent enough weekends there that people stopped asking whose child she was and started assuming she belonged to Cheryl.
Which, in a lot of ways, she had.
Annie loved her mother. She did, but Aunt Cheryl had become the adult she ran to for things she didn’t know how to explain at home. The conversations that felt too embarrassing, too confusing, too complicated to say out loud to her own mama somehow came out easier sitting at Cheryl’s kitchen counter while she cut onions, folded laundry or fried fish. Crushes. Friend drama. College fears. Questions she couldn’t even ask properly yet.
Aunt Cheryl never pushed. She just listened. Then eventually she’d say something annoyingly simple that made Annie realize she already knew the answer.
Pearline’s family became Annie’s family so gradually she never noticed it happening. Holidays. Sleepovers. Last-minute rides. Summer afternoons. Somewhere along the way Aunt Cheryl stopped introducing her as Pearline’s friend and started introducing her as one of hers.
Right on cue her voice cut through the house. “AND WHO ATE MY DAMN DEVILED EGGS?”
“There go Cheryl,” Pearline muttered calmly.
“And turn that sad shit down!” another older voice yelled from somewhere outside.
Pearline rolled her eyes immediately. “…and there go mama.”
Annie laughed despite herself.
The whole house felt alive. They ended up staying the night at Cheryl’s after grocery shopping the evening before. Pearline originally planned to drop the food off and leave, but Cheryl took one look at the amount of prep still sitting untouched across the kitchen counters and shut that shit down immediately.
“Leave if you want to,” she’d said, snapping green beans into a bowl without looking up. “But yo’ mama gon’ talk so much shit about you tomorrow I might join in.”
Pearline groaned while Annie laughed.
So they stayed. Annie even ended up helping too despite Pearline repeatedly telling her to sit down because the cookout was technically for her. Cheryl ignored all of that. “Girl please,” she said, sliding a cutting board toward Annie. “You back home now. Slice them onions.”
And she did. Standing barefoot in Cheryl’s kitchen at nearly midnight while old school R&B drifted low through the house and women arguing lovingly over recipes felt strangely familiar. Like being dropped back into another version of herself she hadn’t touched in years.
By one in the morning, half the food was prepped. Uncle Lewis was asleep in the recliner in the family room with the TV still blasting low. Annie and Pearline ended up stretched across a queen size bed in the guest bedroom laughing quietly in the dark like they were teenagers again. For a few hours, it almost felt like no time had passed at all.
Currently, coolers crowded the hallway near the front door packed with beer, juice, bottled water, soda, and foil pans waiting to be carried outside. Younger cousins ran through the living room screaming before another auntie immediately yelled at them to stop running in the damn house. The kitchen smelled like barbecue sauce, fried fish, onions, and sweet baked beans while women moved around each other shoulder to shoulder arguing over seasoning.
Upstairs inside the guest bedroom, Annie had changed clothes four times.
Pearline sat stretched across the bed eating hot chips while watching the latest outfit reveal with growing amusement.
First it had been denim shorts and a tank top. Too casual. Then a black sundress. Too obvious. Then jeans. Absolutely not. Now half the room looked like a tornado touched down inside it while Annie stood in front of the mirror quietly questioning every decision she’d made since coming back home.
Pearline watched her for a little while before reaching toward the tequila bottle sitting beside Annie’s makeup bag.
“Aight,” she muttered. “Come here.”
Annie looked over immediately. “What?”
“You nervous as hell.”
“Not.”
Pearline snorted, already pouring two shots into plastic cups. “Sure.”
Annie laughed softly despite herself before walking over. The cups clinked together lightly.
“To Annie finally outside again,” Pearline said.
“That’s…dramatic.”
“And is.”
Annie laughed again before both of them tipped the shots back. The tequila burned all the way down, warm and sharp enough to make Annie squeeze her eyes shut briefly afterward.
“Shiiit.”
Pearline coughed once immediately after. “See? That’s why I don’t do dark liquor.”
“You literally bought it.”
“And?”
Annie shook her head laughing while Pearline shoved the open chip bag toward her.
“Eat somethin’.”
“I’m fine.”
“Aight. You gon’ be sweatin’ tequila and fucked up in Cheryl backyard if you don’t eat somethin’.”
“I won't.”
Pearline pointed at her immediately. “That’s exactly what drunk people say.”
Annie rolled her eyes smiling despite herself before turning back toward the mirror again.
After another ten minutes of changing her mind twice more, Annie finally settled on the striped halter dress mostly because Pearline threatened to physically pick something for her if she kept standing in front of the mirror sighing.
The dress was a soft knit material striped in deep blue, green, white, and pale lavender, the colors bright enough to feel summery without trying too hard. The halter neckline dipped low across her chest while the open back left most of her skin bare except for the tie sitting neatly behind her neck. Unfortunately or fortunately, the dress hugged her body tighter than she remembered when she bought it. The material curved around her hips, her thighs, the softness of her stomach. Her breasts sat high beneath the neckline, enough cleavage showing to make her immediately fold her arms the second she caught herself staring too long in the mirror.
Pearline crunched another chip slowly. “Girl.”
Annie didn’t look away from the mirror. “What?”
“You know what.”
“It’s hot outside.”
“Mhm.”
“It is.”
Pearline’s mouth twitched. “And apparently you tryna make Elijah Moore lose consciousness beside Cheryl’s potato salad.”
Annie groaned instantly. “Please shut up.”
“I’m serious.” Pearline pointed dramatically with another chip. “That man already looked halfway dead in Stack apartment yesterday.”
Annie narrowed her eyes finally turning away from the mirror. “Oh, so we not gon’ talk about YOU?”
Pearline blinked innocently. “What about me?”
Annie looked her up and down slowly.
Pearline’s red-and-white striped maxi dress clung to every curve she had, the soft material hugging her hips and thighs while the slit climbed just high enough along one leg to show smooth brown skin every time she moved. The open back exposed nearly her entire spine beneath her sleek ponytail, and somehow the dress still looked casual enough for a cookout despite the fact it was absolutely ruining the peace.
Annie folded her arms. “You look like summertime temptation.”
Pearline barked out laughing instantly. “But you got the nerve to talk about me?”
“This?” Pearline looked down at herself pretending to be confused. “Girl this comfortable.”
“Comfortable where?” Annie stared. “At a cookout or on somebody's son's prayer list?”
Pearline nearly choked on her chips laughing.
Annie shook her head. “You absolutely tryna make Elias act stupid outside.”
“Chile…,” Pearline continued, waving another chip dramatically, “Elias been stupid since tenth grade. That ain’t got nothin’ to do wit’ me.”
Annie laughed softly despite herself.
Pearline pointed immediately. “There it is again.”
“What?”
“That little happy-ass laugh.”
Annie’s face fell instantly. “Line…”
“I’m just sayin’.” Pearline’s expression softened slightly afterward. “I ain’t seen you like this in a long time.”
Annie’s face dropped instantly. Somehow that felt worse. She turned back toward the mirror too quickly afterward pretending to adjust the side of the dress while heat crawled slowly up her neck.
Pearline watched her quietly. That tiny hopeful look on Annie’s face hit harder than expected, because yesterday had been the first time Pearline saw her genuinely excited about something in a very long time. Hopeful. Pearline hated what she knew might ruin it. Her eyes flicked briefly toward her phone laying beside her on the comforter. Towards the memory of Smoke sitting beside Jada inside that restaurant booth. Towards Stack saying—He not bringin’ her. Pearline wanted to believe that.
Still…
Annie sighed. “I don’t even know why I care this much.”
Pearline knew why. Both of them did. But she let Annie keep pretending.
Annie sat near the foot of the bed smoothing nervous hands over the dress before glancing casually toward the open bedroom door. “You said Elijah came by already this mornin’?”
Pearline looked up. “Uh huh. Him and Uncle Lewis set the speakers up outside.”
Annie nodded slowly like that information didn’t matter nearly as much as it actually did.
“Oh.”
Pearline watched her for a little too long.
Annie reached over stealing one of her chips casually. “He stay long?”
There it was.
Pearline smiled immediately. “You fishin’.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Annie rolled her eyes. “I’m askin’ a question.”
“Yeah, okay,” Pearline’s grin widened.
Annie threw the chip at her. Pearline laughed harder dodging it while Annie shook her head trying unsuccessfully not to smile too.
“So…is he?” Annie asked a second later, quieter this time.
Pearline’s laughter softened slightly. “He said he was comin’ back.”
Annie looked down too fast afterward, like she didn’t want her face caught reacting.
Pearline watched the small smile trying to pull at Annie’s mouth before it disappeared again.
There it was again. Soft. Careful. Still alive somehow after all these years, and suddenly Pearline’s chest tightened, because now Jada pushed back into the front of her mind immediately afterward. Laughing. Too comfortable. Too familiar.
Pearline swallowed slowly. “Annie…”
Annie looked up immediately. “Hm?”
Pearline hesitated. She almost said it. Almost told her everything. That she saw Smoke with Jada. That nobody really knew what was going on between them. She didn’t want Annie walking outside blind, but then she smiled again. Tiny…nervous.
Suddenly Pearline couldn’t say it. Couldn’t bring herself to throw Jada between this fragile little piece of happiness Annie somehow found again. So instead she stood tossing the chip bag aside.
“Nothin’,” she muttered instead, standing too fast afterward. “Come on before Aunt Cheryl start cussin’ everybody out for standin’ around useless.”
Annie looked at her strangely for a second but stood anyway, smoothing her hands down the front of the dress one last time before glancing toward the mirror again.
The smile appeared again. Quick. Almost shy.
Hope looked strange on her now. Older. More careful. But still there. The realization unsettled her immediately. She had not come back to Mississippi expecting this. Didn’t come back expecting her stomach to flip every time Elijah looked at her. Or expect one awkward afternoon inside Stack’s apartment to crack open something she spent years forcing shut.
Outside, a car horn blared. Then another. Music swelled louder beneath a burst of laughter somewhere near the backyard.
Pearline groaned instantly. “That better not be Stack blowin’ that fuckin’ horn.”
As if summoned, her phone rang immediately afterward.
STACK.
Pearline answered, already irritated. “What?”
“Bring y’all asses outside,” Stack shouted loudly over music and voices in the background. “Everybody arrivin’.”
Annie’s stomach flipped hard enough to make her regret every sip of tequila she’d had while getting dressed.
Now it was real.
The second Annie stepped outside, the sound hit her first.
Music layered over more music. A blues record played somewhere deeper in the backyard while Frankie Beverly and Maze floated from another speaker closer to the patio. Laughter cracked through the humid air in bursts. Dominoes slammed hard enough against tables to sound competitive. People yelled for more ice. Kids tore across the grass shrieking while an older cousin threatened to spray them with the water hose if they knocked over another chair.
Aunt Cheryl’s property stretched wide behind the house, big enough for generations to spread out across it comfortably. Cars lined both sides of the road outside the gate already, more pulling up every few minutes. Folding tables covered in aluminum trays sat beneath two huge pecan trees while smoke rolled thick from the grill pits farther back near the fence line.
The smell nearly overwhelmed her immediately—charcoal, barbecue sauce, hot grease, sweet liquor, and fresh-cut grass baking beneath the Mississippi heat. Underneath all of it was that familiar Delta smell she never figured out how to describe properly after moving away. Warm earth. Humidity. River air somewhere nearby.
Home.
Her chest tightened unexpectedly.
“ANNIE BABY!”
Before she could process anything else, one of Pearline’s older cousins, Geneva, was already crossing the yard toward her.
Geneva had always occupied that strange space growing up where she never quite felt like a cousin. Five years older than Annie and Pearline, she’d been old enough to seem impossibly cool but young enough to still let them into her world. She was the cousin whose room they wanted to sit in when they were kids, whose clothes they wanted to borrow before they were old enough, who knew everybody and always had the gossip before anybody else. She gave them the best advice, defended them when adults got too loud, and slipped easily between big sister, best friend, and professional instigator depending on the day. If Geneva was going somewhere, they wanted to go too.
She looked exactly the same now—just grown into herself.
A striped maxi dress moved around her legs as she crossed the yard, the fabric light enough to catch every bit of warm Mississippi air. The colors softened against her caramel skin—cream with narrow lines of rust, black, and muted gold running vertically from neckline to hem. Thin straps framed her shoulders while the neckline dipped low. Big tassel earrings brushed her neck every time she moved, and a woven straw bag hung from one arm despite the fact she absolutely did not need a purse for a backyard cookout. Long straight hair fell over one shoulder and sunglasses rested on top of her head like she had somewhere more important to be later.
She reached Annie and immediately grabbed her face with both hands. “Lawd, look at my Annie.”
Before Annie could answer Geneva pulled her into a tight hug that smelled faintly of perfume, body oil, and summer heat before leaning back again to inspect her dramatically. “Bitchhh…you done got finer sittin’ up there in North Carolina.”
Pearline barked out laughing immediately. “‘Neva.”
Geneva ignored her completely, looking Annie up and down. “Nah, for real—look at all this ass.”
“GENEVA.”
“What?” She shrugged. “I got eyes.”
Annie laughed so hard she almost snorted, and just like that, some of the tightness in her chest loosened. For a second. Then others started calling her name. Then another.
“Oh shit—Annie?!”
“When you get back?”
“Girl, look at you!”
Suddenly she was being pulled into hugs from every direction. More relatives. Old classmates. Women she hadn’t seen since before high school kissing her cheek and telling her she looked beautiful. Questions came rapid-fire before she could even answer the last one.
How long you staying?You still in Charlotte?Yo’ mama good?You remember so-and-so?You workin’?
Annie smiled through all of it. Laughed through all of it. Answered each question. But underneath every conversation, every hug, every joke—she was looking for him. It happened automatically. Every car or truck door slamming outside the gate made her glance up. Every deep laugh somewhere across the yard tightened something low in her stomach before she realized it belonged to somebody else. Every time people moved around near the grills, her eyes moved there instinctively.
Pearline noticed every single time. “You look so nervous, friend,” Pearline muttered low beside her while accepting a beer her cousin handed her.
“I’m not nervous.”
“Right.”
Annie ignored her. Or tried to.
Outside, the heat wrapped around her immediately, making the halter dress cling softer against her skin the longer she stood there. Her long braids brushed warm against the open skin of her back every time she moved, humidity already settling along the base of her neck while sweat gathered slowly between her breasts beneath the neckline. Still somehow she became even more aware of her body because of him. Even without seeing him yet.
The music changed suddenly. Blues faded lower beneath newer bass while voices rose louder near the grill pits. Then a familiar voice carried across the yard.
“Move, nigga. Damn.”
Laughter erupted near the driveway immediately afterward. Annie froze. Her stomach dropped so fast it almost hurt because she knew that voice. Knew it down to muscle memory.
Annie turned before she could stop herself. Dark oversized shirt hanging loose over his frame, the deep brown fabric softening against the width of his shoulders and chest. Tattoos disappeared beneath the loose sleeves. Black shorts hung low against narrow hips, white and black Nike Dunks scuffing lightly against the pavement. A black cap sat low over his eyes, single gold chain glinting faintly against his throat.
“Smoke!” Stack exclaimed as he turned around from where he stood near the grill pit. “Bout time yo’ muthafuckin ass got here!”
“There he go,” a classmate named Mike laughed, already moving toward him.
Smoke lifted one hand in acknowledgment before pulling Stack into a quick dap and shoulder bump that looked practiced from years of repetition. Mike stepped in after that. Then another. Hands grabbing at him. Voices overlapping. Smoke laughed at something another said, head dipping slightly while one of his homeboys slapped his shoulder.
Laughter carried through the music.
Yesterday, inside Stack’s apartment, he felt almost unreal. Too close. Too quiet. Too heavy with history. But standing outside now beneath fading sunlight and backyard music with everybody surrounding him—Elijah looked dangerous again. Familiar. Beautiful. Like every version of the boy she used to love had grown all the way into a man.
Maybe it was the tequila talking, the heat, or eight years refusing to stay buried. But for one terrifying moment, Annie forgot how to breathe because Elijah Moore looked up and found her immediately. Like some part of him had already known exactly where she was.
Smoke forgot what Mike was saying halfway through the sentence. Something about a fight that happened outside Club Fusion last month. Cornbread laughed loud as hell beside him, while Isoo kept interrupting every five seconds adding details nobody asked for. Stack stood near the grill pit drinking beer and talking shit like always while Bo argued with Uncle Lewis over whether the ribs needed more sauce. The kind of evening Smoke usually moved through without thinking too hard. Then something shifted. Like pressure changing in the air. His eyes lifted automatically and found Annie. And everything in him suddenly went very still.
She stood near the patio beside Pearline surrounded by women talking over each other while music rolled through the yard behind them. The dress she had on wrapped around her body soft and close, pulling against curves he absolutely did not remember being that dangerous.
Jesus Christ.
Smoke’s jaw flexed once. Because yesterday inside Stack’s apartment had been too sudden. Too crowded with history and shock and confusion for him to really look at her the way he wanted to. But now? He could see everything.
The long braids falling down her back. The neckline dipping low enough to show the soft swell of her breasts beneath the summer light. Hips fuller than they used to be. Thicker through the thighs too. Ass sitting heavy beneath that dress in a way that made something low in his stomach pull tight immediately.
Grown.
Annie had always been beautiful. But this? This felt unfair.
“And then this nigga gon’ say—” Cornbread stopped mid-sentence laughing at his own story while everybody around Smoke reacted.
Smoke barely heard any of it, but Annie looked up and there it was again. That feeling. Like the rest of the yard dimmed slightly every time their eyes locked. Want. Yearning. Recognition. All tangled together so tight it almost made his chest ache.
She looked away first. Not by much. Just enough to smile at Grace and Therise as they walked over toward her carrying babies, diaper bags and chaos with them. Smoke’s attention followed automatically.
Grace balanced little Lisa against her hip while Therise waddled carefully beside her, one hand rubbing absentmindedly across her stomach while her boys ran circles around her legs screaming at each other. Annie’s entire face changed when she saw them, brightening instantly. Grace pulled her into a one-armed hug while Lisa immediately started reaching for Annie with grabby little hands.
“Look at her!” Grace laughed. “This girl doesn’t go to just anybody.”
Annie laughed softly, taking Lisa against her hip without hesitation. Natural. Easy. Like she’d done it a hundred times before.
Something inside Smoke twisted painfully, because for one stupid dangerous second—he saw it. Saw Annie standing in a kitchen holding his baby while music played low in another room. Saw little brown babies with her eyes and his attitude running through a backyard somewhere. Saw years he never let himself think too hard about. The image hit hard enough to steal the air from his lungs.
Stack noticed immediately. His eyes slid toward Smoke before following his line of sight across the yard. Then back again. Stack cleared his throat loudly. Sharp enough to snap Smoke partly out of his head.
“You hear this nigga, bruh?” Stack asked suddenly, shoving a beer into Bo’s chest hard enough to spill some. “Talkin’ bout he could beat me one-on-one right now.”
Bo frowned immediately. “Man, when I say that?”
But before Stack could keep the distraction going—Isoo looked up.
“Hold up.”
Everybody went still automatically because Isoo always talked the loudest right before saying something stupid.
“Where Jada at?”
Stack’s entire body stiffened instantly. “Shut the fuck up,” he muttered fast.
Too late.
Isoo blinked. “What?”
Stack cut his eyes sharply toward Annie across the yard before lowering his voice. “Nigga damn.”
Smoke didn’t say anything immediately. Instead he reached into his pocket. Pulled out his cigarettes. Tapped one loose. Stuck it between his lips. The lighter clicked once. Twice. Then caught. Smoke took a slow drag while the group went quiet around him. His jaw ticked once as smoke rolled out low through his nose.
Jada heard him talking to Uncle Lewis a few days earlier about borrowing speakers. She started asking questions—
“Y’all havin’ somethin’?”
“Who all gonna be there?”
Small smile.
“Sounds fun.”
Smoke didn’t think much of it. At the time, it was just a cookout. People came. People brought people. That was normal. So when she casually mentioned coming too…he never corrected the assumption.
Then yesterday happened.
He opened Stack’s apartment door and Annie was standing there.
By the time Smoke realized she was staying—realized she’d be at the cookout, something selfish inside him tilted immediately. Not because he was doing anything wrong or he owed Annie anything. But suddenly the idea of Jada coming with him to the cookout and standing beside him all day felt wrong in a way he didn’t wanna examine too hard.
He hated himself a little for how quick that feeling came.
Then this morning Jada left a voicemail. Soft. Apologetic.
“Hey…I won’t be able to come to the cookout. Danielle called out sick and I gotta cover a showing.” She laughed. “Bad timing.”
Smoke remembered listening. Waiting to feel disappointed. Instead his chest loosened. That bothered him more than anything.
Another drag. Then finally—“She had to work.” His voice came out flat. Smoke flicked ash into the grass. “She ain’t comin’.”
Bo looked at Cornbread. Cornbread looked at Stack. Stack looked at Smoke.
Everybody knew.
Only Isoo stayed oblivious. His eyes drifted toward the patio. His eyes widened dramatically. “Aw hell nah.”
Smoke already felt irritation crawling up his spine.
“Bruh, I know that ain’t fine ass Annie over there.”
Stack closed his eyes briefly like he already knew where this was going.
“She back back?” Isoo asked. “Like for real?”
Nobody answered fast enough. Which was apparently answer enough for him. Isoo straightened immediately, adjusting his shirt. “Shiiit then. Lemme go say what’s up.”
Cornbread muttered, “Here this nigga go.”
Isoo started moving. Actually moving. Straight towards Annie and suddenly Smoke understood very clearly how easy it would be to hit somebody with a folding chair.
The thought arrived calm. Instant. Violent enough to make his jaw tighten hard. Annie wasn’t his anymore. He knew that. Understood it. But watching another man walk toward her still felt wrong enough to make something ugly rise low in his chest anyway.
Stack saw it happen in real time. Saw Smoke’s posture change. Saw his grip tighten slightly around the cigarette.
“Aye,” Stack said, quickly stepping sideways into Smoke’s path just enough to interrupt whatever terrible decision was forming. “Relax.”
Smoke’s eyes stayed fixed on the back of Isoo’s head.
“He grown,” Stack continued lower. “Don’t start actin’ crazy in Cheryl yard.”
Mike snorted immediately beside them. “Too late. That nigga already look homicidal.”
Cornbread started laughing into his cup.
But Smoke didn’t laugh. Didn’t move either, because across the yard Annie looked up just as Isoo reached her. Isoo hugged Annie. Too long. Then said something and Annie laughed. Easy. Warm. The way she laughed with everybody. Smoke felt something pull low in his chest anyway. He watched another a little longer. Took one last drag. Then held the cigarette away from himself and exhaled.
“Somebody pour me somethin’.”
Stack looked over immediately.
Bo’s mouth started twitching.
Cornbread snorted into his cup.
Smoke kept watching Annie. “Strong.”
Stack blinked once. Looked toward Isoo. Then back at Smoke. His eyebrows lifted slowly.
“…Oh niggaaaa.”
“ANNIE?”
The voice pulled her attention away from Lisa tugging at one of her braids. She turned and immediately laughed. She recognized him instantly.
Isaac Carter aka Isoo.
Older now, broader. Still handsome in that easy unfair way he’d always been. Dark skin glowing beneath the late afternoon sun, close-cut beard filling in where a baby face used to be, smile still stupidly nice. Tall too. Taller than she remembered. Athletic without trying too hard. He was always laughing, always flirting, and somehow there was always at least one girl claiming she was done with him before ending up right back beside him the next weekend.
But somehow—never hers.
He’d always been sweet to Annie. Never flirty…just easy to be around. Annie remembered he carried her backpack once in sixth grade because she had too many books. By freshman year he’d gotten taller and louder and started football with Smoke and Stack. She remembered him telling some boy to leave her alone at a game once before wandering off like it wasn’t a big deal.
Pretty. Friendly. Community-approved. Terrible for relationships. Her mama loved him. Smoke tolerated him. Which honestly should’ve been her first clue. Isoo reached her and immediately pulled her into a hug. Long enough to feel familiar. Not long enough to feel weird.
She laughed against his shoulder. “Well damn.”
He pulled back looking at her fully. “Look at you.”
Annie rolled her eyes immediately. “Boy bye.”
“No seriously.” He looked offended. “You been in North Carolina eatin’ money?”
She laughed. “Hi to you too.”
Isoo smiled bigger. “Nah for real though.” His eyes moved over her once. Respectful. Surprised. Then landed back on her face. “You good?”
Something softened in her chest. She nodded. “Yeah.”
He smiled, then immediately started talking asking questions, and catching her up on old classmates who moved where, who got married and even who got arrested. Stories. People. Names.
Annie laughed, answered and nodded, but she wasn’t really listening. Her eyes kept drifting back towards Smoke.
Smoke leaned near Stack now. Cup in one hand, cigarette in the other. He talked less than everybody else. Watching more, then he tipped the cup back. One swallow.
Finished.
Her stomach tightened immediately and her eyes narrowed.That seemed…intentional.
He lowered the cup and looked directly at her.
Annie blinked and looked away back to Isoo. “…and remember Mary used to swear Stack wanted her?”
Annie nodded automatically. “Yes, yes I do.”
Isoo kept talking. “…and Sarita got four kids now.”
“Uh huh.”
“…and you still owe me for them chips.”
She blinked. “Wait, what?”
Isoo laughed immediately. “See. You not listenin’.”
Her eyes widened. “No I am!”
His smile softened. His eyes drifted past her. He smirked slightly. “Oh.”
Annie frowned. “What?”
Isoo laughed under his breath. “Nothin’.”
She turned automatically and saw movement, Pearline, Grace, Therise, little Lisa, and the boys, all slowly migrating toward the grill pits where Stack, Smoke, and the other men were.
Annie immediately straightened. There it was—her out. She looked back at Isoo, smiled and pointed. “Oh they movin’.”
Isoo looked over then back at her. His smile widened immediately. “Aw damn.”
Annie laughed. “What?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Nothin’.” But his eyes flicked once—past her. Towards Smoke, then back again.
Suddenly Annie had the strange feeling she wasn’t the only person pretending not to notice things today.
Stack noticed Pearline before she noticed him, though he told himself he was only looking because Grace and Therise had started making their way toward the grill pit with the kids. That was almost believable for a minute. Grace had Lisa balanced on one hip, the baby’s fat hand reaching for every dangling necklace and plastic cup she passed, while Therise moved slower beside her, heavily pregnant and already threatening her boys through clenched teeth whenever they got too close to the food tables. But then Pearline stepped around a folding chair and Stack’s attention went straight to her.
The red-and-white striped dress hugged her body in a way that made him forget whatever Cornbread had been saying about ribs, the slit opening with every other step to show the smooth brown line of her leg. Her ponytail brushed the open skin of her back, and the sunlight caught her hoops each time she laughed at something Grace said.
Stack stared too long. He knew he had because Pearline caught him before she even reached the group, her eyes narrowing with that familiar warning that usually meant he was already in trouble.
“What?” she asked once she got close enough to be heard over the music.
Stack took a sip from his beer and tried to look innocent. “Nothin’.”
Pearline folded her arms, which only made the dress worse on him. “That was a look.”
Grace immediately made a noise under her breath, delighted to have caught something. Stack ignored her and let his eyes move over Pearline one more time, slower than he meant to, before he shrugged.
“You look good. That’s all.”
Pearline’s face changed for barely a second, the smallest softening around her mouth before she rolled her eyes to cover it.
“You drunk?”
“Not yet,” he said, and that pulled a laugh out of her despite herself.
The laugh didn’t last long. Pearline’s gaze drifted past his shoulder towards Annie and Isoo, then towards Smoke, and the lightness left her face almost immediately.
Stack saw it happen and sighed through his nose, already knowing where her mind had gone. She stepped closer so the music and voices around them swallowed the conversation.
“She really ain’t comin’?”
Stack didn’t ask who. He glanced at Smoke, who had been pretending to listen to the men for the last several minutes while watching Annie every chance he got, then looked back at Pearline.
“She ain’t comin’.”
Pearline looked away, but her exhale didn’t sound relieved enough. “I should tell Annie.”
Stack frowned. “Tell her what?”
The look she gave him answered before she did.
Stack followed Pearline’s gaze toward Annie, who was still smiling at Isoo and pretending she wasn’t checking Smoke’s location every few breaths.
“You worried for no reason,” Stack said quietly.
Pearline folded her arms tighter. “She deserves to know.”
Stack studied her face, then shook his head. “If them two stop bein’ scary and actually talk, Jada gon’ become a memory real quick.”
Pearline looked at him long enough for her expression to soften, but the guilt didn’t leave her face completely. “…I hope you right.”
Stack hated how small she sounded when she said it, so he reached out and hooked an arm around her shoulders, pulling her against his side before she could decide whether she wanted comfort or not.
Pearline shoved at his chest immediately, but there was no force behind it. “Stack.”
He only held on tighter, which was exactly when Grace saw them.
“Oooooh,” Grace said, loud enough to drag Bo’s attention from his cup and Cornbread’s from the grill. Therise smiled immediately, one hand on her stomach rubbing it in circles.
“Look at the lovebirds,” Grace sang, pointing like she had discovered something scandalous instead of two people who had been circling each other since high school.
Pearline groaned and tried harder to push Stack away while he grinned beside her.
Bo nodded like he was witnessing history. “You finally wore her down, huh?”
Pearline gasped. “Excuse me?”
Stack, because he had no sense of self-preservation, nodded solemnly. “Persistence.”
She shoved him again, and this time he actually laughed.
Before Pearline could cuss him out properly, Aunt Cheryl’s voice cut across the backyard loud enough to make several conversations stop at once.
“AIGHT! FOOD IS READY! OLD FOLKS FIRST, THEN KIDS, THEN EVERYBODY ELSE’S GREEDY ASSES!”
The yard rearranged itself immediately. Chairs scraped across grass, kids ran toward the tables, aunties started directing traffic, and Cornbread stood up with an enthusiasm that made Therise stare at him in disgust.
“Boys,” he called, and both of his sons appeared like he had summoned them.
He pointed at himself proudly. “That’s us.”
The crowd moved in that strange, ordinary way people always did once food got announced. Conversations broke apart mid-story. Somebody’s aunt called for kids that pretended not to hear. People started drifting toward the tables in loose groups with paper plates already in hand while others migrated toward shade and folding chairs to claim seats before the older folks took the good ones.
Pearline noticed Annie.
She looked up and caught her standing a few yards away with Isoo still beside her. Grace had already moved off toward the food with Bo and Lisa while Therise followed after Cornbread and the boys, one hand rubbing her stomach while fussing at her youngest to stop running. Mike had disappeared toward a group of women near the fence and somebody else called Isoo’s name from across the yard.
Pearline watched the moment happen in real time. Isoo looked toward whoever called him. Annie looked toward the grill. Isoo said something. Annie laughed politely. Then they split. Isoo peeled off into another conversation without much thought and Annie kept walking.
Stack followed Pearline’s line of sight and immediately understood.
Smoke hadn’t moved, but his attention already had.
Stack looked between them once before leaning slightly toward Pearline. “Oh.”
Pearline folded her arms. “…yeah.”
Annie slowed near the grill pit.
Smoke looked up. Nobody had orchestrated it or moved out the way on purpose. But somehow when everything settled—kids, plates, conversations, chairs—there wasn’t anybody left standing between them.
Stack looked over at Pearline. Pearline looked at him. Neither said anything. Stack smiled first. Quiet.
“Told you.”
Smoke looked at her first. Annie looked up a heartbeat later. The backyard stayed loud around them, all music and laughter and children whining for juice, but the space between them seemed to quiet anyway.
Annie smiled first, too quick and nervous, her fingers brushing one of her braids behind her ear.
Smoke cleared his throat like the simplest word required effort. “…hey.”
Her smile softened. “Hi.”
The silence after that stretched just long enough for everybody close enough to notice and pretend they weren’t watching.
Smoke’s eyes moved over her once, brief and controlled, but not brief enough. “You look nice,” he said, voice lower than it had been with anybody else.
Annie blinked, surprised by the directness, then looked at him with a warmth that made Stack glance away out of respect for what felt like an intimate moment between them. “Thank you, so do you.”
For a moment neither of them moved. Then Smoke leaned in for a hug, careful in a way that made the gesture hurt more than it should have. His hand touched the bare skin of her back for less than a second before he seemed to remember himself and pulled away. Annie stepped back too quickly, smoothing her dress even though nothing had moved out of place.
Smoke looked toward the grill. Annie looked toward the tables.
Stack looked at Pearline, and Pearline looked right back at him. Neither of them said it out loud, but they both understood the same thing—
If Smoke and Annie were going to survive the rest of this cookout, everybody else needed to get out of the way.
As they moved toward the food tables, the crowd gradually absorbed and rearranged around them in the familiar rhythm family gatherings always settled into once food got announced.
An auntie passed by balancing a stack of paper plates against her stomach while still carrying on a conversation over her shoulder. Children threaded between folding chairs until their mother finally caught one by the arm and redirected him toward the drinks cooler. The buffet stretched beneath two long folding tables pushed end to end and covered in white plastic tablecloths already wrinkled from heat and elbows.
Aluminum pans ran nearly the entire length of it, some covered in foil folded back halfway, others already opened and steaming into the humid air. Ribs sat dark and glossy beneath sauce collecting in the corners of the tray. Fried catfish rested in paper towel-lined pans beside golden chicken wings dusted with seasoning. Hot dogs rolled against each other near hamburgers wrapped loosely in foil to keep warm. Baked beans glistened thick with brown sugar and pieces of smoked meat, while macaroni and cheese sat heavy and golden around the edges where it had baked too long in the best way. Someone brought green beans cooked down soft with onions and turkey necks. And corn that sat shining looking like sunlight slathered in butter.
The potato salad disappeared the fastest.
A pan of deviled eggs already looked picked over. Coolers lined the ground underneath, packed with bottled water, canned soda, wine coolers, beer, Capri Suns, and ice melting faster than people could replace it.
Annie found herself walking beside Smoke simply because everybody else had drifted off somewhere and neither of them seemed interested in making a thing out of separating.
The heat had settled differently now that the sun was lowering. It still sat heavy against her skin, but the sharpness had worn off and left everything softer around the edges. Her braids brushed against her back every time she moved, and she became hyper aware of things she hadn’t meant to notice.
Smoke still shortened his pace slightly whenever people crowded too close. He still moved to the outside of pathways without thinking. When one of Cornbread’s boys nearly collided with her carrying a dripping popsicle, Smoke placed a light hand at the center of her back and guided her around him before continuing forward. He didn’t seem aware he’d done it.
Uncle Lewis passed carrying another folding table under one arm and slowed long enough to nod toward Smoke.
“Smoke, appreciate you bringin’ them speakers and tables over.”
Smoke shrugged without looking up. “Ain’t nothin’.”
Lewis laughed and kept moving. “Easy for you to say. You got more room out there than all of us.”
Smoke shook his head once but didn’t answer and Lewis kept walking.
Annie watched him go before looking over.
“…more room?”
Smoke glanced at her. “At my house.”
She looked at him and waited for the rest of the sentence. When none came, she frowned slightly. “Your house?”
His expression switched immediately into confusion.
“…yeah.”
She stared at him long enough that he finally looked over fully. “What?”
Her eyebrows lifted, “you got a house?”
Now he looked confused that she was confused. Assuming she knew already. “Yeah.”
She looked at him harder. “What you mean ‘yeah’?”
His shoulders moved lightly. “I been there a few years.” Then after a second— “Built it.”
Her steps slowed enough for him to notice, just enough for something in his expression to soften as he looked over at her again.
She stared for another second. “You built it?”
He nodded once.
Her mouth opened slightly.“Oh my God.”
Smoke frowned. “What?”
She looked at him again, then laughed quietly. “You said that.”
His eyebrows pulled together. “Said what?”
She smiled and looked toward the food line ahead of them, but she wasn’t really seeing it anymore. The memory came back whole in the strange way old things sometimes did when one detail unlocked another. It had been junior year. Football season. Everybody sitting outside Mike’s house after practice because nobody wanted to go home yet. Stack had been arguing loudly about something nobody cared about and Smoke had been sitting back quieter than everybody else. Mike asked what they wanted to do when they got older and everybody gave normal answers first. But not Smoke.
She looked back at him. “You said if you ever had enough money you wanted your own place.”
His face stayed still.
She kept walking. “You said you wanted a house nobody could tell you to leave.”
His eyes stayed on her now.
She smiled. “You wanted land too.” Her smile widened slightly. “You said enough land that if you wanted to walk outside in your drawers and yell at people, nobody could stop you.”
That got an actual laugh out of him.
She noticed immediately. Then she continued. “You said you wanted a porch.”
Her voice softened naturally as more of it came back. “You said you wanted somewhere that felt yours.”
Smoke looked at her for a long moment before speaking.
“…you remember that?”
The question surprised her enough that she looked at him fully.
She smiled. “Yeah.” Then she shrugged lightly. “I remember stuff people tell me.” Her eyes moved away briefly before returning. “Especially people I care about.”
She heard herself as soon as she said it. Her expression changed before she could stop it. Not because she regretted saying it. More because she realized she hadn’t filtered herself before speaking.
Smoke looked at her. It wasn’t the polite kind of looking people do while waiting for their turn to talk. He looked at her in a way that made her suddenly aware of how many things she still remembered that she had never meant to keep. Not birthdays or milestones or dramatic moments. She remembered conversations. Things said in passing. Dreams he admitted before they became real. The version of him that still existed before life hardened around them.
The feeling settled strangely in her chest.
Before either of them could sit inside it too long, a cousin farther back the buffet line shouted asking whether they planned on eating or standing there flirting all damn day while everybody else starved.
Everyone in the vicinity laughed immediately.
Annie smiled and looked away.
Smoke shook his head and stepped forward reaching for the plates and silverware, handing Annie hers first.
Annie grabbed rice first, then baked beans, one rib, and macaroni before lowering the spoon.
Smoke looked down at her plate. “That’s all?”
She looked over. “What?”
His eyes stayed on the food. “That ain’t enough..”
Before she could answer, he reached over and took the plate from her hands with a familiarity that surprised both of them. He added another rib, another spoonful of macaroni and baked beans, then a piece of chicken before handing it back.
Annie laughed. “Elijah.”
His hand paused for a second after she said his name. Then he nodded once. “Aight, aight.”
He didn’t remove anything.
She looked down at the plate, then back at him. Her smile stayed.
Together they moved down the line while someone behind them accused Cornbread of taking too many deviled eggs while Aunt Cheryl threatened to start assigning portions if people didn’t stop acting greedy.
The line moved slower than it looked from far away. Every plate became a conversation. A family friend wanted to know who made the potato salad. Another was trying to negotiate for corner pieces of macaroni before Aunt Cheryl caught them digging. An uncle argued loudly that people always forget the hot sauce until another aunt pointed at the bottle directly in front of him and called him an “old senile ass.”
By the time Annie and Smoke reached the end of the buffet, the noise had settled into that familiar cookout rhythm where nobody stayed in one place long but somehow everybody still knew where everybody else was.
Smoke took a step aside to let a man squeeze past carrying three overloaded plates and looked around while Annie adjusted her grip on hers. Every table seemed occupied. Not full exactly—there were open seats scattered around, but occupied in the way family gatherings always worked where every chair belonged to someone else whether they were sitting in it or not. Kids had abandoned half-eaten plates to run through the yard. Older people spread purses and keys across tables like territory markers. A guest had even turned a cooler into a seat. Another was eating standing up beside the fence.
Without saying anything, Smoke angled toward one of the folding tables beneath the pecan trees.
Annie followed automatically.
The table sat just far enough from the speakers that conversation didn’t require yelling but close enough that the music still carried. Empty paper plates and sweating drink cans crowded one end where people had clearly already eaten and moved on. Two chairs sat open.
Smoke reached the table first and pulled one out with his foot before sitting in the other.
The movement was small. Easy. So easy she almost missed it, but she didn’t. Her chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because he pulled out her chair. He didn’t. It was the assumption of it. The same quiet way he used to make room for her without asking.
She adjusted her dress beneath her legs before settling into the folding chair. Annie picked up her fork.
Smoke looked at her, looked at the plate, and then back up. His eyebrows lifted slightly.
She blinked. “What?”
Something flickered across his face—just enough.
She stared at him for another second. Then immediately laughed. “Oh my Go—I mean, forgive me Jesus.” She shook her head smiling. “Sorry.” She put her fork back down.
He watched her for a second before reaching across the table and taking one of her hands. Natural, like he’d done it yesterday instead of years ago.
His hand was warm. Calloused. Her breath caught for reasons she chose not to examine.
Smoke lowered his head slightly.
“Lord, thank You for this food. Thank You for bringin’ everybody together and lettin’ us see another day. Bless the hands that prepared it. Watch over everybody here and everybody we still waitin’ on. Keep us grateful for what You give and open to receive what You send.”
His thumb brushed once lightly against the side of her hand. Then— “And let Aunt Cheryl stop threatenin’ people over them damn deviled eggs.”
Annie laughed instantly.
Around them Aunt Cheryl yelled—“I HEARD THAT.”
Smoke smiled faintly, then finished quietly. “Amen.”
“Amen.”
He let go of her hand. Too fast. Annie looked at her hand before looking back at him. Her smile softened. “You still do that.”
Smoke frowned. “Do what?”
She looked down at her plate. “Pray before you eat.”
He shrugged. “You know who raised me.”
Annie smiled. No. That wasn’t it. His mama did raise him, but Smoke had always prayed. Quietly. Consistently. Even back then. She realized she remembered that too.
Smoke unfolded his napkin and laid it across his lap before immediately reaching for the hot sauce.
Annie watched.
He caught her looking. “What?”
She smiled. “Nothin’.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
She looked down at her plate. Then up at him again. “You still put hot sauce on everything.”
Smoke looked at the bottle in his hand, then shrugged. “Food be needin’ help.”
She laughed. His mouth twitched. That surprised her more than it should have.
For a while they ate in silence. The kind of silence that would’ve felt uncomfortable with anybody else, somehow didn’t here. Around them people moved in waves—some yelling for more napkins. Children screamed somewhere near the water hose. Latimore had turned into GloRilla and half the older crowd immediately started complaining. Smoke ate slowly. Methodically. Annie realized she remembered that too.
She looked down at her own plate, and then reached for her fork.
Smoke looked over. “That all you eatin’?”
She looked up. His eyes were already on her plate again. She laughed. “You already fixed my plate, Elijah.”
His eyebrows lifted. “You eat around stuff.”
Her hand paused. “What?”
He nodded toward the plate. “You ain’t touch the beans.”
She blinked. Then looked down. He was right.Her fork had worked around the baked beans completely.
She stared. Then looked back at him. “…how you know that?”
Smoke looked confused. “You always did that.”
She laughed softly and shook her head.
That one got her. The fact he said it like it was obvious. Like eight years wasn’t enough time to forget she hated baked beans touching other food.
She picked up her fork again. “You remember weird stuff.”
He shrugged. “I remember regular stuff.”
Something about that landed heavier than she expected. She took another bite before smiling.
“You still do that.”
His eyes lifted. “Do what?”
She nodded toward his plate. “Eat like somebody gon’ grade you on it.”
One side of his mouth moved. “What that mean?”
She laughed softly. “You eat real careful.”
His eyes dropped briefly to his plate. “That’s normal.”
She smiled. “No. Stack eat normal.”
Smoke glanced over automatically.
Stack stood near the grill eating the way he did everything else—too fast, talking too much, and one distracted moment away from ruining his shirt.
Smoke looked back. “…aight.”
That made her laugh harder. His mouth moved again into an almost smile. She leaned back in her chair and looked around.
The yard felt different sitting down. Slower. The sunlight filtering through the pecan trees had softened now, turning everything warmer. Smoke from the grill drifted lazily overhead. Lisa ran by holding a juice pouch bigger than her arm while Grace chased behind her. Therise sat nearby rubbing her stomach while Cornbread argued with one of his boys about eating vegetables.
Annie looked back at Smoke. “You really built it?”
He looked up.
“The house.”
His expression softened slightly. “Oh.” He nodded. “Yeah.”
She rested her elbow lightly against the table. “How?”
He looked at her. Then looked out across the yard, like he had to decide where to start.
She realized she wanted to hear all of it. Not the short version people gave at reunions or the highlights. She wanted the real version.
The one she would’ve gotten if she never left.
Smoke realized halfway through explaining it that he was talking more than he usually did.
At first he answered the way he answered everybody else when they asked about work. Short version. Practical version. He stabbed at his red velvet cake while he talked and kept his eyes mostly on his plate.
“Started doin’ framing after high school.”
Annie looked up.
He kept going. “One of Uncle Lewis’ friends needed people. Started residential first. Learned enough to move around.”
She nodded once, listening.
Smoke kept eating. “Then commercial work. Then started doin’ jobs myself.”
She tilted her head slightly. “How old were you?”
He thought about it. “Twenty-two? Twenty-three.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “That young?”
He shrugged. “Didn’t feel young.”
She smiled a little at that.
He noticed. Then kept going.
Somewhere between another bite of food and folks across the yard yelling about cheating at dominoes, he realized he stopped giving the short version.
He told her about working in summer heat until his clothes stuck to him by noon. About learning measurements by messing things up first. About figuring out pretty quickly he liked being outside more than behind a desk. He told her how one house became two and then somehow there were people working under him before he ever felt ready for that part.
He expected her to eventually stop listening. People usually did. They asked questions because they thought houses sounded impressive, then lost interest halfway through answers.
Annie didn’t. She kept asking strange questions. Questions nobody asked. “What’s your favorite part?”
Smoke looked up. “What?”
She shrugged and took a bite of her peach cobbler. “When you build.”
He stared at her, nobody ever asked that. He thought about it. Then answered honestly. “When it stop lookin’ like work.”
She smiled. “What that mean?”
He looked out toward the yard automatically. Trying to explain. “When you first start, it's just dirt.”
She watched him.
Then he continued. “Then wood and walls. Then eventually you standin’ in somethin’ that ain’t exist six months ago.”
She nodded immediately, like she understood.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
She smiled. “You always liked that part.”
Smoke looked at her.
Her fork paused halfway to her mouth. She blinked. “What?”
He stared.
“What?”
His voice came quieter. “How you know that?”
She looked confused, then looked down and laughed. Her shoulders lifted. “You used to draw houses.”
His eyebrows pulled together.
She kept talking. “Back of notebooks.”
His chest started tightening just enough to make breathing feel different.
She looked embarrassed suddenly. “I remember weird stuff.”
Smoke looked at her. Then shook his head. “Nah.”
She looked up.
His mouth moved slightly. “You remember regular stuff.”
Something changed in her face after that, something smaller than sadness. More careful. She looked down at her plate for a second before taking another bite.
He looked away first.
The yard kept moving around them.
Cornbread was chasing one of his boys holding a rib in each hand. The music somehow got louder. Aunt Cheryl yelled at people to throw their plates away. Little Lisa was crying somewhere and Grace sounded one second from laughing and losing patience at the same time.
Smoke looked back at Annie. She was eating slower now. She always did. Then he realized something. He’d been talking almost the entire time.
He frowned slightly. “What about you?”
She looked up.
He nodded once. “What you been doin’?”
Her expression changed immediately. He recognized that too. The small pause before she answered, like she was deciding what version to give.
She looked out at the yard, then back at him and started talking. Work first. Easy things. North Carolina. Her apartment. Her routine. People she’d met.
Stories.
While she talked, Smoke realized something he wasn’t prepared for. She still told stories the same way. Started in the middle. Circled back later. Used her hands when she got excited. Apologized when she thought she was talking too much.
He listened and somewhere between hearing about grocery stores, coworkers, apartment maintenance requests and how she still hated driving in Charlotte traffic—he realized something that settled low in his chest and stayed there.
He didn’t know this version of her. Not like before, but every few minutes she’d laugh a certain way, tilt her head, or remember something small and he’d recognize her again.
By the time people started slowing down on third plates and settling into the familiar rhythm of a Southern cookout—eating, arguing, walking, sitting back down just to stand up again five minutes later—the energy in the yard softened into something looser. The loud excitement of arrivals had worn off and settled into clusters. Older folks migrated toward shade and folding chairs, paper plates balanced on laps while conversations stretched across years and family trees. Kids had already abandoned actual meals in favor of popsicles, chips, and running themselves sick. The music changed again. Luther faded into Dru Hill for a minute before somebody protested and switched it back.
Geneva appeared carrying a clear plastic storage tub against her hip with the same expression she always wore before causing problems.
Nobody noticed at first, except Aunt Cheryl. She pointed immediately . “Ah hell nah.”
Geneva ignored her and kept walking.
Stack spotted the tub next and groaned. “Put them fuckin’ pictures back, mane.”
That got everybody’s attention. People started reacting before she even reached the tables.
“Not today.”
“Who got old pictures?”
“Geneva don’t start.”
Geneva dropped the tub onto an empty section of the buffet table between the leftover buns and a sweating pitcher of sweet tea. “I was cleanin’ closets.”
Nobody believed that.
The pictures came out anyway.
It happened naturally after that. People stopped eating long enough to drift over and look. Hands started reaching. Some found an elementary school picture and immediately started roasting hairstyles. Someone else found old prom photos. A cousin started lying about ages and got corrected instantly. Kids kept trying to grab pictures and getting their hands smacked away before somebody else handed them disposable cameras from another pile to distract them.
Annie ended up near the table without meaning to. Smoke ended up there too beside her. Close enough, but nobody commented.
Geneva stood flipping through a stack while narrating to nobody in particular.“Lord look at this.”
“Oh this was ugly.”
“Who dressed us, the fuck?”
People leaned in and out around her shoulder. Grace had Lisa balanced against one hip while trying to steal bites off Bo’s plate at the same time. Therise sat lower in her chair rubbing absent circles over her stomach while one of her boys climbed halfway into her lap. Pearline had somehow inserted herself directly into the center of everything and Stack kept appearing over her shoulder anytime she laughed.
Geneva flipped one more. Stopped. Looked again and her face changed. Her eyebrows climbed and her mouth opened slightly before she made a low noise in her throat.
“Aww shit.”
That caught more attention than yelling would have. People turned.
“What?”
Geneva stared another second, and looked up. Her eyes moved once to Annie and Smoke, then back down. A sneaky ass smile started pulling at her mouth. She held the picture against her chest.
“Oh y’all thought y’all was slick.”
Immediately everybody wanted to see. Pearline reached for the picture, but Geneva pulled away.
Stack tried to reach for it and again, Geneva pulled away.
Grace leaned forward laughing. “Move!”
Geneva laughed and finally handed the picture over.
Pearline took the photograph and immediately stopped smiling.
At first Annie thought she was joking, waiting for some exaggerated reaction or teasing comment, but Pearline just looked down at the picture for a long time. Her eyes moved once across the image, then lifted slowly toward Annie before drifting across the table toward Smoke and back down again. Something changed in her face—it wasn't a shock exactly, more recognition mixed with the satisfaction of finally having evidence for something she already suspected.
Her mouth stretched into a grin. “Oh y’all was bad.”
That was enough.
People started reaching automatically. Stack tried to take it and got smacked away. Bo leaned halfway across Grace to see. A cousin behind them started asking questions before they’d even seen it. The picture moved from hand to hand through overlapping reactions and commentary until eventually it ended up in Annie’s hands.
The photograph looked older than it actually was. Printed on glossy paper that had picked up faint bends and fingerprints over the years, the colors had softened just enough to make the whole thing feel warmer than real life. Like memory had edited it.
Summer sunlight flattened everything into soft gold. Somebody’s backyard stretched behind them in a blur of folding chairs, coolers, and people half-cut out of frame. Stack stood in the background throwing up signs with his hands. Smoke sat in one of those cheap ass woven lawn chairs that somehow survived every cookout, stretched out in a white t-shirt and basketball shorts, looking mildly irritated that a camera was pointed in his direction.
And Annie—She stared.
She was asleep, actually asleep.Her head rested against Smoke’s shoulder and her body had turned naturally toward him in the way people did when they trusted something enough to stop paying attention to it. One hand sat folded beneath her cheek. Her legs had curled in his direction.
But her attention kept returning to something she hadn’t noticed immediately. Smoke’s arm.
It rested around her side.
Not wrapped tightly, but it looked absentminded almost—his forearm curved behind her, hand resting lightly against her body as if steadying her had become automatic somewhere along the day and nobody thought enough of it to move. The thing that unsettled her most was that he wasn’t even looking at her. He’d been talking to somebody outside the frame. His expression looked normal. Like there was nothing unusual about any of it.
Annie stared harder. She remembered that cookout. She was fourteen at the time. She remembered being tired as hell. She remembered being hot and eating too much and probably complaining about something.
She did not remember this though.
Around her the conversation started unfolding the way family memories always did—not one person telling a story while everybody listened, but people remembering sideways together.
“Oh I remember that.”
“That was Barbara backyard. She done gone to Glory now.”
“She had worked that morning.”
“She fell asleep outside?”
Grace leaned farther in and laughed before pointing directly at Smoke.
“Wait. Why she sleep on you?”
Smoke looked once at the picture. His shoulders moved. “She was tired.”
That answer got a louder reaction than the picture itself.
Stack stared at him in disbelief. “That’s your defense?”
Smoke looked confused. “What else was she supposed to do?”
People started laughing harder.
Aunt Cheryl wandered over carrying sweet tea and looked down at the picture. Her face changed immediately.
“Oh yeah.”
Everybody turned.
She pointed with her cup. “She passed out after she ate.”
Another auntie laughed. “He carried her inside later.”
Smoke frowned. “No I didn’t.”
That got corrected immediately from three different directions. “Yes you did.”
Geneva pointed at the picture. “You carried her upstairs and put her in Barbara room.”
Another cousin jumped in. “You wouldn’t let nobody wake her.”
Smoke looked offended now. “That is not what happened.”
Uncle Lewis finally looked over from where he’d been eating and didn’t even pause before answering. “You said she wake up irritated and you ain’t want folks botherin’ her.”
The yard lost it.
Smoke looked personally betrayed. Geneva kept flipping. Another picture surfaced. Football game. Annie wearing a hoodie too big. Smoke’s. Smoke beside her. Another cookout. Smoke fixing her plate. Another. School event. A group photo. People spread out across the frame. Except somehow Annie and Smoke were always touching. Shoulders brushing, knees angled together. Standing too close. Leaning or looking enough that once people started noticing it became impossible to stop.
Grace took one and looked down for a long second before slowly lifting her eyes. Her smile faded slightly.
“Oh.”
Nobody answered.
She looked again. Then back up. “Oh y’all was together together.”
That quieted things more than the teasing had.
Aunt Cheryl looked over casually. “I always knew.”
People looked at her.
She shrugged. “What?”
Her eyes moved toward Smoke. “That boy looked for her before he did anything.”
Another auntie nodded immediately. “If Annie wasn’t outside he wasn’t stayin’ outside long.”
Someone laughed. Another added—“She sat beside him everywhere.”
Lewis pointed with his fork. “That boy built his whole schedule around her.”
Smoke immediately objected. “Mane, Unc—”
Stack started laughing immediately and pointed toward Uncle Lewis. “Nah, Unc—you right. You right.”
Smoke turned instantly. “Shut the fuck up, mane.”
Stack ignored him completely. “Practice over?” He nodded dramatically. “Where Annie.”
People started laughing harder.
Stack kept going. “Weekend?” Another nod. “Where Annie.”
He pointed toward Smoke with his cup. “Lunch?” Shrug. “Did Annie eat?”
Cornbread barked out laughing.
Stack looked around the group like he’d just solved a mystery. “Damn. This nigga ain’t have no hobbies.”
Annie looked over at Smoke. Smoke refused eye contact.
Aunt Cheryl took another sip and looked down at more photographs in front of her and began shaking her head. Her voice softened.
“I really thought y’all was gon’ get married.”
Nobody laughed, because it didn’t shock them, she sounded sincere.
Her eyes moved between Annie and Smoke before settling back onto the pictures.
“Y’all was serious.” She smiled faintly. “Then Annie moved.”
The conversation didn’t stop after that. Somewhere behind them kids screamed over a water hose, others argued about ribs. Foil crinkled. But Annie looked back down at her fourteen-year-old self sleeping against Smoke and realized something she had never considered before.
They thought they had been private while everybody else had been watching them fall in love.
Aunt Cheryl took another sip of her sweet tea and continued casually—“I told yo’ mama to let you stay with me.”
The noise around the table kept moving for another second before it stalled.
Annie looked up. “Ma’am?”
Aunt Cheryl looked at her like she’d forgotten Annie didn’t know. “When y’all moved,” she shrugged lightly. “I told her leave you here with us so you could finish school.”
Smoke looked over, actually looked.
Pearline frowned. “You did?”
Before Cheryl could answer another voice floated over.
“She did.”
Everybody turned. Pearline’s mother Maxine stepped out from the house carrying a wine glass and one of those paper plates bending under too much food.
She looked between them. “We both did.” She sat down carefully. “We told your mama movin’ you your senior year wasn’t right if she didn’t have to.”
Annie stared.
Maxine shrugged. “Especially when you already basically lived over here.” She gave a small laugh. “You and…” she pointed toward Pearline. “…Pea.”
Pearline groaned immediately. “Mamaaa, please stop callin’ me that.”
Maxine ignored her. “…came home cryin’.”
Annie blinked. “What?”
Aunt Cheryl nodded once. “You don’t remember?”
And suddenly she remembered. The memory came back the way it always did—through feeling first and details second. Cardboard boxes stacked against her bedroom wall. Her mother kneeling beside an open suitcase folding shirts with the kind of quiet focus that usually meant her mind was already somewhere else. Annie standing in the doorway pretending she wasn’t crying yet.
She remembered asking casually the first time. What if I stay with Pearline for the year?
Her mother hadn’t even looked up. No.
Annie remembered trying again later. Different day. Different approach. What if I stay with Aunt Cheryl?
That time her mother paused long enough for hope to show up where it shouldn’t have. Then— Baby, we already talked about this.
Annie remembered stepping farther into the room. I’ll come to North Carolina after graduation.
Her mother finally looked at her then. You comin’ with me.
Final.
Back then Annie thought that had been the whole conversation. She thought she asked, her mother said no, and life kept moving.
Sitting here now with a faded photograph in her hands and Aunt Cheryl looking at her over sweet tea, she realized there had been other conversations after she left the room. Adult conversations. Aunt Cheryl and Aunt Max offering. Them trying. People who saw her life here and tried to protect it in ways she never knew. And suddenly the ache sitting in her chest wasn’t about moving anymore. It was realizing she hadn’t imagined wanting to stay.
She looked back at Aunt Cheryl. “…you asked?”
Aunt Cheryl nodded.
Maxine took a sip. “She wasn’t hearin’ it.”
Nobody said anything more after that.
Annie looked down at the photograph again. Fourteen. Asleep on Smoke. Everybody thinking they had time. Her chest tightened worse. Not at her mother. Her mother had done what she thought was right, but suddenly—for the first time—she saw another version.
Senior year. One more year. Graduation. Prom. Football games. One more summer. One more year with him.
Her eyes lifted before she meant them to. Smoke was already looking at her. For the first time all afternoon—he looked surprised as well, like this changed something for him too.
Annie swallowed and set the picture down carefully.
Pearline looked up immediately. “Annie?”
Annie forced a small smile. “…I need a drink.”
She started walking away before she started mourning something she never realized she almost had.
Annie started moving before she fully decided to.
Her hand left the photograph and settled automatically against the edge of the table while her mind tried to reorganize itself around information she hadn’t known existed five minutes earlier.
Around them the cookout continued uninterrupted. Mike asked where the hamburger buns went. Children ran past with wet shirts and popsicles staining their mouths. One of the older men near the domino table laughed so loudly the sound carried over the music.
Normal.
The whole yard stayed normal. Which somehow made the ache sitting low in Annie’s chest feel sharper.
She smiled automatically and leaned her weight backward.
“I’m finna go get—”
Her voice stopped from surprise. Smoke’s hand had closed loosely around hers. For a second she looked at their hands before she looked at him.
He hadn’t moved otherwise. He was still standing near the table. Same expression mostly. But something had changed. The usual restraint she remembered in him had slipped somewhere while everybody talked. His face looked quieter now. Less guarded. Like he’d stopped paying attention to the people around them without realizing it.
When he finally spoke, his voice stayed low enough that she almost missed it beneath the noise.
“You asked to stay?”
She looked at him and suddenly she understood that he wasn’t asking for clarification. He was asking if what they said was true.
Her chest tightened.
She looked away first trying to find the right version of the answer. She gave a small laugh that disappeared almost immediately.
“Yeah.”
Her thumb stirred once beneath his hand.
“I asked.” She swallowed. “Then I asked again.” A small smile pulled briefly at her mouth. “And again.”
Her shoulders lifted slightly. “Till she finally had to tell me stop askin’.”
Annie said it so lightly, like something she’d made peace with a long time ago.
But Smoke’s face changed. His eyes stayed on her longer than before and she felt his thumb move once against the side of her hand before he seemed to realize what he was doing and went still again.
When he spoke again his voice sounded different—honest in a way she wasn’t prepared for.
“I thought you wanted to leave.”
Her head turned immediately in confusion. “What?”
His eyes dropped briefly before coming back to her. His jaw flexed once, then his shoulders moved in the smallest shrug.
“I thought you was ready.”
Annie stared at him—something uncomfortable and sad opened inside her. Not because of what he said, but because she understood. She thought he knew. Thought he understood she didn’t want to go. Thought he knew she cried every night. All this time he thought she left and learned how to live without him.
Her eyebrows pulled together. Her answer came before she could edit it.
“I never wanted to leave.”
Smoke looked at her the way people look when they realize they’ve been carrying the wrong version of a story for years and suddenly don’t know where to put it.
Neither of them moved or acknowledged they were still holding hands.
The yard kept moving around them anyway. Music changed. Coolers opening. Aunt Cheryl started yelling about sweet tea.
But something had changed. Not outside.
Between them.
Annie looked at him and realized she had been carrying guilt she never examined. Smoke looked at her and realized he’d been carrying rejection that wasn’t real. For one impossible second she wondered how many years they had both spent grieving two completely different versions of the same goodbye.
Then a voice came from in front of them.
Familiar.
Close enough that it belonged there.
“Hey...”
The moment broke. Smoke turned. Annie turned too.
Jada stood a few feet away with an expensive handbag in her hand and sunglasses pushed up into her curls. She looked like somebody who had arrived late to something ordinary.
Her eyes landed on Smoke first. Then lowered… stopped.
Annie followed her gaze.
Their hands.
Jada looked up again. This time at Annie.
Annie turned back toward Smoke automatically and for the first time all day she couldn’t read his face. He didn’t pull away and he didn’t tighten his grip either. If anything, he seemed to become aware of the moment at the exact same time she did.
His eyes moved to Jada and stayed there for a second before coming back to Annie. She watched something pass across his face—surprise first, then something she couldn’t organize quickly enough to understand. His hand remained around hers for another second before his fingers eased away gradually, not dropping her hand, but releasing it carefully, almost reluctantly, like he had become aware of the touch at the same moment she had.
Annie looked down briefly before lifting her eyes again. The feeling that hit her wasn’t embarrassment or even disappointment. It felt stranger than that. For one impossible second she had forgotten there was a world outside of this conversation, and now it had returned all at once with names, history and context attached to it.
But underneath all of that sat another realization arriving slower than the others.
Jada didn’t look confused. She looked surprised to see Annie. Not surprised to see Smoke.
And suddenly Annie became aware of something. The ease in the way Jada approached them. The familiarity in her voice when she said his name. The way she stepped into his space without hesitation, like she already knew she had the right to be there.
Like she belonged there.
Nobody spoke. Then somewhere behind them at exactly the same time—
Stack said quietly—
“…oh shit.”
Pearline whispered—
“…fuck.”
End Note: Soooo....yeah. This chapter did NOT go as I planned. This was supposed to be the blow out, but I swear these characters have a mind of their own. They take me where THEY want to go. But I hope you liked this chapter and next chapter (I promise) is where it all goes down!
Summary: Annie thought coming home would feel familiar. Instead, it feels dangerous. One look across Stack’s apartment and eight years suddenly don’t mean a damn thing anymore. Old feelings rise fast, old tensions follow even faster, and somewhere in the middle of all of it looms a cookout neither Annie nor Smoke are emotionally prepared for. Especially once Pearline realizes Smoke might not be showing up alone.
A/N: This was NEVER supposed to turn into a multi-chapter fic 😭 It was truly meant to be a one-and-done little angst moment and now here we are… deep in everybody’s feelings. I hope y’all enjoy this chapter of what I like to call: the quiet before the storm. 🤐
WC: 10k
The plane lands and Annie feels it in her chest before the wheels even settle, a quiet drop that has nothing to do with altitude. She stays seated, fingers curled around the strap of her purse. She hears the seatbelt signs ding, people stand, some stretch, others reach for their bags and fall into the aisle like this is routine.
Her carry-on sits in the overhead bin above her, untouched. She watches the passengers go. Row by row. Voice after voice fading toward the exit.
No rush. No urgency. Just movement she doesn’t join because as long as she’s still sitting here… she’s not really here yet.
The cabin empties around her. The noise dies down to something softer. Distant. A flight attendant murmurs something near the front. A bag wheel drags faint across the aisle, then disappears.
And then—it’s quiet.
Annie exhales slowly, her hand coming up to rest against the edge of the seat in front of her.
There’s nothing left to wait on.
She stands, reaching up for her bag, fingers closing around the handle without hesitation, but she still pauses once it’s in her hands. Just for a second—like this is it.
She steps into the aisle walking forward, and this time there’s nothing slowing her down but herself. It all feels too normal for something that didn’t feel small when she decided to do it. She tells herself it’s just a trip. A visit. Something quick. Something she can leave if it goes left. Her mouth presses thin at that, because she knows that’s not true.
Not really.
The airport air greets her the same way it always does, cool and overworked, carrying a faint mix of coffee, cleaning solution, and people moving in every direction at once. She walks with the crowd, not rushing, and not dragging either. She’s keeping pace until she reaches baggage claim. The carousel hums, metal groaning under the weight of suitcases circling over and over. Annie stands with her arms folded, eyes scanning without really seeing, her mind running ahead of her. Eight years. She says it again in her head as if it’ll sound differently the second time.
It doesn’t.
Her suitcase comes around eventually, the one she packed late the night before, half her things folded, half thrown in when she started thinking too much. She grips the handle, pulls it down, and sets it upright beside her. For a second she considers calling Pearline asking where she is. Instead, she heads for the exit.
The doors slide open and the air outside hits different—warmer, heavier, carrying that familiar weight she hasn’t felt in years. It settles over her shoulders without asking. The sounds come with it, engines idling, horns tapping, voices calling out across the pickup lane. Annie steps off to the side, out of the main flow, her hand resting on the handle of her suitcase while she scans the line of cars pulling up and pulling off. Her heart beats a little faster than she wants it to, a quiet rhythm she can’t quite calm.
She checks her phone. No new messages. Of course not.
She exhales through her nose and looks up again just as a familiar voice cuts loudly through the noise. “There’s my bestie!!”
Annie turned at the sound. Pearline was halfway out of the car, door wide open, eyes locked on her with the biggest grin on her face. Her brown skin was warm under the light. Her edges laid clean, hair pulled back into a long, sleek ponytail that fell down her back. She wore a fitted tank and loose shorts sitting easy on her hips, her gold earrings gleaming in the sun. Everything about her gave effortless.
“Girl,” Pearline says, walking straight into her space, arms wrapping around her before Annie can say anything.
Annie laughs into it, the sound coming out lighter than she feels, hugging her back just as tight. “Hey, Line.”
“You really here,” Pearline murmurs, pulling back just enough to look at her, hands still on her arms like she’s making sure she’s real. “I thought you was playin’.”
“I almost was,” Annie admits.
Pearline snorts. “I know. That’s why I ain’t believe you.”
Annie rolls her eyes, but it doesn’t hold. There’s something grounding about Pearline standing right in front of her, familiar in a way that doesn’t require explanation.
“Let me see you,” Pearline says, stepping back, eyes dragging over her with open approval. “Okay… you came down here lookin’ like this on purpose.”
Annie huffs out a small laugh. “Please.”
“Nah, fren. You look good.”
Annie shrugs it off, but her hand smooths over her shirt anyway, a small, unconscious motion. The fabric sits soft against her skin, one shoulder left bare, the neckline dipping just enough to show she thought about it longer than she’ll admit. The baby blue lounge set hugs her easy without trying, the kind of outfit that looks simple until you notice how it falls.
Her braids trail down her back, long knotless boho plaits with loose waves woven through, catching movement when she does. Fresh. Neat. Intentional.
Pearline reaches for Annie’s suitcase without asking, already turning toward the car. “Come on. Before they start blowin’ at me.”
Annie follows, rolling her carry-on behind her as Pearline pops the trunk and lifts the larger suitcase in. Annie angles the smaller one beside it. Pearline shuts the trunk and moves around to the driver’s side. Annie heads for the passenger door, sliding into the seat, purse sliding off her shoulder. Pearline gets in a second later, the doors shutting one after the other, sealing them into a smaller space, the outside noise dropping to a dull hum.
At first, neither of them says anything.
Pearline pulls out into traffic, one hand on the wheel, the other resting easy.
Annie looks out the window, watching the road open up in front of them, something tight settling low in her chest.
“You ok?” Pearline asks, not looking at her yet.
Annie nods once, even though Pearline can’t see it. “Yeah.”
Pearline glances over anyway. “Mm.”
Annie lets out a breath that doesn’t fully release anything. “I’m here,” she says, quieter now.
Pearline nods, like that’s enough for now. “Yeah,” she says. “You here.”
The house sits back off the road, gravel crunching under the tires as Jada pulls in. Late afternoon light cuts across the front windows, making the new build look sharper and cleaner than it probably is.
“Tell me this ain’t a good one,” Jada says, cutting the engine.
Smoke takes a moment, eyes scanning the exterior lines, the lot, the roof pitch. “It’s solid.”
She smiles, satisfied, already reaching for the door handle. “I know it is.”
They step out, the heat sitting heavier here, quieter than the job site, no machines, no noise—just space.
Jada leads the way up the short walk, unlocking the door and pushing it open. “Watch your step,” she says over her shoulder, already inside.
The air is cool and smells of fresh paint and new wood. The place echoes, empty and full of potential.
Jada immediately slips into real estate mode, walking him through the house with easy confidence. “Three bed, two and a half bath,” she says, leading him into the open living area. “Good natural light in the mornings. Owners are asking for three-fifty, but they’re motivated. They need to close quick.”
Smoke follows a half-step behind, moving like the foreman he is. His hand drags along the drywall, pressing lightly to check how solid it feels. He taps a knuckle against a support beam, eyes narrowing at the trim work in the corners.
“Who built it?” he asks.
“Local crew,” she says.
Smoke’s hand drags briefly along the counter edge again. “Mm.”
Jada glances at him. “What?”
He looks toward the ceiling line, then the trim near the doorway. “Corners lazy.”
She laughs immediately. “Boy, please, don’t start.”
“I ain’t start nothin’,” he says, a faint smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
Jada keeps going. “Kitchen’s decent. Not gourmet, but the layout works. I’m thinking I might make an offer myself — flip it. Put in better finishes, maybe extend the island, update the backsplash. Could turn a solid profit in six months.”
She glances back at him, expecting the usual thoughtful input.
Smoke nods, but his response is delayed. “Yeah… layout’s good.”
His fingers trail along the wall again as they move into the hallway. He crouches slightly to check the baseboards, then stands and tests a door hinge. The motions are automatic. Professional.
But his mind is somewhere else.
“…I thought you were saying goodbye.”
Annie’s voice from the phone call keeps cutting in. The way it softened on his name. The hesitation. The way he’d shut her down — flat, cold, final. He clenches his jaw. He’s pissed at himself for how easily she got under his skin after eight years. Pissed that one phone call had him replaying old shit he thought he’d buried.
Jada leads him into the primary bedroom. “This is the money room. Closet’s decent size. Bathroom has that nice tub — that’s what sells it to couples.” She turns, gesturing toward the windows. “Backyard’s big enough for a deck or even a small pool if someone wanted to go crazy.”
Smoke steps past her, running his palm over the painted wall, checking for imperfections. He glances out the window at the yard, but his eyes are unfocused. In his head he hears his own voice again — “…ain’t no ‘us,’ Annie.” — and feels a flicker of regret he doesn’t expect.
Jada stops talking. She watches him for a long moment, arms slowly crossing.
“You good?” she asks.
Smoke blinks, pulling himself back. “Uh huh.”
Too quick. Too flat.
Jada’s eyes narrow. She leans against the doorframe, studying him. “You been here in body, Smoke, but your mind been somewhere else since we walked through that front door. I’m talkin’ about flippin’ this house, making money, and you barely nodding at me.”
“I’m listenin’.”
“No, you hearin’ me,” she says. “That ain’t the same thing.”
He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. Annie’s words hit him again — “I was wrong.” — and the irritation at himself flares hotter. He shouldn’t still care this much.
Jada watches him quietly another second. “Did somethin’ happen?”
Smoke shakes his head once. “Nah.”
A lie.
Not a full one. But enough.
Jada’s mouth presses thin. “Okay.”
Minutes pass. Then another.
And when he still doesn’t offer anything else, something in her expression changes. Not anger. Something more tired than that.
Jada looks at him for another second before speaking again. “You ever see this bein’ more than what it is?”
Smoke’s gaze flickers toward her.
Brief.
Guarded.
The room goes quiet around them.
“I thought we was clear about what this was,” he says carefully.
Jada nods once. “We were, but—but clear don’t mean feelings disappear.”
That settles heavier than he expects.
She exhales softly, stepping closer, arms uncrossing. “I’m not askin’ for the world. I’m not askin’ you to move in or slap a label on us. But I’m tired of feeling like I’m the only one even thinkin’ ahead sometimes.”
The silence stretches.
Smoke looks at her. Really looks. For half a second he imagines leaning into what she’s offering — something stable, no ghosts. It would be simpler.
But Annie’s voice is still there.
Jada continues, voice softening with old hurt. “I liked you since we was in high school, you know. For real. You were always so wrapped up in sports, running the streets, chasing after…” She catches herself, the name Annie almost slipping out. She swallows it when she sees the slight shift in his eyes. “Chasing after what you wanted. I told myself it was whatever. We were young.”
She lets out a shaky breath. “Then we got together and it felt different. Easier. At least for me. I know what we said this was. I know. But sometimes I let myself forget that I’m the one waiting for you to show up all the way. And that shit hurts more than I thought it would.”
Smoke feels the weight of both women now, one standing right in front of him, the other lodged in his head. He’s angry at himself for letting Annie crack the seal he’d kept closed for years.
“I’m not trying to play games with you,” he says finally, voice low and even. “You know that. I told you from the beginnin’ what I got room for right now. I’m focused on work, building. I’m not in a place to give more than what we already doin’.”
Jada searches his face, eyes glistening. “Then why does it feel like even what we are doing is starting to change? You been distant. Like your mind somewhere else every time I touch you.”
She steps back, folding her arms. “Be honest wit me, Smoke. What’s up?”
He doesn’t flinch or look away, but the question lodges heavy beneath his ribs, pressing against things he’d rather leave alone.
A long breath leaves him.
“Some old shit came back up,” he says finally, voice lower now. “And I ain’t figured out what to do with it yet.”
The fact that he admitted even that means it matters more than he wants it to.
Jada watches him carefully, because that’s not nothing, and the fact that he admitted even that means it matters more than he wants it to.
Jada studies him for another second, something tight moving across her face.
“Okay,” she says quietly. “That make sense.”
A bitter kind of understanding settles into the room after that. Not relief. Just the realization that the distance she’d been feeling wasn’t in her head after all.
She turns toward the hallway, shoulders looser. “Come on. You ain’t even seen the backyard yet.”
Smoke follows.
Present in body.
But his mind is still split — half here with Jada, half stuck on a phone call he wishes hadn’t affected him at all.
And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t know which pull feels heavier.
The restaurant hums around them, loud enough to blur into background noise after a while. Grease crackles behind the counter. Somebody near the jukebox keeps laughing too hard at their own jokes. Plates clink. Sweet tea sweats against the table beneath Annie’s hand.
Pearline leans forward across the booth, fries halfway to her mouth already laughing before she can even finish the story.
“I’m checking this man in yesterday,” she says, shaking her head. “And he kept calling me ‘young lady’ every five seconds.”
Annie snorts softly. “Uh oh.”
“No, listen. So I ask for his insurance card, right? This man gon’ lean over the counter talmbout, ‘I got somethin’ else I can give you too.’”
Annie immediately groans. “Oh my God.”
Pearline points at her with the fry. “Mind you—this man had to be at least sixty.”
Annie bursts out laughing.
“Sixty is insane.”
“I said sir,” Pearline continues, barely holding her own laugh together now, “‘the only thing I need from you is a copay and a blood pressure reading.’”
Annie folds forward against the table laughing hard enough her shoulders shake.
“You did not say that.”
“I absolutely did.”
“You so ignorant.”
“And employed,” Pearline says proudly.
Annie wipes beneath one eye, still laughing. “See, this why old people love you though.”
Pearline gasps dramatically. “Love WHO? That man had compression socks on.”
Annie nearly chokes on her drink.
“Line!”
“I’m serious! One wrong step and his circulation gone.”
“You don’t want an older man no more?” Annie teases, grinning now. “I thought you liked older.”
Pearline rolls her eyes. “Older, Annie. Not social security old.”
Annie loses it again.
The sound leaves her before she can stop it, loud and full and real enough that a couple people glance over smiling. Pearline starts laughing harder seeing Annie laugh, both of them leaning into the kind of silliness that only comes easy with people who knew you before life got complicated.
For a little while, the tight feeling sitting inside Annie loosens.
Not completely.
But enough that she forgets herself for a minute.
Then the front door opens.
Warm air pushes briefly through the restaurant along with the low murmur of voices from outside. Somebody steps in laughing. Another person behind them complaining about parking.
Annie barely looks up at first.
Pearline keeps talking, still smiling to herself while she reaches for another fry. “And then this man gon’ ask me if I was married—”
Something pulls low through Annie’s chest.
Faint.
Strange enough that her attention drifts before she understands why. The feeling curls slow beneath her ribs, familiar in a way that makes her stomach tighten.
But her eyes move toward the front of the restaurant anyway. People crowd near the entrance waiting to be seated. Somebody brushes past carrying takeout bags. Plates clatter behind the counter.
Normal. Everything normal. Still—that feeling lingers. Like her body recognized something before her mind caught up.
Across the restaurant, Smoke pauses halfway through pulling his wallet from his pocket. A faint crease forms between his brows. Jada is saying something beside him, voice low, easy, but it blurs at the edges for a second beneath the sudden pull in his chest.
Not pain. Not memory either. Something sharper than that.
Attention.
His eyes move across the restaurant slowly without meaning to. Over booths. Over faces. Over movement. Searching for something he can’t name.
Jada notices the pause immediately. “What?”
Smoke looks back at her after a second. “I don’t know,” and he means it, because the feeling makes no sense.
Pearline watches Annie carefully now. “You okay?”
Annie wets her lips lightly before nodding once. “Yeah.”
Lie.
A soft one this time.
The restaurant suddenly feels smaller than it did five minutes ago. Louder too. The laughter around them blending into something harder to separate.
Her fingers curl around her glass.
Across the room, Smoke finally looks away, attention dragged back toward the hostess speaking to him. The feeling eases… barely, but enough that both of them let it go without understanding why.
Pearline leans back slowly against the booth, eyes narrowing slightly while she watches Annie stare down into her drink.
Then quietly, “…you felt that?”
Annie’s eyes lift immediately.
Too fast.
Pearline sees it right away.
And Annie hates that she does.
“What are you talking about?” Annie asks.
Pearline’s eyes drift toward the front of the restaurant out of instinct more than anything else.
Understanding flickers across Pearline’s face slow and quiet after that.
Then she looks back at Annie, staring at her for a little longer, something unreadable passing briefly across her face.
Then she picks up her drink.
“Mm,” she says quietly. “Never mind.”
And somehow—that feels worse.
A lamp glows low in the living room of Pearline’s apartment while soft music plays from Pearline’s phone in the kitchen, the sound muffled beneath running water and cabinet doors opening and closing. Outside, tires hiss faint across wet pavement from an earlier rain. Laughter in the distance. Then even that fades too.
Annie stands in the bathroom mirror wiping the last traces of makeup from beneath her eyes. Her reflection stares back at her looking softer now. Tired around the edges.
Too aware.
Steam still clings faint against the mirror from her shower. Annie stands there a moment longer gathering her braids up carefully, twisting the long plaits over one shoulder before tucking them beneath a satin bonnet. By the time she finishes, a few loose curls still frame the edges of her face, damp against her skin.
The soft pajama set hangs easy against her body—thin straps, fitted shorts, the material cool and smooth against freshly lotioned skin. The house smells faintly like fabric softener and shea butter. Home. Or close enough to confuse her body into believing it. She braces both hands against the counter and lowers her head for a second.
That feeling in the restaurant keeps replaying. The sudden pull low in her chest. The strange awareness crawling over her skin before she even understood why.
Then Pearline’s face after.
Never mind.
Annie exhales sharply through her nose because Pearline saw something. She knows she did. And somehow that feels worse than if she’d said it out loud.
Annie straightens again, staring at herself. “You are twenty-five years old,” she mutters softly. “Get a grip.” But her stomach twists anyway, because the feeling back at the restaurant hadn’t felt random. Now her mind keeps circling back to the impossible question.
Did he feel it too?
The thought comes fast enough to irritate her immediately. This is ridiculous. Eight years gone and suddenly she’s standing in a bathroom spiraling over a feeling she can’t even explain?
Except—deep down—she knows the feeling had something to do with him. Even without seeing him. Even without proof.
The realization settles slowly, heavily.
All day she kept telling herself she came here for clarity. Closure. Conversation. Something mature. Safe.
Now? Now she knows better.
Her chest tightens gradually beneath the weight of it. Closure never made somebody board a plane. Closure never made somebody hold onto a voice for nearly a decade. Closure never made her react before she even saw his face.
Annie closes her eyes briefly.
And there it is.
Quiet.
Ugly.
True.
She still loves him.
The realization moves through her body so clean it almost makes her angry. Not teenage nostalgia. Not curiosity. Not unfinished business.
Love.
Grown now. Older. Heavier. Still alive after everything she did to bury it.
A knock taps softly against the bathroom door before she can sink any deeper into it.
“You alive in there?” Pearline calls.
Annie clears her throat quickly. “Yeah.”
“You want wine or you still pretending to have self-control?”
Despite herself, Annie laughs softly.
“Wine.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Annie looks at herself one last time before turning the bathroom light off. But even lying in bed later, wine half-finished on the nightstand beside her, sleep refuses to come. Moonlight stretches pale across the ceiling. Her phone rests face down near her hip.
Every few minutes she fights the urge to pick it up. To text him. To ask him something she doesn’t even fully understand herself. Instead she stares upward listening to the soft hum of the ceiling fan in her room.
And somewhere between one breath and the next, her chest aches with the terrifying realization that seeing him again might actually ruin her life a little.
—
Across town, Smoke sits alone on his back porch.
The night air hangs warm against his skin, carrying the smell of rain soaked dirt and cigarette smoke curling slowly from between his fingers. Crickets hum steady through the dark tree line bordering the yard.
His phone rests face down beside him. Unread messages. Ignored phone calls. Inside, the television plays low to nobody. He drags another pull from the cigarette, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the fence line.
The restaurant sits under his skin wrong. Not the food. Not Jada.
The feeling.
That strange pull in his chest the second he walked through the door.
His jaw tightens faintly.
Jada clocked it too.
Smoke exhales smoke slowly through his nose before leaning forward, forearms resting against his knees.
“…some old shit came back up.”
The words sound weaker now than they did earlier. Too vague. Too clean for what it actually feels like, because the truth is uglier than that. The truth is one phone call cracked open something he spent years sealing shut.
And tonight? Tonight it felt close. Close enough to touch.
His tongue drags slowly across the inside of his cheek. He still hears her voice sometimes if he sits still too long.
I thought you were saying goodbye.
Smoke closes his eyes briefly. That part keeps digging at him, because she really believed that. Believed he was trying to leave her first. A humorless laugh leaves him low beneath his breath. Whole time he was trying to hand her every part of himself he didn’t know how to say out loud.
The cigarette burns lower between his fingers.
His phone buzzes once. He doesn’t move immediately. Then finally grabs it without much interest.
Jada.
You made it home?
His thumb hovers briefly over the screen.
A good woman. Patient. Beautiful. Trying, and still…his chest stays tangled somewhere else entirely.
Smoke stares at the message another second before typing back.
Yeah.
The response sends. Short. Same way he always does.
But afterward he sits there staring out into the dark feeling more alone than he has in years.
The next afternoon arrives thick with heat and sunlight baked deep into the pavement. Pearline’s car smells faintly of vanilla and fries from the drive-thru bag sitting between them while Annie scrolls through the grocery list on her phone.
“You really invited half the town over for this cookout?” Annie asks.
Pearline keeps one hand on the wheel, sunglasses pushed high on her nose. “Please. People heard you was back and invited themselves.”
Pearline laughs loud at that, reaching over to steal one of Annie’s fries before Annie smacks her hand away.
“Girl!”
“You got plenty.”
“You literally driving. Focus on the road.”
“I am focused.”
“You almost merged into that truck.”
Pearline sucks her teeth dramatically. “See? This why I don’t miss you.”
Annie smiles despite herself, leaning back into the seat. Warm air curls through the cracked window, brushing against the loose pieces escaping from the long braided ponytail draped over her shoulder.
Her phone chimes against her thigh.
Pearline glances over. “Who is that?”
Annie looks down.
Mama.
Her chest softens instantly.
“Mama. She checkin’ in,” Annie murmurs.
Pearline smiles faintly. “Tell Auntie I said hey.”
Annie types out a quick I’m good. We out runnin’ errands. Love you before setting the phone back down.
Before she can say anything else, Pearline’s phone rings through the speakers.
Stack’s laugh comes low and filthy through the speakers. “Yeah, you know what. You was screaming my name last week when my tongue was deep in that puss—”
“STACK, OH MY GOD!” Pearline yells, eyes wide with horror as she frantically turns the volume down. “Shut the hell up!”
Annie folds forward laughing immediately, one hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking so hard she can barely breathe.
Stack cackles through the speakers.
“Nah, don’t act shy now.”
“Elias, shut UP.” Pearline’s entire face twists in pure mortification. She glares at the phone like she can somehow fight him through it.
“You wasn’t tellin’ me shut up then.”
Pearline slaps the steering wheel. “Annie in the car!”
Silence.
Then—
“…OH SHIT.”
Annie completely loses it.
Stack groans loud through the speakers. “Man, why y’all ain’t stop me?”
Pearline stares ahead at the road. “We tried.”
“No, y’all absolutely did not.”
Annie can barely get herself together enough to speak. “Hi, Stack.”
“Aw man,” he says, voice full of disbelief now. “Annie really in my business hearin’ all this.”
Pearline grins immediately. “That’s what you get.”
“When did she get there?” Stack asks.
Pearline rolls her eyes. “Boy, I told you yesterday I was pickin’ her up from the airport.”
Silence—
Then Stack groans again. “Aight, yeah. You right.”
Annie laughs softly.
“I was high as fuck when you told me,” he admits. “Blown.”
Pearline snorts. “Please.”
“Nah, I’m serious.” His tone softens some under the jokes now. “Annie-annie really back?”
That old nickname pulls warmth straight through Annie’s chest.
“Yes, fool.”
“Oh nah,” Stack says immediately. “Pull up right now.”
Pearline smirks. “That’s literally what we doin’.”
“Bet.”
The call ends a second later.
Annie shakes her head, still smiling down at her lap, wiping tears from the corner of her eyes. “So… last week, huh?” she teases, voice dripping with amusement. “I thought you said you hadn’t hooked up wit him since you found out about Mary. That’s crazy.”
“Shut up,” Pearline mutters, sucking her teeth hard. She keeps her eyes glued to the road, but her cheeks burning. “It wasn’t even like that. He just… caught me at a weak moment.”
“Mm-hmm,” Annie says, grinning wider. “Weak moment. That’s what we callin’ it now?”
Pearline cuts her eyes at her friend. “I will put you out this car, Anissa Marie Landry. Don’t play with me.”
Annie gasps dramatically. “Not my full name.”
Pearline keeps driving. “Then act right.”
Annie laughs again, lighter than she has in days. Her chest feels warm.
Until it doesn’t.
Because the second Pearline turns into the apartment complex, nervousness starts crawling slowly back into Annie’s stomach.
The buildings look different now.
Smaller than they used to.
When they were teenagers, this place felt enormous. Endless stairs. Endless summers. Music bouncing between buildings while somebody grilled too late into the night. Kids running through parking lots. People yelling out windows for cousins and brothers and friends.
Now Annie sees cracked pavement. Faded paint near the railings. Rust beginning to gather around old fixtures.
Time.
That’s what she notices most.
Time sitting quietly over everything.
Still—the place carries the same energy underneath it. Familiar voices drifting through open windows. The smell of somebody frying food nearby. Bass thumping faint through apartment walls.
Her chest tightens.
Because part of her still remembers exactly who she used to be here.
The afternoon air hangs heavy over everything.
“You good?” Pearline asks quietly this time.
Annie exhales once. “Yeah.”
Lie.
Again.
Pearline parks crooked beside Stack’s truck.
Before Annie can even fully unbuckle her seatbelt, the apartment door swings open.
And there he is.
Stack comes down the stairs two at a time in basketball shorts and a white tank, chains bouncing against his chest, grin already spreading wide enough to split his face apart.
“ANNIE!”
Annie barely gets out the car before his arms wrap around her hard enough to lift her halfway off the ground.
“Oh my God,” she laughs breathlessly.
“Nah.” Stack squeezes her tighter. “Nah, let me look at you.”
He holds her at arm’s length for half a second before pulling her right back in again.
And that—that almost breaks her.
Because suddenly she’s seventeen again. Summer air. Loud music. Sneaking into kitchens late at night. The twins arguing somewhere nearby. Her laughter mixed into theirs.
Family.
That’s what this used to feel like.
Her eyes burn fast enough she has to blink hard before Stack notices.
But of course he notices anyway.
His expression softens immediately. “Damn,” he murmurs quieter now. “You really here.”
Annie swallows hard before nodding once. “I’m here.”
Stack studies her face another second before looking genuinely offended. “Why you ain’t come back sooner?”
Pearline snorts loudly. “Oh brother.”
“I’m serious.”
“You dramatic,” Pearline mutters, grabbing grocery bags from the backseat.
“I missed my friend.”
The sincerity in it pulls something deep in Annie’s chest.
She laughs softly through it anyway. “You still talk too much.”
“And you still love me.”
That part slips out easy.
Natural.
And Annie realizes with frightening clarity that maybe she never stopped loving any of this.
The apartment smells familiar the second Annie walks in.
Food. Cologne. Candles burned low enough to leave sweetness hanging in the air. A faint trace of weed settled deep into the couch and walls beneath everything else.
But the apartment itself catches her off guard.
Stack always cared about presentation even when they were teenagers. Matching shoes before anybody else had them. Jewelry bought with money he absolutely should’ve saved. Wanting everything around him to feel good, look good, sound expensive.
Now it’s grown into something else entirely.
Dark wood against black finishes. Low amber lighting instead of harsh overheads. Framed vinyl covers lining one wall beside abstract prints Annie knows cost too much. A massive television mounted above a fireplace that probably never gets used.
The place is clean too.
Not spotless. Lived in.
A hoodie tossed over the arm of the couch. Expensive sneakers lined neatly near the door. Half-empty tequila bottles sitting beside a speaker humming low music through the apartment.
Annie turns slowly once, taking it all in.
“Well damn,” she murmurs.
Stack grins immediately. “I got money now, baby.”
Pearline snorts from behind them. “Please. Half this shit financed.”
“Why you always pocket watchin’?”
“Cause somebody gotta stay responsible.”
Annie laughs softly under her breath while Stack points dramatically toward the kitchen.
“See? She get me.”
Pearline rolls her eyes, already making herself comfortable in the kitchen. “You lying already,”
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
The conversation flows easy after that.
Too easy.
Stack talks almost the entire time, moving around the apartment while Annie trails behind him and Pearline starts pulling bottled water from the fridge.
“So boom,” Stack says, pointing between them while Annie settles onto one of the barstools near the kitchen island. “Who all comin’ tomorrow?”
“Half the damn town apparently,” Pearline mutters.
“That mean food need to be serious then.”
“It is serious,” Pearline replies. “My uncle bringing ribs, my mama doing greens—”
“Who makin’ the Mac & Cheese?”
Pearline points immediately. “Me.”
Stack makes a face. “Aight so we orderin’ it from somewhere else.”
Pearline gasps loud enough to echo through the apartment.
Annie folds forward laughing while Stack ducks away from the kitchen towel Pearline throws at his head.
“I’m serious!” he argues. “Last Thanksgiving your macaroni was fighting for its life.”
“You ate THREE plates.”
“Cause I support Black women.”
“Elias!”
Annie laughs harder hearing Pearline use his full name again.
And for a while—it feels easy being here. Easy sitting in the middle of people who still know every version of her.
The music hums low through the apartment. Pearline and Stack argue about liquor for tomorrow’s cookout while Annie scrolls through the grocery list again pretending she’s listening better than she actually is.
Get somethin’ dark too,” Stack says. “You know Smoke bougie with liquor now.”
Annie stills at Smoke’s name before forcing herself forward again. Pearline notices, but before either of them can say anything—the front door opens.
“Stack, you got my—”
Smoke stops. The entire room changes.
Annie looks up before she can prepare herself.
There he is.
Closer than memory allowed.
Her stomach drops so hard it almost hurts. Everything inside her goes painfully still.
Smoke stares at her from the doorway.
Complete silence settles over the apartment.
Even Stack shuts up.
Because Elijah Moore looks at Annie the way people look at ghosts they never stopped loving.
His keys hang loose in his hand. His chest rises once.
Twice.
Slow.
Disbelief flashes first. Then recognition. Then something…deeper. Something that spreads across his face before he can hide it.
Annie can’t breathe right suddenly. Because this—this is worse than the phone call. Worse than the memories.
Because now she can see it.
Every single thing he tried to bury after hearing her voice is written all over his face.
And judging by the way Smoke keeps staring at her—he sees the same thing reflected back at him.
The apartment goes completely still.
Smoke stands near the door with one hand still wrapped around his keys, the other holding it halfway open behind him. For a second he doesn’t move at all. Doesn’t blink either.
Neither does Annie.
The music still hums low through the speakers somewhere behind them. Pearline is saying something from the kitchen. Stack’s television flickers silently in the background. The entire room keeps existing around them while something inside both of them completely locks up.
Annie’s pulse turns violent.
Because up close is worse.
So much worse.
The phone call didn’t prepare her for this. Memory didn’t prepare her for this. Nothing could’ve prepared her for the reality of Elijah Moore standing ten feet away looking at her like somebody knocked the air clean out his chest.
He looks older in ways that matter.
Harder around the edges. More filled out through the chest and shoulders. Tattoos that disappear beneath the sleeves of his shirt and climb slowly along his forearms when he moves. A watch that sits heavy around his wrist. His beard trimmed low enough to sharpen his jaw instead of softening it. He looks settled into himself in a way that almost startles her.
His skin carried that same rich brown complexion she used to trace absentmindedly beneath porch lights and movie screens, smoother now somehow despite the years. His shoulders looked broader than she remembered, stretching the black t-shirt across his chest in a way that made him seem almost too large for the apartment kitchen. His hands looked the same though. Big. Veined. Familiar enough to make her stomach twist.
Then his eyes found hers fully. Still quiet-looking. Still unreadable at first glance. But his eyes—
God.
Those same dark heavy-lidded eyes that always seemed half a thought away from saying something dangerous if she stared too long.
Man.
That’s the first thought that moves through her head.
Not boy. Not memory…. Man.
He’s still beautiful.
The realization arrives ugly and immediate.
Smoke finally shuts the apartment door behind him carefully. Too carefully. Like his body suddenly became something he has to consciously control.
His eyes never leave her face.
Annie tries to stand. Or speak. Or breathe normally. None of it comes easy, because the look on his face keeps undoing her in real time.
Shock came first. Then recognition.
But this—this part now? This feels almost worse, because the longer he looks at her, the less guarded he becomes. Like seeing her cracked something open before he could stop it.
Stack looks between them once.
Twice.
And finally:
“Oh.”
The realization crosses his face hard enough that even Pearline catches it from the kitchen doorway.
Right.
The phone call. The silence after. Everything unsaid sitting underneath all of it.
Stack clears his throat loud enough to crack the silence slightly. “Well,” he mutters awkwardly, looking between them. “This tense as hell.”
Nobody laughs.
Smoke’s gaze flicks toward his brother briefly before landing right back on Annie.
“Hey,” he says.
Quiet.
Low.
The single word moves through her chest with frightening force. His voice still does that to her.
Annie opens her mouth. Nothing comes out.
Her throat tightens immediately, embarrassment following right behind it.
Annie clears her throat softly and tries again. “Hey.” The word comes quieter than she intended.
Smoke’s jaw tightens faintly at the sound of it.
Stack steps fully into the tension now, talking faster than usual. “Aight well—” he claps his hands once. “Look at everybody bein’ grown and reunited and shit.”
Pearline cuts her eyes toward him immediately.
Too much.
Too obvious.
Stack catches it half a second late.
“Not—” he corrects quickly. “Not reunited-reunited. Y’all know what I mean.”
Annie looks down instantly, fingers tightening around the edge of the kitchen island.
Smoke drags a hand slowly across his beard.
Nobody knows where to put themselves.
The apartment suddenly feels too warm.
Too small.
Too aware.
Smoke finally moves farther into the room after what feels like forever, but even then he keeps distance between them. A careful amount. Deliberate enough that Annie notices immediately.
That hurts too, because she remembers when Elijah used to close distance without thinking: A hand at her waist passing through rooms. Knees touching beneath tables. Pulling her between his legs while he sat on couches. Small things. Constant things.
Now he looks at her like getting too close might physically damage both of them.
Stack keeps talking. Something about the cookout. Liquor. Ice. Music. The words barely register. Annie becomes hyperaware of everything instead: Smoke setting his keys down near the counter. The faint scent of his cologne mixing into the apartment air. The way his fingers flex once against the marble countertop before flattening still.
As for Smoke—he notices everything too.
The long braids falling over Annie’s shoulder. Tiny gold hoops catching the kitchen light every time she turned her head. Deep brown skin glowing warm beneath the apartment lights, smooth enough to pull memory straight to the surface before Smoke could stop it. Big doe eyes lifting toward him for half a second before dropping away again, the same eyes that used to undo him at seventeen just by looking too long. The fitted shirt clinging softly to the full weight of her breasts, familiar enough to make something low in his stomach tightens. Bare legs beneath her shorts he remembered wrapped around his waist years ago. Gloss shining softly across full lips he used to kiss until neither of them could breathe straight.
His chest pulls tight enough to irritate him. None of this should still be happening.
Not after eight years.
Not after silence.
Not after hearing another nigga laugh in the background during one of their last phone calls before everything fell apart.
But standing here now? His body remembers her immediately.
Dangerously fast.
Pearline watches Annie carefully from across the kitchen. The tension rolling off her friend is almost visible. And suddenly Pearline understands something she really wishes she didn’t. Neither of them got over this.
Not even close.
Against her better judgment, her mind flashes briefly back to the restaurant. Jada beside Smoke. Close enough to matter. Her stomach twists, because Annie doesn’t know.
And judging by the way Annie keeps looking at Smoke now, soft despite herself, hurt despite herself, Pearline suddenly realizes finding the right moment to tell her is about to become a nightmare.
Stack keeps trying to fill the silence.
“Anyway,” he says loudly, grabbing water bottles from the fridge nobody asked for. “Tomorrow gon’ be cool. Everybody been askin’ about you, Annie.”
Smoke finally speaks again.
“When you get in?”
Simple question.
Still enough to pull every eye back toward him.
Annie looks up slowly. “Yesterday.”
Smoke nods once.
Yesterday.
Something unreadable crosses his face at that. Brief. Sharp. As if he’s quietly replaying the last twenty-four hours in his head trying to understand how she could’ve already been this close without him knowing.
Or did he?
“Yeah,” Stack jumps back in quickly. “Pearline picked her up from the airport.”
Smoke’s eyes flick briefly toward Pearline.
And immediately, she understands the look for exactly what it is.
You knew she was here.
You ain’t say shit?
Pearline leans back against the counter slightly, expression smooth.
She doesn’t apologize for it either.
Smoke holds her gaze another second before looking back at Annie.
“You stayin’ long?”
There it is.
The real question underneath the question.
Annie hears it immediately.
So does Pearline.
So does Stack.
How long do I have to survive this?
“I took a week off,” she says carefully. “After that…I don’t know yet.”
Smoke goes still again.
Somehow—that answer feels far too big for the room.
Stack twists the cap off a water bottle and tosses another one toward Smoke.
Smoke catches it automatically without looking away from Annie.
That somehow makes everything worse.
The movement is so familiar. So easy. Like his body still knows how to do things around her without thought involved. Annie watches his fingers close around the bottle and immediately hates herself for noticing something that small.
Stack keeps talking anyway, voice carrying too loud through the apartment now.
“So boom,” he says, forcing energy back into the room. “We still need charcoal, ice, liquor, and somebody gotta go pick up the meat tomorrow morning.”
“I already told you my uncle handling the meat,” Pearline says carefully, eyes flicking toward Annie again.
“Yeah, but your uncle also drink while he grill.”
“That’s seasoning.”
“It’s alcoholism.”
Pearline rolls her eyes hard enough to almost make Annie laugh again.
Almost.
Smoke finally looks away first, lowering his gaze to the bottle in his hand while twisting the cap loose. Annie exhales quietly before she can stop herself.
Pearline catches that too.
Of course she does.
“Anyway,” Stack says, talking faster now like he can force the room back to normal if he keeps moving. “Tomorrow still at Aunt Cheryl house, right?”
Pearline nods once. “Around four.”
Stack points toward Smoke. “You still bringing the speakers?”
Smoke opens his mouth automatically.
Then stops.
Because suddenly the cookout rearranges itself completely in his head.
Not random people.
Not some regular Saturday.
Annie.
Everybody gathering because Annie came home.
His jaw tightens faintly.
“…yeah,” he says finally.
But the answer sounds slower now.
Careful.
Like he’s realizing too many things at once.
Pearline watches the realization move across his face in real time.
And for one brief second—she remembers Jada sitting beside him in that restaurant booth.
Her stomach twists again immediately.
Stack nods too fast. “Bet, bet.”
Silence threatens again immediately after.
Everybody feels it.
Smoke leans back lightly against the counter near the door, keeping distance between himself and Annie even though the apartment suddenly feels too small for distance to matter. His eyes lift toward her again before dropping almost instantly this time.
Too late.
She catches it anyway.
The room presses tighter around her ribs, every glance from him feels unfinished. Like he keeps almost saying something.
Annie reaches for the water bottle nearest her mostly to give her hands something to do. Her fingers brush the cap once before another hand reaches past her shoulder at the exact same time.
Everything in her body locks.
Smoke stops too.
His arm stretches beside hers, close enough that she catches the warmth coming off his skin instantly. Cologne folds around her again, clean and dark and painfully familiar.
Nobody moves.
Not Stack.
Not Pearline.
Not Annie.
Smoke’s fingers hover near the bottle beside hers before slowly pulling back first.
“My bad,” he says quietly.
The apology wrecks her a little because Elijah never used to stop himself with her. Now even almost touching her seems to make him careful.
Annie swallows hard. “You good.” Her voice comes out softer than she meant it to.
Smoke’s jaw tightens faintly.
Stack looks between both of them so fast it almost gives him whiplash.
Pearline grabs her own drink immediately, clearly resisting the urge to intervene physically.
The silence stretches again.
Then Stack blurts, “So Annie apparently think my apartment ugly.”
Annie’s head snaps toward him instantly. “I never said that!”
“You implied it.”
“I literally did not.”
“You looked around judgmental as fuck.”
“I was impressed!”
Stack points dramatically. “AHA.”
For the first time since walking through the door, something close to amusement flickers briefly across Smoke’s face. Tiny. Gone almost immediately.
Annie catches it though and somehow that hurts too. She remembers how easily she used to make him smile. The memory moves through her chest before she can brace for it.
Stack keeps rambling. “See? That’s why Smoke the favorite. He don’t judge me.”
Smoke takes a sip from the bottle finally. “Your apartment nice.”
Stack looks vindicated instantly. “THANK you.”
“It still smell like weed though.”
Pearline barks out a laugh.
Stack points at Smoke in betrayal. “See now you switched sides.”
“Never had a side.”
“That’s cold.”
The room loosens slightly after that. Barely. Enough for breathing to return in pieces. Annie finally risks another look toward Smoke. Big mistake. He’s already looking at her again. Not even trying to hide it this time. Something deep and uncertain twists low in her stomach.
He looks overwhelmed. That’s the worst part. Not angry. Not detached.
Overwhelmed.
Like seeing her in person dismantled whatever version of this reunion he prepared himself for.
Stack clears his throat again, softer this time. “So…” He looks between both of them carefully now. “Tomorrow probably gon’ be a lot.”
Pearline cuts her eyes toward him immediately. Too direct. But Smoke answers anyway, gaze still resting on Annie.
“I’ll be aight.”
Annie’s breath catches slightly because the words don’t feel aimed at Stack at all. They feel aimed at her.
Or maybe himself.
Pearline notices that too and suddenly decides she’s had enough emotional Russian roulette for one afternoon.
“Aight, me and Annie bout to go,” she says abruptly, pushing off the counter. “We still gotta hit the store before all the good liquor gone.”
Stack blinks. “Right now?”
“Yes, right now.”
“We still got time—”
“No we don’t.” The look Pearline gives him shuts him up immediately.
Annie sets her bottle down carefully, pulse still uneven beneath her skin.
Smoke straightens from the counter the second she moves.
Automatic. Instinctive. Like some part of him is still tuned to her body whether he wants it to be or not. That realization moves visibly through both of them at the exact same time.
Dangerous.
Stack notices. Finally fully notices. And judging by the expression crossing his face now, the three-way phone call did not prepare him for how bad this actually is.
Smoke grabs his keys from the counter slowly. “I was finna head out anyway.”
Something sinks inside Annie’s chest hearing that. Too fast. He just got here. The thought embarrasses her immediately.
Pearline reaches for her purse. Stack starts talking again. Everybody moving at once now. Too much motion all of a sudden after standing emotionally exposed for nearly twenty minutes.
Smoke reaches the door first.
Then pauses.
Annie feels it before she even looks up.
When she finally does, Smoke is already staring at her again.
Quieter now.
Less shocked.
Worse somehow.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.
Not y’all.
You.
The word settles low and heavy between them. Annie’s throat tightens immediately. “Yeah,” she answers smiling slightly. “Tomorrow.”
Smoke holds her gaze one second longer.
Then leaves.
The apartment feels smaller the second he’s gone.
Stack starts talking immediately, trying to fill the silence like he always does. “Man, y’all some awkward-ass people. I should’ve charged admission for that.”
Pearline shoots him a look but says nothing, her eyes staying on Annie.
Annie doesn’t hear either of them.
Because Smoke’s cologne is still in the room.
That warm, woody scent with the faint edge of something clean, the same one he’s worn since he was a teen. It lingers in the air like it’s clinging to her. Like his absence is taking up more space than his presence did.
Her chest tightens.
And just like that, she’s yanked backward.
Flashback
The motel room was dim except for the cheap lamp buzzing softly on the nightstand. Late July heat pressed against the window even with the AC rattling hard beneath it. The air smelled faintly of bleach, warm skin, and the fast food Stack dropped off earlier before disappearing with a grin and his keys.
The sheets tangled around their legs, damp with sweat and the kind of closeness neither of them wanted to leave yet.
Annie lay on her side facing him, one leg thrown over Smoke’s hip. Her bare breasts pressed against his chest as his hand traced slow, absent circles along the curve of her spine. His other arm was tucked under her head like a pillow. Their skin stuck together wherever they touched, but neither of them moved away.
His heartbeat was steady under her palm.
She traced the small scar just below his collarbone with her fingertip, the one he got when he was fifteen trying to jump a barbed wire fence. She’d heard that story at least ten times, but she never got tired of touching it.
“You really think we can do this?” she whispered.
Smoke’s hand paused on her back, then continued its slow path down to the dip above her ass and back up again. His voice was low, rough from everything they’d just done and the hours of talking after.
“Yeah,” he said without hesitation. “I do.”
Annie lifted her head to look at him. His eyes were half-lidded, heavy with satisfaction and sleep, but still clear. Certain. That was what always undid her, how sure he could sound about things that terrified her.
“I’m gonna be so far away,” she said quietly. “And you gonna be here grindin’. What if—”
“We make it work.” He pulled her closer slowly. “You still gon’ be you. I’m still gon’ be me.”
She searched his face, looking for cracks. She found none.
“You say that now…”
“I’m sayin’ it ‘cause I mean it.” His hand slid up to cup the back of her neck, thumb brushing just behind her ear in that way that always made her melt. “I love you. That don’t change just ‘cause you movin’. You still mine when you come back.”
He rolled them gently so she was underneath him again, his weight comforting, grounding. He kissed her slower this time, her forehead, her cheek, and the corner of her mouth before settling beside her once more, pulling her into his chest. One of his legs slid between hers. Their bodies fit together like they’d been doing it forever.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Just breathing. Skin on skin. The low hum of the AC and the occasional car passing outside.
In the quiet, Annie felt the fear anyway. Small. Sharp. What if distance changed things slowly instead of all at once? What if somebody else learned the shape of him while she was gone? What if coming home stopped feeling easy one day?
She pressed closer before the thoughts could settle too deep.
Smoke’s hand kept moving along her back in that same slow rhythm, as if he could hold them together through touch alone. His lips brushed the top of her head.
“We got this,” he murmured, voice heavy with sleep. “You and me.”
Annie closed her eyes and believed him.
Completely.
Back to Present
The memory released her as suddenly as it had pulled her in.
Annie blinked, eyes stinging. The apartment smelled like fresh cologne and old heartbreak. Stack was still talking. Pearline was watching her too closely.
She forced a small smile and nodded at something she hadn’t actually heard, but her chest felt raw.
Because eight years ago, in that cheap ass motel room, they had been so sure.
And now here they were, speaking carefully around a love that never really left either of them.
The apartment door closes behind them with a soft click.
For a second, neither Annie nor Pearline moves.
Then Pearline reaches for her keys while Annie starts down the stairs slowly beside her, one hand sliding along the warm metal railing.
The evening air feels heavier now.
Closer.
Their footsteps echo softly against the concrete while music drifts faintly through the apartment complex from nearby. Laughter echoes in the distance. A dog barking a few doors down.
Life keeps moving.
Meanwhile Annie feels like her entire world tilted sideways upstairs.
Pearline watches her carefully while they make their way down another flight. Annie looks dazed. Not in a dramatic way. A quiet one. Like she walked into that apartment expecting memory and accidentally found something alive instead.
“He looked at me the same.”
The words land low between them. Pearline’s chest tightens instantly, because Annie sounds almost confused by it. As if some part of her expected eight years to erase everything she saw written across that man’s face tonight.
Pearline leans lightly against the car door. “Girl…”
“I know,” Annie says quickly, already embarrassed. “I know how it sounds.”
“No,” Pearline says softly. “I don’t think you do.”
Annie looks away toward the apartment building again. Toward the floor Smoke walked out of minutes earlier. “He looked like…” She swallows. “I don’t know.”
Pearline watches her carefully.
Annie’s voice drops quieter. “…I still matter.”
Lord.
Pearline exhales slowly through her nose. Now she’s thinking about Jada again. That restaurant booth. Smoke leaning close. Jada smiling at him across the table, and suddenly the timing of all this feels dangerous as hell.
Annie finally climbs into the passenger seat.
Pearline opens the driver’s siide door, but stays outside. “I forgot my charger upstairs,” she lies smoothly.
Annie blinks. “Your charger right here.”
“It’s another one.”
Annie narrows her eyes slightly but doesn’t argue. “Okay…”
“I’ll be right back.”
Pearline shuts the door before Annie can question it further and heads back toward the building. By the time Stack opens the apartment door again, he already looks suspicious.
“You forgot somethin’?” he asks immediately.
Pearline walks past him into the apartment. “Please tell me yo’ brother got enough sense not to bring Jada’s pick me ass tomorrow.”
Stack’s entire face changes.
“…huh.”
Pearline turns toward him fully now, arms crossing tight. “I saw them at the restaurant yesterday.”
“Aw shit.”
“Exactly.”
Stack drags a hand over his mouth immediately. “Did Annie see?”
“No. Thank God.”
He exhales hard enough to puff his cheeks. “Okay. Okay.”
Pearline stares at him. “Why you sayin’ it like that?”
“‘Cause if Annie saw Smoke sittin’ up with Jada after the way them two was just lookin’ at each other up in here?” He shakes his head immediately. “Shiiit.”
Pearline walks farther into the apartment, agitation building again now that Annie isn’t standing in front of her. “I thought he was just fuckin’ her. I ain’t know they was out in public-public.”
“They not together,” Stack says quickly.
Pearline lifts an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“I mean…” Stack hesitates. “As far as I know.”
“That don’t make me feel better.”
Stack sighs, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “Smoke ain’t been serious about nobody since Annie.”
The apartment quiets a little after that.
Pearline looks toward the front door unconsciously, like Smoke or Annie might walk back in if she says their names too loud.
“She still love him,” she says finally.
Stack laughs once under his breath. Not because it’s funny, but it’s obvious. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That man still love her too.”
Pearline presses her lips together.
“Then tomorrow finna be a mess.”
“Nah.” Stack shakes his head slowly. “Smoke got sense.”
Pearline snorts. “That’s debatable.”
Stack points toward her immediately. “Aight now. Don’t do my brother.”
“I’m serious.” Pearline steps closer again. “Please tell him don’t bring Jada tomorrow. Annie already nervous enough.”
Stack studies her face. “Y’all still on that high school shit?”
Pearline gives him a look. “Please. You remember how Jada used to act over your brother.”
Stack snorts softly. “Smoke ain’t even realize half that shit.”
Pearline folds her arms tighter. “Annie had that nigga nose so wide open, a girl could throw herself directly at him and he’d still miss the point.”
“That’s true.”
“Meanwhile Annie used to notice EVERYTHING.”
Stack studies her face for a while longer before nodding once.
“He won’t bring her.”
“You sound real confident.”
“After the way he looked at Annie tonight?” Stack shakes his head slowly. “Trust me. Jada the last thing on that nigga mind right now.”
Pearline’s stomach twists because deep down? She believes him. The realization softens her face before she can stop it.
Stack notices immediately. His voice drops lower. “You still mad at me?”
Pearline rolls her eyes instantly. “Boy.”
“I’m serious.”
“You always serious after you get caught.”
“That’s not true.”
“It absolutely is.”
Stack steps closer anyway.
Too close.
Pearline hates that her body notices immediately. Hates that he smells good. Hates that she wants to lean into him before he even touches her.
His hand settles lightly against her waist.
Familiar.
Warm.
“You was worried about Annie this whole time,” he murmurs. “Meanwhile you over here stressin’ yoself out too.”
Pearline sucks her teeth softly. “You think you know everythin’.”
“I know you.”
Fuck.
Pearline looks up at him.
Big Mistake.
He’s looking at her the same dangerous way he used to before they ended up tangled together somewhere making terrible decisions.
Stack’s thumb brushes once against her side.
Slow.
Pearline exhales carefully.
“See,” he murmurs. “Now you lookin’ at me all soft again.”
“Elias…”
“There she go.”
He smiles slightly when she says his full name.
Pearline hates that too.
For a second neither of them moves.
Then Pearline shoves lightly against his chest and steps back before her own hormones embarrass her.
“Bye, boy.”
Stack laughs immediately. “That push ain’t even got no strength behind it.”
“Goodbye!”
She heads toward the door fast enough to make him laugh harder behind her. But right before she leaves,
Stack calls after her again. “Seriously though.”
Pearline pauses.
Stack’s expression softens slightly. “Everything gon’ work out how it’s supposed to.”
Pearline studies him for a minute. Then snorts softly. “That sound nice.”
“It’s true.”
She opens the door. “Tell your brother not to piss me off tomorrow.”
Summary: Part One was realization. Part Two is what happens when you let pride make decisions for you. He said everything. She never answered. She thought he meant goodbye. He thought she didn’t care.
Eight years later and nothing is actually buried, just ignored, misread, left to rot. Archived. They talk now, but it’s wrong. Too quiet. Too careful. Too late. He won’t ask. She won’t admit. And everything that mattered is still sitting there… untouched.
Some things don’t end. They just wait, but the worst part? They still don’t know the truth.
CW: This chapter includes explicit sexual content, rough sex, backshots, emotional tension, and themes of miscommunication, regret, and unresolved feelings.
WC: 12k
Morning comes in before the sun does.
It starts in the quiet—air still, the house holding onto the last of the night. Smoke is already up. Has been. The clock on the stove reads 6:12, the same way it does most mornings when he steps into the kitchen, bare feet quiet against the hardwood.
Coffee first. Always.
He doesn’t rush it. Water measured without thinking. Grounds leveled flat with the back of a spoon. The machine hums low when he starts it, a familiar sound that settles into the space without breaking it. He leans his hip against the counter while it brews, arms folded loosely across his chest, gaze drifting toward the window over the sink.
The street outside is empty.
No cars moving yet. Just the faint stir of wind against the trees lining the block, leaves brushing against each other in a slow, steady rhythm.
A few years back, he bought land just outside the city. Not far enough to feel removed, but far enough that the noise doesn’t reach unless he wants it to.
He built the house himself.
Took his time with it. Foundation first. Frame. Every piece measured, set, adjusted until it held the way it was supposed to. He’d poured the foundation on a Saturday morning much like this one, years ago, when the ache was still raw enough to make his hands shake if he let them. Every stud, every joist, every nail had been placed with the kind of patience he hadn’t known he possessed back when everything felt urgent. The house became proof that some things only get stronger when you take your time.
It wasn’t a big or flashy house. But it was solid. The kind of place that doesn’t move once it’s set.
Inside, the walls are painted a neutral gray he chose because it didn’t demand attention. The living room holds a single couch, a coffee table he built from leftover oak, and a small shelf with a handful of books and some framed photos with his mother and brother, photos from job sites years back, him and the crew, all young, all laughing. He was laughing. But nothing that reminded him of her. He made sure of that.
The coffee finishes. He pours it into a plain mug, no design, no color. Black. Steam curls upward, catching faint light from the overhead before disappearing. He takes a sip, lets it settle.
Same way every morning.
By 6:40, he’s dressed.
Work jeans. T-shirt. Boots by the door, already broken in, laces tied tight without needing to look down. Keys from the small tray near the entry. Wallet. Phone.
Everything where it belongs.
He steps outside just as the sky starts to lighten—soft gray stretching into blue. The air is cooler out here, clean in a way it won’t be by midday. He inhales once, slow, then heads to the truck parked in the driveway.
It’s not new.
But it’s his.
Clean. Maintained. No unnecessary upgrades. It starts on the first turn, engine settling into a low, steady idle that matches something in him. He pulls out without rushing, rolling down the street at a pace that doesn’t ask for anything from the day yet. The quiet of his land gives way slowly to the distant hum of the city as he drives, a transition he’s grown used to and one he controls.
Work is waiting.
It always does.
By eight, the noise starts.
Tools. Voices. Wood against concrete. The sharp cut of a saw slicing through a piece of framing before falling quiet again. Smoke moves through it all without raising his voice. A nod here. A short instruction there. He doesn’t repeat himself. Doesn’t have to. They listen. Not because he demands it.
Because he’s right.
Three years of running his own small crew had taught him that. No more yelling matches like the old days, no more walking off jobs when things got messy. Now the work was cleaner, the deadlines met because people trusted his eye and his word. The houses they built weren’t the biggest in the county, but they were the ones that stood after storms passed through. Solid. Like the one he lived in.
The house they’re working on is halfway done, new framing up along one side, exposed beams cutting clean lines against the open space. Sunlight pours through where windows haven’t been set yet, dust floating in the air in thin, visible streams.
He steps back, looking at the structure, measuring what’s already there against what it’s supposed to become. “Need that leveled again,” he says, pointing toward the far wall.
One of the guys nods, already moving.
Smoke turns, walking toward the truck to grab something out the bed. His hands are rougher now. Years of work, of repetition, of building something that holds when everything settles. He wipes them once against a rag before reaching in.
The phone in his pocket buzzes. He ignores it. Grabs what he came for. Closes the tailgate with a solid click.
It buzzes again. Persistent. He pauses this time long enough to pull it out, glance at the screen.
Stack.
He lets it ring once more before answering, lifting it to his ear without breaking stride.
“Yeah.”
Stack doesn’t start talking right away. That’s the first thing Smoke notices. There’s always something ready with him. A joke. A comment. Something unnecessary just to fill the space.
This time—
Nothing.
Smoke steps out of the noise, moving a few feet away from the house, boots crunching lightly over gravel.
“What?” he asks.
Stack exhales on the other end. Not heavy. Just… deliberate. “Aye,” he says, slower than usual. “You busy?”
Smoke glances back toward the frame of the house, the movement, the work already continuing without him for the moment. “Yeah,” he answers. “What you want?”
Another pause.
Not long. But long enough.
“You remember Annie?”
The name doesn’t hit the way it would’ve before. Doesn’t pull him in. But it lands.
And sits there.
Smoke’s gaze stays forward, fixed somewhere past the street, past the worksite, past anything in front of him.
“Yeah,” he says.
Simple. Even. Because of course he remembers her. Stack knew that too.
That never changed.
Stack lets out a short breath, something caught between disbelief and something else he hasn’t named yet.
“…Aight,” he mutters, almost to himself. “She called me.”
The morning doesn’t stop. The noise behind him continues. Saw cutting wood. Someone laughing. A truck passing down the street, music slipping through the windows.
Everything continues.
Smoke doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t move either. His grip on the phone doesn’t tighten. Neither does his posture. Nothing about him gives anything away to the outside. But something…adjusts. “Yeah?” he questions.
Stack huffs lightly. “Yeah, nigga.”
A beat passes between them.
“She asked for your number.”
Smoke’s gaze drops slightly, unfocused for a second before settling again. “Yeah.”
Another pause.
“Bruh, you good?” Stack asks, checking.
Smoke leans back just a fraction, resting his shoulder against the side of the truck now. The metal is warm already, holding onto the early heat of the day.
Eight years had passed.
Not all in a straight line. Some seasons dragged, heavy with the kind of silence that made the nights feel longer than they had any right to. Others moved fast—jobs stacking up, the crew growing from two guys to six, weekends spent framing houses or fixing up his own place until his back ached and his mind finally quieted.
He’d dated. A few women who were kind, who laughed easily and didn’t ask for more than he could give. None of it stuck. Not because he compared them out loud, but because he knew what it felt like when someone fit without forcing it. When the quiet between two people didn’t feel like absence.
The mixtape came some time later, when the anger had cooled into something sharper. He’d spent weeks pulling tracks, layering beats, writing nothing down but pouring everything into the order of the songs. It wasn’t a plea. It was a mirror…showing what they’d been, what it became, what he was still carrying. He sent it to her new address with no note, no explanation. Just her name on the envelope. He thought…maybe. Not that she’d come back, but maybe she’d call, hear the words, understand what he couldn’t say verbally.
But she never did.
She never called. Never texted.
That silence taught him the final lesson: some doors only close when you stop waiting for someone else to shut them. So he archived it. Archived her. Not erased. Just moved to a place where it no longer dictated the rhythm of his days.
And this time—it takes just a second longer than it should.
Stack exhales lightly.
“…you gon’ say somethin’ else, or we just doin’ ‘yeah’ today?”
Smoke doesn’t answer that.
“You want me to give it to her?” Stack asks.
The question hangs there. Smoke’s gaze lifts slightly, not toward anything in particular. Just… forward.
“Yeah,” he says. Same tone. Same even delivery. Like it doesn’t mean anything to say it. “Give it to her.”
Stack is quiet, then—
“Yeah.”
The line clicks off.
Smoke lowers the phone, glances at the screen for half a second before sliding it back into his pocket. He doesn’t stand there or replay the conversation. He turns, walking back toward the house.
The gravel crunches under his boots the same way it did five minutes ago, but the sound feels slightly different now, sharper, or maybe just more present.
“Let me see that,” he says, stepping back into the frame, picking up right where he left off.
The work continues like nothing happened, but something did.
Just enough that it’s there.
Stack doesn’t hang up.
He just pulls the phone away from his ear, glancing at the screen for a second like he’s deciding something, then lifts it back.
“You still there?” he asks.
“I’m here,” Annie says. Her voice is quieter now. Not unsure, but not as confident as she was a few minutes ago either.
Stack leans back against the couch he’s sitting on, one foot propped up on the coffee table, rubbing his jaw slowly. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I figured.”
Silence stretches long enough to feel it.
“Told you,” he says.
Annie exhales softly. “Stack—”
“Nah,” he cuts in, not loud, but firm. “Don’t ‘Stack’ me. I told you.”
She closes her eyes briefly, phone pressed tighter to her ear. “I know.”
“You heard him,” Stack goes on. “You really sat there and thought that was gon’ be… what? Exciting for him?”
Annie doesn’t answer because she did hear him. That calm. That even tone. No hesitation. No reaction. Like her name didn’t do anything to him.
And that—that unsettles her more than if it had.
“I’m not tryin’ to mess anything up for him,” she says finally. “I told you that. I don’t wanna intrude on his life. I just… I just want to talk to him. That’s it.”
Stack lets out a dry laugh. “That’s it?”
“It is.”
“Yeah, aight.” He pauses, then—“why now?” he asks.
Direct.
Annie swallows. “Because I didn’t know before.”
“Didn’t know what?”
She hesitates. Then quieter—“What he was trying to say on that mixtape.”
Stack’s head tilts slightly. His tone changes just enough. “My brother worked hard on that muthafucka,” he says. “Like—hard. I ain’t never seen that nigga sit wit’ somethin’ that long. Every song, the order he put them bitches in… that was him.”
Annie’s chest draws inward.
“You ain’t even let him know you got it,” Stack continues. “No call. No text. Nothin’. You hurt my brother.”
“I know, Stack.” Soft. Immediate. “You think I don’t realize that now?” she adds.
“Do you?” he presses.
Annie exhales slowly. “I was just scared he was telling me—”
She stops.
Stack goes quiet for half a second.
“…goodbye?” he finishes.
Annie doesn’t answer. But she doesn’t have to.
Stack huffs. “Man…” he mutters under his breath. Then sharper—“is that why you was actin’ weird as fuck the last time you came down here?”
Annie’s eyes flicker open.
“I wasn’t actin’ weird,” she says quickly.
“Annie.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You was weird,” he cuts in. “You was movin’ funny the whole time. Couldn’t look at him straight. Answerin’ questions all sideways—”
“I was not actin’ weird,” she insists, but there’s less weight behind it now.
Because she remembers the last time she came back.
The way everything felt… off. Not wrong, just not what it used to be. He was still him. Still calm. Still present. Still there.
But something had changed.
And she felt it.
She didn’t understand it. Thought— maybe he met someone. Maybe he moved on. Maybe she waited too long. So she pulled back. Matched the energy of what she thought she was seeing. Not realizing— he had already said everything.
She just never answered.
The last time Annie x Smoke saw each other
The house looks the same.
That’s the first thing Annie notices when she pulls up.
Same faded porch steps. Same slight dip in the railing where too many hands had leaned on it over the years. The screen door still sticks before it finally settles into place with that familiar scrape.
Nothing changed. And somehow everything already feels different.
She stands on the porch longer than she should, overnight bag hanging heavy on her shoulder, fingers twisting the strap. Stack had made it sound casual — You in town? Aight, come through. So she came. Told herself it would feel normal.
It doesn’t.
She knocks.
The door opens almost immediately.
Stack grins wide the second he sees her. “Well damn. Look who finally decided to come outside.”
Some of the tension in her shoulders eases. “Hey, Stack.”
He steps aside, dragging a hand across his jaw as he looks her over. “You been eatin’ good, girl? Lookin’ all grown and shit.”
“Boy—” Annie rolls her eyes, but a small smile slips through anyway.
“I’m serious,” he laughs. “You look good.”
That lands softer than she wants it to.
She shrugs it off. “Where’s Elijah at?”
Stack smirks, something knowing flickering across his face.
“In there.”
And just like that, the small pocket of ease disappears.
Annie steps inside.
The familiar scent hits her immediately — leftover food, fabric softener, that warm, lived-in smell that always meant home. For a second it almost settles her.
Then she sees him.
Smoke looks up from where he’s leaning against the counter.
Their eyes meet.
It hits harder than she expected.
He looks… so good. Broader in the shoulders than she remembered, chain resting against his chest, stance more solid. There’s something steadier about him now, like the last few months had carved away some of the boy and left more man behind.
Smoke feels it too.
She looks different.
Same face. Same eyes that used to pull him in without trying. But she’s carrying herself different now — shoulders a little straighter, something in her walk that says she’d been moving, living, changing without him. The realization tugs low in his chest before he can kill it.
“Hey,” Annie says. Her voice comes out softer than she planned.
Smoke nods once. “Hey.”
That’s it.
No step forward. No half-smile. No pulling her into one of those hugs that used to feel so easy. Just space. Thick, careful space.
Stack claps his hands together once, breaking the moment. “Aight, I’m finna run up the street real quick.”
Annie turns. “You just got here.”
“Yeah,” Stack says, already heading for the door with that lazy grin. “And now I’m leavin’.” His eyes bounce between them, amused. “Handle y’all business. And be safe… or don’t. I ain’t judgin’.”
The door shuts behind him with a soft click.
Embarrassment and silence drop instantly.
Heavy. Immediate. Loud.
Smoke leans back against the counter, arms folding slowly across his chest like he needs the barrier.
Annie adjusts the bag on her shoulder, then lets it slide off, setting it against the wall. Her hands feel useless.
“You just get in?” he asks.
“Yeah. Like… an hour ago.”
“Mm.”
Silence again. Longer this time.
Annie shifts her weight, palms brushing down the front of her shorts. “So… what you been up to?”
“Work. Tryna get this money. School when I can.”
Short. Simple. Nothing extra.
She nods. “That’s good.”
She waits for him to ask about her.
He doesn’t.
Her chest tightens. The old familiar ache of wanting him to reach for her and watching him choose not to.
“School going good for you?” he finally asks.
It comes late. Almost reluctant.
“Yeah,” she says. “It’s cool. Keepin’ me busy.”
“Mm.”
That same low sound. Present, but not inviting.
Annie presses her lips together. This isn’t how it used to be. Before, words moved between them without effort. Now every sentence feels like it’s being measured, weighed, and found wanting.
She moves toward the kitchen out of pure habit, opening the fridge like she still belonged there. It’s still stocked the same way. She grabs a bottle of water just to have something in her hands.
When she turns back, he hasn’t moved much. Still watching her.
“You not gon’ sit?” she asks.
He nods toward the couch. “Go ahead.”
She sits first. He follows after a minute, dropping onto the opposite end, not close, not where he used to settle right beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Annie twists the cap off the bottle, taking a slow sip. The quiet feels suffocating.
“You still talk to…” She starts, then stops. Doesn’t finish the sentence.
Smoke looks at her. “Who?”
She shrugs, trying to play it light. “People.”
His mouth curves faintly, but there’s no real humor in it. “Yeah.”
That single word lands like a stone in her stomach.
Yeah. Of course he does. He’s here living his life. She’s the one who moved away. Why wouldn’t he be talking to other girls? Moving on?
She nods once, too quickly. “Cool.”
It sounds off. Even she hears how forced it is.
A phone buzzes on the counter behind him. His phone.
He glances at it.
Annie’s stomach twists tighter. She noticed the faint change in his shoulders.
“Go ahead,” she says, too fast. “You can get it.”
“I’m good.”
“It’s fine. For real.”
A beat passes.
Then he stands, walks over, picks up the phone, glances at the screen, and sets it back down without answering.
When he comes back, he drops into his seat like nothing happened.
But Annie had seen enough. She didn’t catch the name. She didn’t need to.
Her throat feels tight.
She looks down at the bottle in her hands, twisting the cap over and over.
Across from her, Smoke’s gaze drifts—not to her or to anything in particular—just far enough that it’s clear he’s somewhere else.
He could ask her about the mixtape he sent weeks ago. He could ask if she even got it. If she listened. He could say something.
He doesn’t.
Because if she didn’t—if she never even opened it—he’s not about to be the one to drag that out into the open.
And if she did…and still didn’t say anything—then what’s there to ask?
Instead, he stays quiet, jaw tight, letting the moment stretch until it starts to feel wrong. Because saying any of that would mean admitting he still cared. And he’s already done that once.
He sent it.
Laid it out bare. No games. No confusion. Everything he couldn’t say to her face. And she never said a word back.
So now—he’s not reaching first again. Not with her sitting there, looking fine as fuck.
Looking like she been good without him.
Annie watches him, the silence pressing in from all sides.
Why won’t he say anything? He could at least ask how school’s going. For real. Not that surface shit. He could say he missed her. Even a little.
But he doesn’t.
Her stomach twists.
Is he waiting on her to bring up something?
Her fingers tighten faintly around the plastic bottle in her hand.
The mixtape.
Her mind catches on it, won’t let it go. Is he not asking because—he already knows she didn’t listen? Or worse—because he doesn’t care if she did?
Her chest tightens.
Now her thoughts won’t stop.
The way it came in the mail. Just her name. No return address. Nothing else. No note. No explanation.
Her jaw tightens.
What if that was the point? What if that was him saying goodbye?
Clean. Final.
Don’t write me back. Don’t call. Don’t ask questions.
Just… take it and go.
Her chest pulls tighter.
Maybe he didn’t want a response. Maybe that’s why he didn’t leave a way for her to give one.
Maybe she read it right. Maybe she didn’t. Her breath shortens. Or maybe—he got somebody now.
That thought lands and sticks.
Of course he does.
That’s why he’s sitting there like this.That’s why he’s not asking.That’s why he’s not reaching for me.
He moved on.
Her grip tightens around the bottle until it crinkles softly in her hand.
So she stays quiet. He stays quiet. Both of them locked in it.
She thinks: He got a girl.He thinks: She moved on and don’t want me no more.
The silence stretches. Longer. Thicker. Closing in.
Too much.
Annie stands up suddenly. “I should probably head back to my cousin’s before it gets too late.”
The words come out fast. Too fast.
Too final.
But once they’re spoken, she doesn’t take them back.
Smoke nods once. “Aight.”
No stay. No you don’t have to go. Nothing.
That hurts worse than anything else.
She grabs her bag, slinging it over her shoulder, and moves toward the door. He follows at a distance — close enough to be polite, far enough to feel wrong.
On the porch, the night air feels cooler. Easier to breathe.
She turns back to him.
“I’ll call you,” she says.
Same words they’d used before. Different weight now.
Smoke nods. “Yeah.”
No expectation in his voice. No belief that she actually will.
She holds his gaze, waiting for something…anything to change.
It doesn’t.
Annie nods once, lips pressed tight, then turns and walks down the steps.
She doesn’t look back.
She already knows what she’d see: Smoke standing there in the doorway, still watching her leave.
Again.
“Annie!”
Stack’s voice pulls her back.
“You still there?”
“Yeah, uh—yeah” she says quickly. “I’m here.”
“Mhmm.”
She clears her throat slightly, fidgeting.
“…so what—”
She stops.
Stack catches it immediately. “What?”
Annie exhales, quick, like she’s already backing out of whatever she was about to ask. “Nothin’.”
“Ain’t no ‘nothin’,’ you started it,” Stack says. “Say it.”
She already knows what he hasn’t done.
No wife.
No kids.
She would’ve heard. Small town. Everybody knows everybody. Pearline would’ve told her. Everybody would’ve. Gossip travels fast.
That part never changed.
And maybe—maybe that’s why she never fully let him go.
Her voice comes out softer now.
“He dealin’ with somebody? Like… for real?”
Stack exhales low.
“…you really wanna know that?” he repeats.
And that’s when it hits her—she doesn’t. Not right now. Not before she even hears his voice again.
She swallows. “No.”
Then she changes the subject—fast.
“So… Pearline told me what happened between y’all,” she says, tone switching just enough. “I can’t believe yo’ ass.”
Stack groans immediately. “Oh my God. Here we go.”
“I really thought you and Line was gettin’ serious,” Annie continues.
“She was trippin’,” Stack says. “Insecure. Jealous. Didn’t trust me.”
“Stack.”
“What?”
“You wouldn’t trust you.”
“Aye—” he starts.
“Especially when Mary’s crazy ass involved.”
“Mary ain’t—man, see, this what I’m talkin’ about—”
“Line ain’t give you a chance to explain?” Annie presses.
“She didn’t!” Stack says. “Soon as she heard—boom! Done.”
“Explain what, Stack?” Annie shoots back. “How yo’ little dick ended up in Mary…again!”
“Aye, FIRST OFF,” he cuts in, offended, “my shit AIN’T little. I know damn well P ain’t say that.”
Annie snorts. “That’s not the point.”
“It kinda is,” he mutters.
“Stack.”
“It wasn’t even like that,” he adds, defensive now.
“Sure it wasn’t,” Annie says. “You messed up a good thing.”
“…like you messed up a good thing with my brother?” He bites back.
That lands harder than anything else he’s said. Annie doesn’t respond.
Can’t.
Her mouth opens slightly, then closes. Nothing comes out.
Stack lets the silence sit this time. Lets it stretch.
Annie sucks her teeth softly through the phone. “Whatever, nigga.”
“Mhm.”
“Leave them white hoes alone,” she mutters.
“Mary ain’t white,” he shoots back immediately. “Her granddaddy half Black.”
Annie pulls the phone away, staring at the screen.
Then—
click.
Stack pulls the phone away, staring at the screen.
“…man,” he mutters, shaking his head with a small grin.
He exhales, glancing off to the side.
“…this bout to be some bullshit.”
Smoke steps back into the frame of the house without breaking pace. The saw is still running somewhere to his left, high and constant. A compressor kicks on near the back, air hissing through the line. Somebody laughs too loud over something small. The rhythm of the site holds—loud, moving, familiar.
He picks up where he left off.
“Let me see that,” he says, taking the tape measure from Malachi without looking at him. His voice lands even. Same as before.
Malachi hands it over. “We was finna run that wall to sixteen,” he says.
Smoke nods once, eyes already tracking the line. He hooks the tape, pulls it out, metal sliding smooth between his fingers. Marks it with his pencil. Presses his thumb there a second longer than needed, checking the number again.
Sixteen.
He exhales through his nose, low.
“Run it,” he says.
They move.
Boards get lifted. Set. Adjusted. The sound of the nail gun pops sharp through the air in quick controlled bursts. Smoke steps in, lines one edge up with his palm, presses it flush, then nods.
“Hit it.”
The gun fires again. Wood locks into place.
He steps back half a pace, eyes scanning it. The angle. The spacing. Something holds his attention a second longer than usual.
“Hold up,” he says.
Malachi pauses, mid-reach.
Smoke steps forward again, runs his hand along the edge, then taps the top. “It’s off.”
Malachi frowns. “Where?”
Smoke crouches slightly, bringing his eye level down with the line, following it from one end to the other.
There. Barely. But there.
He stands, reaches for the pry bar. “Pull it.”
“Ain’t even—” Malachi starts.
“Pull it,” Smoke repeats with no edge in his voice.
That’s what makes Malachi listen. He backs off. Works the board loose. Nails squeal faint as they give.
Smoke resets it himself this time. Presses it in tighter. Checks it again. Better. He nods. “Now.”
The nail gun goes again. It holds. Smoke steps back, wiping his hand down his jeans once, then reaching for another piece before anyone has to ask.
“Next,” he says.
The work keeps moving. Same pace. Same flow.
Across the site, someone calls out for a measurement. Another voice answers. A truck rolls past slow, tires crunching gravel. Dust lifts, settles. Smoke moves through it all without pause. Board to frame. Measure. Mark. Cut. Repeat. His hands know what to do before he thinks about it. Muscle memory carries most of it. The rest he watches.
Always watching.
He reaches for a beam, lifts it with Diego on the other end. They carry it across, set it down in place. Adjust. “Little up,” Smoke says.
Diego raises his side. “Hold.” They lock it in.
For a second, Smoke’s grip stays there longer. Fingers curled around the edge, pressure firm. Then he lets go. Steps back. “Good,” he says.
Diego nods. “You alright, boss?”
Smoke glances at him, brief. “Yeah.”
Diego studies him a second longer, then shrugs it off. “Ok.”
They keep going.
Time moves.
Sun climbs higher. Heat settles in heavier across the site, pressing into the back of Smoke’s neck, into his shoulders. Sweat gathers along his hairline, trickles down slowly. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, keeps moving.
At some point, Malachi hands him a water.
Smoke takes it without looking, twists the cap, drinks half in one pull. The water hits cold, sharp, grounding. He lowers the bottle, holds it there for a moment, then sets it down on the nearest surface.
“Yo, you hear me?” Malachi says.
Smoke looks up. “What?”
“I said you want that door framed today or tomorrow?”
Smoke blinks once, like the question took a little longer to understand.
“Today,” he answers.
Malachi nods. “Bet.”
Smoke turns, reaches for the chalk line. Snaps it across the wood, blue dust marking clean against the grain.
His phone sits in his pocket.
Silent.
The sound of Stack’s voice is still there anyway.
You want me to give it to her?
Smoke presses the chalk line down harder than necessary, holds it there, then releases.
The line stays.
Clean.
Set.
He exhales once, slow.
“Cut that,” he says, already moving to the next thing.
The work continues.
Only, every now and then, his attention drifts a fraction too far past what’s in front of him before it comes back.
Small.
Barely there.
But there.
The apartment feels different after the call with Stack.
Quieter.
Not the calm kind of quiet, the kind that presses in, fills the corners, settles into her chest and stays there.
Annie sits where she was, legs folded beneath her, phone still in her hand. The screen has already gone dark. Her thumb rests against it anyway, like something might still come through if she waits long enough.
It doesn’t.
She exhales slowly, her shoulders lowering a fraction, but it doesn’t ease anything.
Because she heard him. Not just his voice, but the way it didn’t move.
“Yeah.”
Flat. Even. Controlled.
No edge. No warmth. No hesitation. Nothing for her to grab onto.
Her hand locks in slightly around the phone, because she doesn’t know what that means. If he sounded angry, she could work with that. If he sounded hurt, she’d understand that. But that? That sounded like…distance. The kind you don’t cross easy.
Her eyes drift, unfocused, landing somewhere across the room without seeing it. Her mind moves anyway.
Uninvited.
Does he have somebody? The thought comes quick.
And it doesn’t leave.
Annie swallows, her jaw locks, the tension stacking. What would she look like? The question forms before she can stop it.
Was she prettier?
Skinny?
Wilder?
The type of woman that knows how to hold a man like Smoke without second-guessing it?
Her stomach twists, because she knows what he is. Handsome. Knows the way he moves. Solid. The way he pays attention. The way he shows up without needing to announce it. The kind of man you don’t have to chase. The kind of man that when he chooses you, he stands on it.
Any woman with sense would hold onto that. Wouldn’t let distance break it or let silence stretch that long. Wouldn’t—
Annie presses her lips together, cutting the thought off before it finishes, because she already knows where it goes.
Back to her.
Always back to her.
She leans forward slightly, resting her forearms on her thighs, phone still in her hand, but dangling loose now. Her mind wandering to the relationships she’s had since Smoke.
Her relationships.
Her mouth presses into a thin line, because she really believed those relationships were real. Back then, she was certain. Now, she can see they weren’t. She understands the difference now.
Every time.
The charm. The attention. The way a man would come in strong, say all the right things, move fast enough to feel real. She’d believe it. Give into it. Tell herself this time was different. That she chose right. And then…something would be off. Subtle at first. Inconsistency. Half-effort. Words that didn’t line up with actions.
She’d feel it. Ignore it. Try to make it work anyway. Until it didn’t. Until she was left sitting there, trying to figure out how something that looked right didn’t feel right.
But with Smoke there was never guessing. Even as teens. She never questioned it. Never tried to convince herself of his feelings and intentions. It just—fit.
Her chest tightens. She didn’t know what to do with something that real back then. Didn’t know how to hold it. Didn’t know how to hear it when he said it without saying it.
Her phone buzzes in her hand. Annie jolts slightly, her attention snapping down to the screen. Stack. A text. She opens it. A number sits there.His number. Her breath catches before she can stop it. For a second, she doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. Her thumb just hovers over the screen.
Should I Call?
Text?
Delete?
Her stomach twists again. Because this—this is where it changes. Once she presses something, there’s no going back to before this moment. No pretending she didn’t reach. No wondering what would’ve happened if she had.
Her thumb moves slightly.
Stops.
What if he answers and sounds like that again?
What if he doesn’t answer at all?
What if—her jaw tightens.
What if he has somebody sitting right there with him? The thought lands harder this time. Clearer. She pulls her hand back slightly, like the phone might burn her if she holds it too long.
“Maybe I should just leave it alone,” she mutters under her breath.
Let him be.
Let whatever he built stay that way.
Her phone rings.
Pearline.
Annie stares at the name for half a second, then answers.
“Hey,” she says, her voice evening out quickly.
“Girl,” Pearline breathes out immediately. “You talked to Smoke?”
Annie huffs softly. “Not really. Stack called him on three-way.”
“Oop,” Pearline says. “And?”
Annie leans back against the wall, her head tipping slightly. “And Stack is still messy as fuck.”
Pearline laughs. “You thought I was lyin’? That man is chaos in human form.”
“Literally,” Annie mutters.
“What he say about me?” Pearline asks, quick.
“That you was trippin’,” Annie replies.
Pearline scoffs. “Of course his ass did.”
“You don’t think you was?” Annie asks, a small smile tugging at her mouth.
“Bitch,” Pearline says flatly. “That man had Mary all up in my face…playin’ games.”
Annie groans. “Ugh…I’m sorry friend.”
“Me too,” Pearline replies.
“That nigga sick,” Annie mutters.
Pearline laughs, but it fades quicker this time. “Anyway. What happened with Smoke?”
Annie goes quiet.
Just for a second.
“I ain’t talk to him,” she says finally. “Stack did… I was just on the line. Smoke ain’t know.”
A beat.
“…I heard him though.” Her fingers close around her phone.
Pearline doesn’t respond right away.
“And?” she asks.
Annie exhales through her nose, low. “He ain’t sound… nothin’.”
Pearline pauses. “Nothin’?”
“Yeah,” Annie says, her voice flattening a little. “Not mad. Not surprised. Not—” she stops herself, jaw sets. “Just… regular.”
That sits and it shouldn’t.
Pearline shifts on the other end. “That bothered you.”
Annie lets out a small, humorless breath. “Yeah, girl.”
More than anything else would’ve.
If he sounded hurt, she’d understand that. If he sounded angry—she could work with that. But that? That felt—final.
Annie leans her head back against the wall, eyes closing briefly.
“He don’t sound like he was waitin’ on me,” she says, quieter now.
Pearline doesn’t sugarcoat it. “He wasn’t.”
Annie swallows.
Her thumb drifts across the edge of her phone.
“…I got his number.”
Pearline goes still. “You WHAT?”
“I got his number,” Annie repeats, softer now.
“And you sittin’ there talkin’ to me?” Pearline says.
Annie huffs lightly. “Line—”
“Uh uh. No. Don’t ‘Line’ me. You got that man number and you—what? Scared?”
Annie doesn’t answer. Because—yes, she was scared.
Her eyes open slowly, dropping to the screen in her hand. To the number.
“What if he got somebody?” she says. It comes out quick, but it’s real.
Pearline hums. “You worried about that?”
“I am,” Annie admits. “I don’t like that thought at all.”
Her stomach turns again, sharper this time, because she knows what kind of man he is. Smoke isn’t the type to be out here playing games. If he’s with somebody, he’s with her. For real. And that does something to her chest she doesn’t like. “Smoke is…” she starts, then exhales. “He’s a good man, Line.”
Pearline doesn’t argue that. “I know.”
“Like… a real one,” Annie adds, her voice dropping. “You don’t gotta question how he feels. He shows up without you askin’.” Her throat closed some. “Anybody with sense would keep him,” she says.
A pause.
“I fumbled him.”
“No you didn’t,” Pearline says immediately.
Annie huffs. “Girl—”
“Boo,” Pearline cuts in, softer now. “Y’all was kids.”
Annie goes quiet.
“You lived states away,” Pearline continues. “That’s hard. Even for grown ass adults. And y’all was what—seventeen? Eighteen?”
Annie presses her lips together.
“You ain’t have the tools for that,” Pearline adds. “Feelings that big, that far apart? That ain’t easy to hold.”
Annie’s hand goes solid. “I should’ve listened to that fuckin’ mixtape,” she murmurs.
Pearline lets out a breath. “Damn.”
A beat. Then—
“So what you think not talkin’ to him was sayin’?”
That hits.
Annie’s fingers curl faintly against her thigh. She looks down, jaw tightening slightly.
“…that I wasn’t about to beg,” she says after a second, her voice is quieter now. “That if he already made up his mind… I wasn’t ’bout to beg him to stay.”
Pearline goes still.
“Annie… he wasn’t tryin’ to leave you.”
Annie shakes her head slowly. “I know.”
A beat passes.
“…now I do.”
The realization settles heavy and it hits her all over again. The case in her hands. Clear plastic. Her name written across it in black marker.
She remembers turning it over. Holding it there longer than she needed to. Her thumb pressing along the edge. The pause. Then the moment where she could’ve opened it.
Instead—she set it down. Told herself she’d listen later. Told herself she already knew what it was.
A goodbye.
A soft way of ending something neither of them wanted to say out loud. So she left it closed. Left him there too.
Annie exhales, the memory settling heavier now than it did then.
He wasn’t letting her go.
She let him go.
Silence stretches between them for a second.
Pearline shifts, voice gentler now. “Maybe this just… a new season.”
Annie lets out a small breath. “A new season?”
“Yeah,” Pearline says. “You got his number now. You know what it really was now. You know what you missed.” She pauses. “Go see him,” she adds. “Talk to him face to face. Feel it out.”
Annie’s head tilts slightly. “Line…”
“I’m serious,” Pearline presses. “Come down here. Get your man.”
Annie lets out a soft, disbelieving breath. “You say that like it’s easy.”
“It might be.”
“It’s not,” Annie says, her voice goes careful. “What if he don’t want that? Don’t want me?”
Pearline doesn’t rush the answer this time.
“I guess you just gon’ have to find out, friend,” she says simply. “…and maybe make him a mixtape.” Pearline adds, slyly.
Annie looks down at the phone again. At the number. Her thumb hovers. Her chest rising and falling. She can still hear his voice.
“Yeah.”
Flat.
Even.
Distant.
Her stomach twists again. But this time it doesn’t make her pull away. It keeps her right there. On the edge of doing something.
Waiting.
The phone rings longer than she expects. Not long enough to hang up. Long enough to feel it. Once. Twice. Three—
A click.
“Hello.”
His voice lands the same way it did before. Even. Flat. Unreadable. Annie’s breath catches anyway, sharp in her chest. “…hey,” she says. Too soft. She clears her throat, the sound too loud in her own ear. “Hey, Elijah.”
Silence stretches across the line, thin but heavy, like both of them are standing in it without stepping forward. Smoke doesn’t fill it. Doesn’t ask who it is.
He already knows.
Annie swallows hard, her mouth dry. “It’s… it’s Annie.”
Another pause.
“Yeah,” he says. Same tone. Same weight. Nothing added.
Her fingers curl around the phone until her knuckles ache. He’s not giving her anything. No question. No shift. Not even a flicker. Just that one flat word. Yeah. Her stomach twists. Eight years and this is what she gets?
She exhales slowly through her nose, trying to steady the flutter in her ribs. “Um…” The word dies. Her mind scrambles. “How have you been?” It comes out weak. Pathetic, even to her.
On his end, Smoke leans against the side of the truck, one hand low at his hip, the other pressing the phone to his ear. The noise of the site hums behind him, distant now. Her voice cut through clean. Too clean. Too familiar. It hit him square in the chest before he could brace. That old pull. That same soft place he’d boxed up tight and left to rot. His jaw flexes hard. He breathes through it once, slow and deliberate, forcing the feeling back down where it belongs.
“Aight,” he says. Short. Closed. The word tastes like gravel.
Annie’s eyes close briefly. Aight. That’s it. Heat prickles under her ribs—irritation, sharp and sudden. What the hell is she supposed to do with that? Carry this whole damn conversation alone?
“Okay,” she says, a little sharper than she means. “That’s good.”
Silence again. Wider. Heavier. She shifts on the couch, free hand pressing into her thigh hard enough to leave marks. Say something. Anything. Pearline’s voice echoes faint in her head. Talk to him. Go see him. Get your man.
Annie forces the words out. “I—” She stops. Swallows. “I got your number from Stack. I hope that’s okay.”
“It’s cool.”
She huffs softly, the sound shaky. “Yeah.”
Another pause. Her fingers tap once against her knee, then still. “I didn’t call to… be weird. Or interrupt anything you got goin’ on.”
Nothing.
On Smoke’s end, his grip tightens around the phone. Interrupt. The word lands wrong, scrapes against something raw. She already did. The second her voice came through, the box cracked open. He hates how easily it still happens. His gaze drifts past the site, unfocused. He forces his breathing even.
“Okay,” he says. Flat. Unmoved.
Annie’s irritation spikes hotter. He’s not meeting her halfway. Not even an inch. “I just wanted to talk,” she adds, tone clipped despite herself.
“…about what?” he asks.
There it is. Finally. Something. But it feels like a wall, not a door.
Annie leans forward, elbow braced on her thigh, heart pounding in her ears. “About… us.”
The word drops heavy between them.
Smoke’s jaw sets tight. Everything in him pulls inward—old, familiar, unwelcome. A flash of resentment burns low in his gut. Us. Like she still gets to say that after all this time. He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, pushing the heat back down.
“…ain’t no ‘us,’ Annie.”
Calm. Measured. Final.
The words hit her harder than she expects. Her chest tightens sharp, breath catching. She wasn’t ready. Not that fast. Not that clean. Her eyes sting suddenly. “I didn’t mean—” Her voice falters, cracks at the edge. “I just meant—”
He doesn’t let her finish. “What you callin’ me for?”
Not louder or aggressive. But direct. And there’s something darker underneath now, held down tight.
Annie stills. The question strips her bare. She doesn’t have a clean answer. Her mouth opens, closes. How do you say I heard you eight years too late without sounding stupid? Her throat burns.
“I listened to it,” she says instead, the words scraping out.
Smoke’s brow furrows slightly. “…to what.”
“The mixtape,” she says quietly. “I listened to it.”
Silence. This one hits different. On his end, something sharp twists in his chest, immediate and unwanted. The mixtape. Eight years buried, and she drags it up now like it’s casual. His free hand curls into a fist at his side, knuckles whitening. Anger and that old ache mix ugly in his stomach. Why now? The question burns, but he swallows it. He looks away, gaze hardening on nothing.
He exhales once. Low. Controlled. “We not doin’ that.”
It lands quick. Shuts the door clean.
Annie blinks. “…doin’ what?”
“That,” he repeats. “We not doin’ that.”
His tone doesn’t rise. But it closes everything completely.
Her irritation flares hot. “You don’t even know what I was gonna say,” she pushes, voice trembling at the edge.
“I don’t need to,” he answers. Immediate. Flat.
That lands like a slap. Her fingers curl hard into her palm, nails biting skin.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
His head tilts slightly, quiet disbelief flickering behind the calm. “I don’t?”
Low. Measured. It cuts.
Silence crashes in again. Thicker. Suffocating.
Annie leans back, pressing her head against the wall, staring up at the ceiling until it blurs. Fuck it. The thought flashes hot and bitter. Hang up. Let him keep the life he built. Let him sit in that distance he wears so easily.
But Pearline’s voice cuts through again. Go see him. Talk to him.
Annie exhales sharply, the sound ragged. “I didn’t know,” she says, softer now, the words thick in her throat. “I didn’t know what it was back then. I thought you was… sayin’ goodbye.”
Silence. Longer this time. She can hear him breathing—slow, deliberate, like he’s measuring every inhale to stay steady.
On his end, Smoke closes his eyes briefly. The old ache flares mean, mixing with resentment that tastes like rust. She gets to do this now? After he spent years patching the hole she left? His jaw flexes hard, the muscle jumping. He breathes in once. Slow. Then out.
“Yeah,” he says. Flat. Unreadable. But the single word carries weight—like it cost him.
Annie hears it. Doesn’t fully understand it. Her eyes burn hotter. “I was wrong,” she adds, voice small.
Nothing. No acknowledgment. Just the low hum of the site in the background.
Her irritation flickers again, tangled with hurt. “You could say something, Elijah,” she mutters, the words cracking.
Something almost breaks through on his end, she catches the tiniest shift in his breathing, a hitch. Almost. But he locks it down tight.
“What you want me to say, Annie?” There it is. The edge, still controlled but raw underneath. “Eight years later, you callin’ me talkin’ ‘bout a tape I made when I was…what…nineteen?”
Her chest squeezes so hard it hurts. She hears the scar now—not just distance, but the anger he’s swallowing. Her fingers dig into her thigh until the sting grounds her.
“I just wanted to talk to you,” she says. Quiet. Honest. A little broken at the edges. “That’s all.”
Smoke exhales slowly, looking out across the site. Trucks are still beeping. Guys are still shouting orders. Everything is normal. Except it isn’t. The pull in his chest is louder now, angrier. He hates that it’s still there after all this time. Hates that she can still do this to him.
“…we talkin’,” he says. The words come out rougher than he wants. Tired. Almost bitter.
But it doesn’t feel like talking.
It feels like standing on opposite sides of something burned down a long time ago, both of them staring at the ashes.
The silence returns. Thicker. Heavier.
Unfinished.
Which neither of them moves to fill it.
The site work winds down around him in pieces. Tools clatter into boxes, voices drop off, engines rumble to life one by one. Heat still hangs thick in the air, dust settling slowly across everything, his clothes, his skin, the truck bed.
He leans against the truck, phone dark in his hand. He doesn’t check the screen. Doesn’t need to. Her voice lingers anyway, clear and unwanted.
“…hey.”
Soft. Then again.
“Hey, Elijah.”
His jaw works. He pushes off the truck, circles to the driver’s side, and yanks the door open. The metal groans under his grip. He climbs in, slams it harder than necessary. The sound echoes in the empty cab and settles heavy in his chest. He exhales once, slow, then leans forward, forearms braced on the steering wheel, head dipping low.
Quiet.
No saws. No voices. No movement.
Just the faint ticking of the cooling engine and the low hum of traffic somewhere down the road. His fingers flex against the wheel, knuckles pale, then ease.
Then—
“Elijah.”
It hits different this time. Nobody calls him that anymore. Not unless it’s his mama, and even then it comes corrective, formal. Smoke is what stuck. What fits the man he built. But the way Annie said it… it slid past every wall he’d raised. Too soft. Too familiar. Like she still had a right to the version of him she used to know.
His tongue presses hard against the inside of his cheek. The thought tries to bloom and he cuts it off quick. His grip firm on the wheel until the leather creaks. She reached right past everything he’d boxed up and yanked at something he doesn’t touch anymore. His chest pulls sharp, old ache flaring hot beneath the surface.
He leans back against the seat, head tipping against the rest, eyes fixed on the stained ceiling of the cab.
“What she callin’ me for?”
The question loops again, bitter now. His hand drags down his face, rough against the stubble, palm catching on the tension in his jaw. “I listened to it.” The words echo in his head. Now? After eight years of silence, she finally hears the tape he poured himself into and decides that’s the moment to call? His stomach twists with something ugly…resentment, sharp and familiar. He’d sent it with no expectations, just raw truth he couldn’t say out loud. And she thought it was a goodbye.
His eyes close briefly. He exhales longer this time, trying to push the tightness out of his ribs. It doesn’t budge.
“She thought I was sayin’ goodbye.”
He mutters it under his breath, the sound low and rough. Something sits wrong in his gut like she missed him completely back then, and now she wants credit for finally seeing it. His finger taps once against the wheel. Then again. The rhythm does nothing to settle him.
The mixtape memory surfaces anyway: late nights piecing it together, replaying moments he had no words for, burning the disc, writing her name on it with nothing else attached. No pressure. No begging. Just everything he felt at nineteen, sent out clean.
And then… nothing. No call. No text. No acknowledgment it ever reached her.
His chest is tight again, deeper this time. The old wound throbs under the scar tissue he thought had hardened.
He adjusts in the seat, rolling his shoulders back hard, trying to shake the feeling loose. It clings.
He stares at the phone tossed face-down in the center console. He already knows what he won’t find…a message or follow-up. Same silence as before. That familiarity burns low and mean.
His jaw locks. Because that emptiness feels too much like then.
He straightens, grabs the keys, and starts the engine. It turns over smooth, the low rumble filling the cab like a barrier. He doesn’t put it in drive right away. Instead, he reaches into the center console, fingers moving without thought until they land on the pack. He taps one out, slips it between his lips, then flicks the lighter.
The flame catches. He inhales slow, deep, the burn settling into his chest before he exhales through his nose. Smoke fills the cab, thin at first, then thicker, curling toward the ceiling.
It gives him something to focus on.
Something that isn’t her voice.
His fingers rest loose against the steering wheel, cigarette held low between them as the ember glows and fades with each pull. The quiet presses in again, but this time it has shape. Weight.
“Elijah.”
His jaw tightens.
He drags again, longer this time, holding it in like he can choke the memory out before letting it go in a slow stream toward the windshield.
That name—
He ain’t heard it in years. Not like that. Not soft. Not familiar. Not from somebody who used to say it like it belonged to her.
His thumb taps once against the wheel, ash dropping into the tray.
“She don’t get to do that.” The words come low, under his breath. But even as he says it something in his chest shifts anyway.
He pulls out slowly, the road unfolding ahead on autopilot. Streetlights flicker on as the sky deepens, long shadows stretching across the pavement. His hand rests low on the wheel, thumb tapping faint and restless.
His mind won’t quiet. It circles back to her voice. To that pause before she spoke. To the way she said “Elijah” like it still belonged to her. The pull is still there—quiet, stubborn, deeper than he wants to admit. He hates it. Hates that one phone call cracked the seal he spent years reinforcing.
He pulls into his driveway and kills the engine. The quiet rushes back in, heavier here. No work noise. No distraction. Just the faint ticking of the truck cooling and the distant sounds of the neighborhood settling in.
He sits there for a minute. Then another. His hand finally moves, flipping the phone over. The screen lights up. Still nothing from her. His thumb hovers. He doesn’t have her number saved. Not anymore. Not like that.
Instead, he scrolls. Stops on a name. Stares at it longer than he should. Then presses call.
It rings once. Twice.
A soft, familiar voice answers. “Hey, stranger.”
Smoke leans back into the seat, eyes closing for a beat. His voice settles back into that even, controlled tone. “Hey. I’m on my way.”
A soft laugh on the other end. “Okay.”
The call ends. He sits there another second, phone still warm in his palm. The tension in his chest hasn’t loosened. It’s still there, tight, unresolved, angry at its own persistence. Part of him wants to call Annie back just to tell her to stop. The rest of him knows better. Knows that opening that door again would only drag up more shit he’s not ready to wade through.
He exhales low, rough. Then opens the door, steps out, and heads inside to grab what he needs. The night is waiting.
And he steps into it anyway, because standing still with her voice in his head feels worse.
The place is dim when he walks in.
Not dark.
Low light. Lamps instead of overheads. Warm tones that soften the edges of everything in the room. Music plays somewhere in the background, something slow, familiar, meant to settle into the space without asking too much from it.
She’s ready.
Jada sits on the couch, one leg tucked under her, glass in hand. Her head turns when the door opens, a small smile pulling at her mouth when she sees him. She’s gorgeous, always has been. Light brown skin catching the lamplight, full curves filling out her tank and shorts like they were made for her. Any man would be happy to have her on his arm.
They’d known each other since high school, same loose circle. Back then, Smoke’s eyes never left Annie. Jada was just… there.
Years later, on a construction site near one of her listings, they reconnected. Tried more a couple years back, but she wanted what he couldn’t give while he was focused on building. Now it was occasional. Honest. No strings. She knew what it was. He’d never lied to her.
“You made good time,” she says.
Smoke closes the door behind him, sliding the lock into place without looking.
“Traffic wasn’t bad.”
He crosses the room and drops onto the couch beside her, not too close, but close enough. Jada hands him her glass without asking. He takes a sip—something sweet, something with a bite, then passes it back.
“Rough day?” she asks, studying him.
Smoke leans his head back against the cushion, exhaling slow. “Long one. Site was hot as hell.”
Jada nods. “Mm. I had a client damn near change their mind three times in one hour. Thought I was gon’ lose that sale.”
Smoke glances at her. “They probably ain’t even know what they wanted.”
She laughs softly. “They never do.”
“They just like hearin’ themselves talk,” he mutters.
“That part.”
The conversation settles easy after that. Familiar. She tells him how the showing almost fell through, how the buyer kept second-guessing everything. He tells her one of the younger dudes on the crew almost got hurt because he wasn’t paying attention.
“You cuss him out?” she asks.
A faint smirk tugs at his mouth. “Had to. Ain’t nobody got time for that.”
“Mm. You be in your foreman bag for real now.”
He huffs lightly. “Somebody gotta be.”
It’s light. Surface. The kind of talk that doesn’t ask for anything deeper than what’s right there.
For a minute, his mind clears. No phone call. No voice sitting in the back of it.
Just this.
Jada shifts a little closer, her thigh brushing his. “You eat?”
“I’m straight.”
“You sure? I can warm somethin’ up real quick.”
He shakes his head, glancing at her. “I’m good, Jada.”
She studies him for a second longer this time, head tilting slightly. “You quiet tonight.”
“Been workin’,” he says.
She hums, not fully buying it. “Mm. That all?”
He doesn’t answer that.
Jada lets it go, like she always does. That’s why this works. No pushing. No digging where he hasn’t opened the door.
She sets the glass down and leans in, her hand resting on his thigh, thumb brushing once. “You seem like you got something on your mind though.”
Smoke looks at her—really looks this time.
She’s beautiful.
Willing.
Easy.
No questions waiting behind her eyes. No expectations sitting under the surface.
Nothing complicated.
He lifts a hand, cupping the back of her neck, fingers settling warm against her skin as he pulls her in.
The kiss starts easy.
Familiar.
Something he doesn’t have to think about.
Then it builds.
They move together on the couch. Clothes come off piece by piece—his shirt, her tank, shorts sliding down smooth thighs. He reaches for his wallet, pulls out a condom, tears the wrapper with his teeth, and rolls it on while she watches with heavy-lidded eyes, her hand trailing down her own body.
He settles between her thighs and pushes in—slow at first, then deeper. Jada’s breath catches, her nails scraping lightly down his back as he starts to move with steady, deep thrusts.
It feels good. It should be enough.
Then the song changes.
Soft guitar. That unmistakable voice.
Brown Skin… you know I love your brown skin…
His jaw tightens.
Out ot everything—this.
That song.
The room doesn’t change. Jada doesn’t change, but something in him does.
Quick
Unwanted.
“…Elijah.”
Not Jada. Wrong voice. Wrong tone.
Too soft.
His grip tightens without meaning to, fingers pressing into her side harder than he means. She reacts to that by leaning into it. Taking it for something else.
“Mm,” she hums against his mouth, breath warm.
Smoke exhales through his nose, forcing himself back into the moment, deepening the kiss, trying to override the voice.
Push it down.
Jada’s breath comes quicker. “Yeah… like that, Smoke.”
But the flicker won’t fade. Annie’s voice echoes again in his head — soft, hesitant, saying his name like it still belonged to her. Elijah. The sound twists something in him.
His rhythm stutters—barely there, but enough that he feels it.
Annoyance flashes first.
At Annie.
At himself.
At the fact that out of nowhere, after all this time—she’s here.
Now.
In this.
He pulls out suddenly, hands firm on her hips.
“Turn over,” he says, voice low and rougher than usual. Not a question.
Jada’s eyes flash with surprise and heat. She doesn’t hesitate. She turns onto her knees, arching her back as she braces against the arm of the couch, presenting that plump, perfect ass to him. “Like this?” she asks, looking over her shoulder, a teasing edge in her voice.
Smoke doesn’t answer with words. He grips her hips tight — tighter than he usually does and slides back into her from behind in one smooth, deep stroke, the condom still snug. The new angle lets him go harder, deeper. He starts pounding into her with controlled force that quickly turns rougher, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the dim room. Each thrust is deliberate and heavy, his hips snapping forward, driving into her with an intensity that borders on punishing. He’s not talking shit like he normally would, no low murmurs, no dirty praise. His jaw is clenched, breath coming sharp through his nose as sweat starts to bead on his skin.
In his mind, it’s not fully Jada anymore. Flashes of Annie intrude, her voice on the phone, the way she said his name, the regret and want tangled in it. He imagines her here instead, that same soft hesitation turning into gasps under him. His grip firm on Jada’s hips, fingers digging into soft flesh as he fucks her harder, pulling her back onto him with each powerful thrust. The couch creaks under them. Jada’s moans grow louder, unrestrained, her body pushing back to meet every rough stroke.
She loves it.
“Fuck… Smoke,” she gasps, voice breathy and pleased. “You must’ve…mhm…had uhh…rough day. You takin’ out all your frustrations on me and I love it.” She pushes back harder against him, ass rippling with each impact. “Be like that. Ahh…I love it.”
Her words should ground him. They don’t. They just feed the roughness. He doesn’t slow down. One hand slides up her back, pressing between her shoulder blades to arch her further, the other staying locked on her hip as he continues pounding into her with deep, relentless backshots that make her cry out in pleasure. Her walls clench around him, wet and hot, body responding eagerly to the uncharacteristic force. Sweat slicks their skin. The music in the background fades under the sounds of their bodies colliding.
Smoke’s mind keeps slipping. Annie. The name doesn’t leave his lips, but it pulses behind his eyes with every thrust. He fucks harder, chasing the physical release to drown the unwanted pull in his chest. It works enough—his body tense, release building sharp and inevitable.
Jada comes first, moaning loud and shameless, her body shaking under the intensity. Smoke follows soon after, burying himself deep with a low, guttural sound as he finishes inside the condom, hips still jerking with aftershocks.
They stay like that for a moment, connected, breathing hard. Then he pulls out slowly, the roughness easing as reality settles back in. He ties off the condom, wraps it in a tissue from the side table, and sets it aside.
Jada collapses forward a little, then turns her head to look at him over her shoulder, a satisfied, lazy smile on her face. She’s flushed, glowing, clearly unbothered by it. “Damn… whatever got into you, keep that shit up.”
Smoke exhales, jaw still tight. He runs a hand down his face, the tension in his chest still there — quieter now, but unmoved. The sex landed physically. But it didn’t settle the way it usually did. Not all the way.
He leans down, pressing a brief kiss to her shoulder—familiar, contained. “Yeah.”
This is what it is. Easy. Present. No questions.
But Annie’s voice still lingers somewhere underneath, quiet and loaded, refusing to be fully pushed down.
The city outside has quieted, the occasional car passing beneath her window, headlights sliding across the ceiling before disappearing again. Annie sits curled into the corner of the couch, one leg tucked under her, the other stretched out, her phone resting loose in her hand. She hasn’t moved much. Didn’t turn the TV on. Didn’t play music. Just sat. Thinking. Too much.
“…ain’t no ‘us,’ Annie.”
Her jaw stiffens again. “Okay,” she mutters under her breath, but there’s no heat behind it now. That earlier irritation burned off. What’s left sits deeper. Quieter. More honest. She leans forward, elbows resting on her knees, phone dangling between her fingers. Because the truth is, he didn’t sound confused. Didn’t sound hurt in a loud way. Didn’t even sound surprised. He sounded done. That part hurts heavier the longer she sits with it.
Her thumb drags along the edge of her phone, back and forth, slow. What if that’s real? What if he really moved on? Not pretending. Not fronting. Actually moved on. Her chest pulls tight again, and this time she doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t pace it off. Doesn’t cover it with attitude. She lets it sit. Ugly. Uncomfortable. Real. Because she knows what he is. And every man after him made her realize it. The difference. The lack. Her lips press together. “…yeah,” she murmurs.
Of course somebody would want him.
She leans back into the couch, staring up at the ceiling, blinking slowly. Her mind drifts again, not on purpose, to him, but not to the boy. The man. What he looks like now when he wakes up. What his house looks like. If there’s a woman moving around in it. Her stomach twists, sharp and immediate. “Ugh,” she exhales, dragging a hand down her face. “Girl, stand up.”
She sits up straighter, shaking her head once like she can reset herself, because what are we doing? For real. She snatches her phone up, unlocking it quickly, pulling up her messages. Stack’s thread is still open. His number still sitting there above it. She locks the phone again and tosses it beside her. “Yeah, no,” she mutters. “We not about to do that again.”
Her tone hardens now, defensive, protective, because the embarrassment creeps in. That call. How it went. How he sounded. How mouth flattens, composure snapping into place. “I’m good,” she says out loud. “I’m straight.” The words sound louder in the quiet apartment. Convincing.
Almost.
Her phone buzzes beside her. She looks at it.
Pearline.
Of course.
Annie stares at the screen for a second, then answers. “Hello?”
“Aye,” Pearline’s voice comes through immediately. “So what happened? You talked to him?”
Annie exhales, leaning her head back against the couch. “Yeah.”
“And?”
“…it was fuckin’ weird,” Annie admits.
Pearline lets out a soft hum. “Aww hell. Weird how?”
Annie sits up again, dragging her hand over her face. “Like… awkward as hell . He wasn’t givin’ me nothing, Line. I’m over here tryna talk, he talkin’ in one-word responses. I’m like…okay, cool. Got it.”
Pearline huffs lightly. “That sound like him when he don’t feel like playin’ with you.”
“Exactly, I used to think that shit was cute.” Annie says, irritation creeping back in. “So I’m like…why am I even doin’ this? I should’ve just left it alone.”
Pearline lets her sit in that for a second before speaking again. “What else you say to him?”
Annie exhales. “I tried to talk about the mixtape.”
Pearline goes quiet. “…and?”
“He shut that shit down. Quick.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah. Damn,” Annie repeats, voice tightening. “So I’m done. For real. I’m not about to put’ myself out there for somebody who clearly don’t care.”
That lands sharper, louder, but Pearline hears it for what it is. “I’m serious, Line,” Annie continues. “I’m good. If he wanna be mad at me forever, he can. That’s on him. I don’t need him. I got plenty of niggas who want me.”
Pearline snorts softly. “Girl.”
“What?” Annie presses. “I do.”
“I know you do. That ain’t the point.”
Annie rolls her eyes. “I’m just sayin’… I’m not about to embarrass myself again. I did that once already.”
“You not embarrassin’ yourself,” Pearline says. “You bein’ real.”
Annie huffs. “Yeah, okay.”
“I’m serious,” Pearline continues. “Y’all ain’t never actually talked. Not for real. Everything ended off assumptions and silence. That ain’t closure.”
Annie’s fingers tap lightly against her thigh, because she knows that. She just doesn’t want to sit in it.
“If you got something to say, say it,” Pearline adds. “And if he wanna sit there actin’ all mysterious and emotionally unavailable, then let him. That’s his business.”
Annie exhales slowly. “He is so irritating.”
Pearline laughs. “Girl. Him and Stack really not that different when you think about it.”
Annie scoffs. “Don’t ever put them in the same sentence again.”
“Both stubborn. Both don’t listen. Both think they right,” Pearline continues.
Annie pauses… then huffs. “Okay, wait—”
Pearline laughs louder. “Exactly. Smoke’s just Stack with better self-control.”
Annie gasps. “Don’t disrespect him like that.”
“I’m serious! Same DNA, boo.”
Annie mutters, “…you’re actually sick.”
Pearline snorts. “But you love me.”
Annie lets out a quiet breath, a small smile pulling at her mouth before it slips away just as quickly. The moment doesn’t hold. Not with everything else sitting underneath it. “I just… I don’t know, Line. What if he really moved on?”
Pearline hesitates. “…I mean—,” she starts, then stops. A small pause stretches before she clears her throat lightly. “I can’t say if he dealin’ with somebody serious,” she says finally. “You know how he is. He keep his business, his business.”
“Yeah,” Annie murmurs, but her brows pull together slightly.
Pearline presses on before Annie can sit in it too long. “But what I do know,” she continues, voice softening, “is that you didn’t fumble him, boo.”
Annie’s throat tightens.
“Y’all were kids. In two different places. Tryna handle grown folks feelings with no guidance. That was always gon’ be hard.”
Annie leans back again, staring up at the ceiling. “…yeah.”
“This could be a new season.”
“Girl…you and this ‘new season’ shit.” Annie huffs.
“I’m serious. And I’m tired of always comin’ up there to see you. It’s time for you to come down here.”
Annie’s brows pull together. “To do what?”
Pearline doesn’t hesitate. “Come get your man.”
Annie lets out a short laugh. “Nah, Line. I’m not doin’ that.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Annie sits up again, irritation mixing with something deeper, “what if he got a new girl?” The word comes out heavy, sharp. Her stomach twists again.
“Then you’ll see that,” Pearline says simply.
Annie scoffs. “Yeah, and then what? I look stupid? No, thank you.”
Pearline huffs lightly. “Annie,” she pauses, then continues. “I’m sure he felt real stupid too.”
Annie’s mouth opens, then closes again.
Pearline goes on, voice quieter now, not piling on—
“After pourin’ his heart into that mixtape… and not hearin’ nothin’ back. How you think he felt?”
That lands heavy.
Silence stretches.
Pearline doesn’t push harder, just lets it sit there. Then, softer — “You don’t look stupid for wantin’ something real.”
Annie goes quiet, because that hits different now. Her fingers curl faintly against her palm.
“I don’t know…” she says, softer now.
Pearline exhales. “Think about it. That’s all I’m sayin’. Just think about it.”
“…okay.”
They sit in silence for a little while longer before Pearline shifts the tone.
“Stack said you was in your feelings earlier too,” she mutters.
Annie rolls her eyes. “Stack need to mind his business.”
Pearline laughs softly. “You know he not gon’ do that.”
“Exactly why I don’t talk to him,” Annie mutters.
Pearline hums. “Crazy… cause you got all this energy for him, but not for the person you actually need to talk to.”
Annie refuses to respond to that.
A few more words pass between them, lighter, easier, then the call ends.
The apartment goes quiet again, but it doesn’t feel the same. Annie sits there, phone still in her hand, staring ahead. Thinking. Not spiraling or avoiding. Actually thinking. Pearline’s words settle in, slow and deliberate.
Think about it.
Her gaze drifts back to her phone.
To that number.
She exhales slowly, then leans back into the couch, eyes lifting toward the ceiling.
“…I might be crazy.”
But she doesn’t move away from the idea.
Not this time.
End Note: In the words of Stack...this bout to be some bullshit! 🫣 Part 3 coming soon. Tell me your thoughts.
Summary: She had it the whole time. A CD with her name written across it in his handwriting. She just never pressed play. Years later, she finally does and realizes it was never just a mixtape. It was a timeline. A confession. Everything he couldn’t say while she was still close enough to hear it. The beginning. The almost. The moment it became something real and what it turned into after she left.
Somewhere between the first track and the last, Annie understands one thing too late—he never stopped choosing her.
She just never answered.
But now… she might.
A/N: This idea came from a fic prompt via @sunshinerepublic 💜 Please let me know what y'all think.
C/W: Explicit sexual content (18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT). Consensual first-time sex between two young adults, including foreplay (oral sex, fingering, breast play), virginity loss with realistic discomfort, penetrative sex, and emotional vulnerability.
W/C: 12k
“Moving!?”
The word comes out sharper than Annie means for it to, her voice catching somewhere between disbelief and panic. She’s already halfway out of her seat, hands braced against the edge of the mattress, searching for something solid under her.
“Why?”
Her mother doesn’t answer right away. She stands in the doorway, arms folded tight across her chest, holding herself together in a way Annie recognizes immediately. That same look she gets when something has already been decided and there’s no use trying to undo it.
“We can’t keep stretchin’ what ain’t there,” she says finally.
That’s it—that’s the answer.
But it doesn’t feel like enough to hold everything it means.
Annie stares at her, the words landing, her fingers digging into the comforter beneath her as though she can anchor herself there if she tries hard enough.
“What about school? It’s my senior year,” she says, her voice smaller now, but no less urgent. “What about—”
She stops herself before she says his name.
Her mother sees it anyway.
Something in her expression changes, softening for half a second before it hardens again.
“You’ll finish there,” she says. “New start. New opportunities.”
New.
The word hangs there, clean and simple, reducing everything Annie already has to something unworthy of staying for.
They didn’t plan to leave.
Years later, that’s what she returns to, years later, when the edges of it have softened enough to hold without cutting into her the same way. Back then, it didn’t feel like building. It felt like something that happened all at once.
Her mother lost her job first.
Not in a single moment. In pieces. Cut hours. New management. Promises that never made it past the next schedule. By the time the layoff came, it almost felt expected, except expectation didn’t make it easier to carry.
Bills stacked anyway.
Her “father” had been gone longer than he was ever there. Military, technically. That was the word they used when people asked. It sounded better than the truth. He came and went in uniforms and silence, bringing structure with him when he stayed, distance when he didn’t. By Annie’s junior year, his visits had thinned down to calls that came less often than they should’ve.
So when her mother said they were moving to North Carolina, where her sister had been asking her to come for years, it wasn’t really a discussion. It was a decision that had been waiting for the right kind of breaking point.
Annie sits there, the weight of it pressing in from all sides, trying to make sense of something that doesn’t feel like it’s asking to be understood.
She’s seventeen.
Old enough to understand what’s happening.
But too young to stop it.
Smoke had been in her life long enough that she couldn’t remember when he wasn’t.
They grew up on the same street. They weren’t next door neighbors, but close enough that their paths kept crossing until familiarity turned into something quieter. Something constant.
He wasn’t loud. Never had to be.
People knew him anyway.
Elijah Moore, though nobody called him that unless it was his mother or somebody trying to make a point. To everybody else, he was Smoke. Moved slow, spoke less, watched everything. The kind of presence that didn’t ask for attention but held it anyway.
Annie didn’t notice when he started paying attention to her. It showed up in small things.
A door held open before she reached it. A drink already waiting for her at the corner store because he saw her walking up the block. His jacket handed over without comment when the temperature dropped faster than expected.
He didn’t flirt the way other boys did—no loud declarations, no teasing meant to draw a reaction.
With Smoke, it was quieter.
More certain.
By junior year, people assumed. Not in a way that forced anything into place. More in the way they moved around each other. The space they shared without thinking about it. The way he walked her home and didn’t leave until she was inside.
They never labeled it.
Didn’t sit down and name what they were to each other.
But Annie knew.
And so did he.
The closer it got to the move, the more he showed up. He didn’t ask questions he already knew the answer to, or push her to say anything she wasn’t ready to say out loud.
He just… stayed close, as if proximity could change something, as if his presence alone might keep her in place.
The night before she left, the air hung heavy and still, carrying the smell of cut grass and sun-warmed asphalt.
Boxes filled the house behind her. Tape sealed across the tops in uneven strips. Here laid her life, broken down into pieces that could be carried.
The porch light buzzed overhead, casting a warm, uneven glow across the front steps.
Smoke stood a few feet away, shoulders relaxed, hands low at his sides. White tee, dark jeans, the same chain he always wore catching the light when he moved.
His gaze stayed on her. Memorizing. That’s what it felt like, as if he were fixing her in place somewhere he could return to later.
She should’ve said something then. Something that matched the weight sitting between them. Instead, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck.
He stilled for half a beat before his hands came up, settling against her back and waist. Firm. Grounded. Familiar.
She felt his breath against her temple—slow, controlled, measured.
“I’ll call you,” she said into his shoulder. She meant it. Every part of her believed it in that moment.
“You better,” he murmured, low.
It wasn’t a joke.
She pulled back just a bit, just enough to look at him.
“I will,” she said.
A beat passed.
Then another.
Neither of them moved.
Annie’s hand slid from his shoulder to his chest, resting there, feeling the steady rhythm beneath her palm. Smoke’s gaze dropped briefly to where her hand sat, then lifted back to her face.
Something changed… inevitable.
Annie leaned in first. Slow and certain. Her mouth found his, soft at first, then deeper when he met her there, his hand tightening at her back as he pulled her closer.
It wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t unsure.
It felt like everything they hadn’t said, everything they hadn’t figured out how to hold onto with words.
Her fingers curled against his shirt, grounding herself in him, in the moment, in something that felt solid even as everything around it was about to change.
Smoke’s hand moved along her back, sure, holding her there as though grip alone might keep this from slipping away.
They broke apart slowly, their foreheads resting together for a second, breaths uneven but quiet.
“You gon’ be good?” he asked, low.
She nodded, even though she didn’t know what that meant yet.
“Yeah.”
A pause.
“I’m comin’ back,” she added, softer now. “For breaks… summers… I’ll be back.”
It wasn’t a plan—but it sounded like one.
He nodded once. “Aight.”
Her hand lingered against his chest for a second longer before she let it fall. This time, when they stepped apart there was nothing left to say. She turned first, walking towards the door.
She didn’t look back right away, but she felt it. That same awareness.
Unchanged.
Still on her.
When she finally turned to look back, he hadn’t moved. He was still standing where she left him.
Just… there.
Annie held his gaze for a second longer. Then she turned back and went inside.
Eight years later…
The apartment still smells new. Fresh paint layered over older wood. Dust stirred up from movement. A faint trace of something chemical that hasn’t had time to settle yet.
Annie sits on the floor in the middle of it, legs folded beneath her, surrounded by open boxes in different stages of being dealt with.
She’s twenty-five now. Older in the ways that matter. More certain. Her life is her own in a way it wasn’t back then.
North Carolina gave her and her mom what they needed. Her mother found work within months. Stable. Consistent. Enough to breathe again. Annie finished school. College after that. Built something that belonged to her, and still—
Some things stayed packed.
Untouched.
The box sits off to the side. Brown cardboard, edges worn soft from being moved more times than opened. Her mother’s handwriting stretches across the top in fading permanent marker:
HIGH SCHOOL
She meant to leave it there—start with the kitchen, the bathroom. The pieces of a space that make it functional before anything else. But her hands reached for it anyway.
Now it’s open.
Photos sit on top. Faces she hasn’t seen in years. Paper curled at the corners. A program from a school event she barely remembers. A bracelet she forgot she ever owned. She moves through it slowly, but not lingering too long either.
Until—her fingers stop.
A CD case rests near the bottom. Clear plastic. One side cracked along the hinge. The surface dulled from time and handling.
Her breath shakes before she even picks it up, because she knows. She turns it over in her hands.
There it was.
Black Sharpie pressed firm into the disc inside. No decoration. No extra effort to make it pretty. Just—
Annie
Something in her chest pulls tight, something… familiar. It’s settled deep enough that it feels like it’s always been there. Her thumb runs along the edge of the case, tracing the worn spot where it’s been opened and closed enough times to smooth the plastic down.
He made this. Somewhere else. Without her there. Chose every song. Put her name on it.
She never heard it when it mattered.
For a moment, she considers putting it back. Closing the case. Sliding it beneath everything else in the box and sealing it up again. Letting that version of things stay where it’s been all this time.
Untouched.
Unanswered.
Because she knows how it ended. It wasn’t in one moment she could point to and say—that’s where it broke.
At first, it didn’t feel like anything was changing. They talked. Late at night mostly, when the house was quiet on both ends and the distance felt smaller than it was. He’d call. Or she would. Sometimes both, missing each other by minutes and laughing about it after. He’d ask about school. She’d ask about home. It felt… held together.
Until it didn’t.
Calls got missed. It wasn’t on purpose. Bad timing. Different schedules. Long days that turned into longer nights.
“I called you.”
“I ain’t see it.”
“You could’ve called back.”
“I did.”
Small things, like that. Nothing big enough to fight over, but enough to feel. Texts got shorter. Then slower. Then sometimes—
Not at all.
Annie told herself it was fine. That this is what distance does. That they’d figure it out when she came back. But she didn’t come back as much as she thought she would.
There was always something preventing it. School. Work. Money. Timing. So when she did—It felt different. Off. Like trying to step back into something that had already changed without asking either of them first.
She wondered sometimes if he met someone.
Never asked.
Didn’t want to hear the answer if it was yes. Didn’t want to sound like she was holding onto something that didn’t belong to her anymore if it wasn’t. She knew he wondered too. Could hear it in the way he asked certain questions.
Who she was with.
What she was doing.
Who she spent her time around.
He wasn’t accusing. Just… listening for something he didn’t want to find.
They didn’t fight and that’s the part that stayed with her the most. Nothing ever exploded. Nothing ever broke clean. It just… slipped. Or maybe loosened.
Until one day, there wasn’t anything left to hold onto that felt the same.
Neither of them could or would say it out loud.
The CD came later.
Not right away. A year, maybe two.
Long enough for the silence between them to settle into something real. Long enough for the calls to stop feeling expected. Long enough for him to understand what wasn’t coming back the way it left.
She didn’t know what to do with it when it showed up.
A small package. Her name written across the front in handwriting she hadn’t seen in months but recognized immediately.
No return address.
Inside—
A CD.
Slim case. Clear plastic. No note. No explanation.
Just her name written across the disc in black marker.
Annie.
She turned it over in her hands back then too. Sat with it longer than she meant to.
Then set it aside.
Told herself she’d listen to it later.
She never listened to the CD. Realization hit—
She had it the whole time.. and never opened it.
The apartment is quiet now. No TV. No music. No voices filling the space.
Just the low hum of the refrigerator from the next room and the faint sound of traffic moving somewhere below her window.
And now this CD, sitting in her hands.
Waiting.
The stereo sits on the floor across from her. Small. Functional. One of the last things she unpacked. She moves forward, pressing the power button. A soft click answers her. The tray slides out with a low mechanical whirr.
She pauses again. Breath held longer than necessary.
Then she places the CD inside. Closes it. The room settles around her. A brief crackle.
Then—music.
Annie goes quiet because she knows this song. Knows it in a way that bypasses thought and goes straight to memory.
And just like that—
She’s seventeen again.
Track 1: Didn’t Cha Know
The opening notes settle into the room, low and warm, wrapped in a faint layer of static that time didn’t quite smooth out.
Annie doesn’t move.
Her hand stays braced against the floor beside her, fingers spread, grounding herself in something solid as the sound fills the space.
The speakers hum softly. Close. Contained. The melody stretches. Slow. Familiar.
Erykah Badu
The words come in soft, almost slipping past if you’re not paying attention—something about knowing. About recognizing a feeling before you have words for it.
Annie’s eyes drift closed. The apartment loosens its hold on her. The boxes. The fresh paint. The quiet. It all fades at the edges.
Heat replaces it.
Late afternoon sun pressing into pavement that’s been holding it all day. The air thick with it, carrying the smell of asphalt and something sweet drifting from somewhere down the block.
She’s walking.
Bookbag slung over one shoulder, strap digging into the same place it always does. Her steps slow, unhurried, because she already knows.
He’s there.
Leaning against the chain-link fence across from the corner store. One foot propped back, shoulders loose, head tipped forward like he’s been there a while.
Waiting.
She knows. A quiet awareness that settles over her whenever he’s near. Present.
Her gaze lifts.
Finds him exactly where she expected.
White tee. Faded jeans. A thin chain around his neck. His hands tucked into his pockets, posture easy in a way that doesn’t ask for attention but holds it anyway.
His eyes meet hers and stay. He doesn’t wave or call out to her. Just straightens off the fence, pushing himself up with a small roll of his shoulder, her attention apparently all the signal he needed.
By the time she reaches the corner, he’s already moving. Falls into step beside her, matching her pace without asking.
“Thought you had practice,” she says, glancing over.
“Got out early.”
She nods, adjusting her strap. “Mhm.”
Their arms brush when the sidewalk narrows. Neither of them moves away.
“You eat?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “Not yet.”
He angles them toward the store without a word. The bell above the door chimes when they step inside. Cool air washes over her skin. The hum of refrigerators lines the walls, drinks stacked in neat rows.
Smoke reaches in, grabs something without asking. Hands it to her. Their fingers brush. Cold plastic presses into her palm.
“Thank you,” she says.
He shrugs, but he’s watching her.
They don’t stay long. Just enough to pay and step back into the heat. They walk a little further before he slows, stopping near a low brick wall along an empty lot.
“Sit for a minute.”
She looks at him, then the wall. A small smile tugs at her mouth. “A minute?”
His lips twitch. “Yeah.”
She sits.
He drops down beside her, close enough that their shoulders nearly touch. Close enough that she can feel the heat of him without leaning.
The city hums around them. Cars. Voices. Something distant that blends into the background.
Smoke reaches into his pocket. Pulls out a pair of headphones. Worn. Cord twisted. He untangles them with practiced fingers. Then hands her one side.
Annie looks at it.
Then at him.
“Just listen,” he says.
She slips the earbud in. Adjusts it. He does the same. Then presses play. The song settles in her ear, closer this time. Intimate. Wrapped around her instead of filling a room. Her shoulders ease. The music sits between them, shared.
She glances at him.
He’s looking forward, elbows on his knees, hands loose, but there’s something in the way he’s listening. Not to the song.
To her.
“This your favorite or somethin’?” she asks quietly.
He shakes his head. “Nah.”
A beat passes.
“Just reminded me of you.”
The words land easy. Unforced. He says them without checking them first.
Annie settles into it.
The song hums in her ear, voice smooth, carrying that same quiet pull—wanting something, holding it close, not quite naming it.
It lands differently now.
Didn’t then.
“What about it?” she asks, softer now.
He shifts beside her—closer.
“Don’t know.” A small pause. “Just do.”
Her fingers trace the condensation on the bottle resting between them. The music stretches on, warm, unhurried, holding something underneath it that feels bigger than the moment they’re sitting in.
She leans back slightly, bracing her hands behind her. Her shoulder brushes his. This time, neither of them moves.
“Okay,” she says. Quiet. Accepting it for what it is, even if she doesn’t fully understand it.
Smoke nods once.
They sit like that until the song fades. Neither of them rushing to move. Neither of them saying what’s already there.
Annie’s eyes open slowly, her breath easing out like she’s surfacing from somewhere deeper than she meant to go. She hadn’t realized she closed them.
The music is still playing. Still filling the room. But it lands differently now. Fuller. Heavier. Her chest rises, falls. That same place under her ribs pulling tighter than before. “Just reminded me of you.” The words echo back, clearer now than they were then.
Annie swallows, because it’s making sense now.
The feeling.
The way something settles in you before you understand what it is. The way it lingers, even when nothing’s happened yet to explain why.
That’s what he meant. Not that it sounded like her. That it felt like her. Something he couldn’t name yet. Something he didn’t try to.
Just—there.
Annie exhales slowly, her fingers curl into the floor beside her.Because he felt it first. Before she ever stopped long enough to recognize it.
The track fades. The next one begins and this time—
She lets it.
Track 2: The Light
The next track slides in without pause. No crackle this time. Just a smooth transition—drums, soft, steady. Something warmer. Lighter on its feet.
Annie exhales before she realizes she’s been holding her breath.
Common.
She knows this one too. All the way through.
The beat settles into the room, easy, unforced. The kind of rhythm that doesn’t ask for attention but keeps you anyway.
Something in her shoulders loosens.
And just like that—She’s somewhere else again.
Early evening.
The sun sits lower now, casting everything in that soft gold that makes even the most ordinary things look like they matter. The street hums with life. Kids cutting through yards. A car idling too long at the corner. Somebody calling out from a porch two houses down.
Annie stands at the bus stop, arms folded loosely across her chest, her bag slung over one shoulder. She shifts her weight between her feet, eyes drifting down the street.
Waiting.
A car pulls up slow. Familiar before she even looks. She doesn’t move right away. Just lets it settle in her chest first. The passenger door unlocks with a soft click.
“Get in.”
She turns her head.
Smoke leans over from the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose near the gear shift. His gaze stays on her, calm, certain enough to make it feel already decided.
“My bus—” she starts.
“Gon’ be late,” he says knowingly
She narrows her eyes. “You don’t know that.”
He lifts one shoulder. “Bet.”
Annie huffs under her breath, but there’s no real resistance behind it. She opens the door. Slides in. The car smells like him. Clean. Faint cologne. Something warmer underneath that’s harder to place. The door shuts with a solid thud, sealing her into the space with him.
“You been waitin’ long?” she asks, pulling her seatbelt across her chest.
He glances at her briefly before looking back at the road. “A minute.”
She tilts her head, studying him. “A minute,” she repeats.
The corner of his mouth lifts—almost.
The music is already playing. Low. Filling the car without crowding it. She recognizes it immediately.
“You and this song,” she murmurs, settling back into her seat.
He doesn’t respond. Just turns the volume up a fraction. They drive without rushing. Windows cracked just enough to let the air move through. The evening slipping in, carrying the scent of the street with it.
Annie rests her elbow against the door, her fingers tapping against the glass in time with the beat.
She watches the houses pass. Then—she glances at him. His hand stays easy on the wheel. One finger tapping against it, keeping time with the music. His attention split in that quiet way of his—focused on the road, but aware of everything else too.
Her included.
“You be listenin’ to this for real,” she says, half teasing now.
He shrugs. “It’s cool.”
She hums, unconvinced.
A few seconds pass. “You like it?” he asks.
The question lands different. Simple, but it sits there, waiting. Annie looks forward again. Listens. Really listens this time.
The way the beat carries something constant underneath it. The way the words move—easy, certain, with nothing to prove.
Just telling the truth as it is.
“Yeah,” she says after a moment.
Soft.
Real.
Smoke nods once. The car slows as they near her street. He pulls up in front of her house, engine still running.
Annie doesn’t reach for the door right away. “Thank you,” she says instead.
He glances at her. “Anytime.”
And there’s something in the way he says it.
Anytime.
It carries more than this one ride. It reaches further than either of them is willing to define out loud.
Annie studies him for a second.
The set of his shoulders. The way his hand rests against the wheel now that the car is still. The quiet way he holds space without filling it.
“You ain’t have to come get me,” she says.
“I know.”
No hesitation.
She lets out a small breath, something close to a laugh but softer than that. “Okay,” she says. Her hand moves to the door.
She pauses.
“Text me when you get home,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.
Smoke looks at her then. Really looks this time. “Aight.”
She nods once. Pushes the door open. The evening air wraps around her again as she steps out. She closes the door behind her, the music still drifting faint through the cracked window. She walks up the path toward her house. Doesn’t look back right away.
But it settles in before she confirms it.
That awareness.
Still there.
At the door, she glances over her shoulder. He’s still sitting there.
Watching.
Their eyes meet. He gives a small nod. She returns it. Then she goes inside.
Annie doesn’t move right away, her fingers settling into the floor as the feeling settles in a way she can’t ignore this time.
The song plays on, but it doesn’t feel like background anymore. It feels like proof. Not of something loud or something declared. But proof of something present. Something that showed up. Over and over again.
Her gaze drifts to the CD case beside her. Then back to the stereo.
“You like it?”
The question echoes now. Clearer than it did then.
Annie exhales slowly.
“Yeah,” she murmurs to the empty room.
This time—she understands what he was really asking.
Track 3: You Got Me
The next track settles in slower, lower, smoother. The kind of rhythm that doesn’t drift… it holds. Annie’s head tilts, recognition pulling at her before the words even come in.
The Roots.
Her fingers rest against her knee, the beat finding its place in her body without effort, and then she’s there again.
Night. Not late, but late enough that the street has changed.
Annie steps out of the corner store, a small plastic bag looped around her fingers, the cold of a bottled drink pressing through it. The bell above the door jingles behind her. Inside, everything had been bright, loud enough to feel normal. Out here, the air sits differently. She pauses just outside the door, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder, scanning the street out of habit more than fear.
They’re across the lot.
Three of them, leaning against the side of a car that’s been parked too long without moving. Same boys from school—loud in the hallways, louder when they think no one’s checking them. One nudges the other when she steps out. She catches it without looking directly.
The shift.
The attention.
Annie turns down the sidewalk anyway, keeping her pace even.
“Hey—” one of them calls out.
She doesn’t respond.
“Where you goin’?”
Their voices carry too easily in the open air. Annie adjusts her grip on the bag, her shoulders pulling in just slightly—bracing. Her phone buzzes in her hand. She glances down.
Smoke.
Her thumb moves before she can think too hard about it. “Hello?”
“You just left the store?”
Her steps falter for half a second. “…Yeah.”
“I seen you.”
She turns her head just enough to scan the street behind her but doesn’t spot him. “Where?”
“Down the block. Keep walkin’.”
Her chest settles. Behind her, footsteps now, closer than before.
“Damn, you can’t speak?”
Annie keeps moving, her voice quieter now. “They just… talkin’,” she says into the phone, more to herself than him.
“I know.”
And there’s something in his tone—measured, already decided.
“Stay on the phone,” he adds.
“Okay.”
The street stretches ahead, longer than it did a minute ago. Then headlights turn the corner. Slow. Controlled. The car pulls up alongside her, engine low, familiar before she fully looks. The passenger door unlocks.
“Get in.”
Annie reaches for the handle and slides inside, pulling the door shut behind her in one smooth motion. The outside noise dulls immediately. Smoke’s hand adjusts on the wheel as he pulls off. Just moving. He glances in the rearview once, then back to the road.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah.” Her grip on the plastic bag loosens, tension leaving her fingers in pieces.
“They ain’t touch you?”
She shakes her head. “No, Smoke.”
He nods once. The music plays low through the speakers, that same steady rhythm threading through the quiet. Annie leans back into the seat, the fabric warm from the day.
“You was just… there?” she asks after a moment.
He shrugs. “Seen you go in.” Pause. “Waited.”
Annie turns her head, studying him—the way his hand rests easily on the wheel, the way his attention splits without effort between the road and everything else.
“You don’t have to do that,” she says.
“I know.”
Same answer. But it sounds different now, because this time, she understands it.
He pulls up in front of her house, the engine idling. Annie doesn’t reach for the door right away.
“Thank you,” she says.
He nods. “Anytime.”
That word again.
She opens the door and steps out, the night air wrapping around her. The car stays running behind her as she walks up the path, the porch light already on. She reaches the door, pulls it open, then pauses with her hand still on the frame.
Something pulls at her.
She glances back as their eyes meet across the distance. He gives a small nod and she returns it. Then steps inside and closes the door.
Smoke doesn’t pull off right away.
Annie exhales slowly, her shoulders lowering as the song settles into its final stretch. Her gaze drifts, unfocused, but she’s not seeing the room—she’s seeing him. The way he pulled up without hesitation. The way his voice didn’t rise, didn’t rush. “Stay on the phone.” Like he already decided where he was going to be before she even answered.
Her fingers curl against her palm, because now it’s obvious. Not just what he did, but what it meant.
He was already paying attention.
Already watching for her. Already moving in a way that made space for her before she ever asked for it.
Annie swallows. Back then, she told herself it was nothing. Just him being him. Just convenience. Just timing.
But it wasn’t.
It was care.
The kind that shows up.
Her chest tightens, just a bit because he didn’t just say it. He proved it.
The track fades, but the feeling doesn’t.
Annie sits in it a second longer before the next one comes in.
Track 4: Golden
The next track comes in brighter, warmer, carrying a lift that settles into the room without forcing it.
Annie’s lips press together in quiet recognition before the first full line lands.
Jill Scott.
Her shoulders ease where she sits, her back settling as the music fills the space.
There’s something open in it, something that moves without resistance, and just like that—she’s there again.
It’s daytime. The sun stretches across everything without apology, laying heat over the block in a way that makes even the ordinary feel alive. Music spills out from somewhere down the street, layered over laughter and voices that rise and fall without pattern.
The smell of food hangs in the air—something fried, something sweet, somebody grilling for no reason other than the day feels like it calls for it.
Annie moves through it easily. She’s laughing at something someone said, head tipped back just enough for the light to catch along her cheekbones. Her micro braids are pulled up into a high ponytail, the length of them swaying down her back, a few fine pieces at her edges loosening and softening around her face. A fitted top, denim shorts, nothing that asks for attention—and still, she has it.
People call her name as she passes, pull her into conversations she didn’t plan on having. She answers, sways, moves on without effort, the space making room for her before she has to claim any of it.
Smoke stands off to the side under the edge of a porch, one shoulder resting against the post, a red solo cup loose in his hand.
He’s not in the middle of it. Never is. But his attention moves with her.
It wasn’t constant or obvious, but every time she turns, every time she laughs, every time her voice carries just a little further than the rest he catches it. Stack says something beside him, quick, meant to pull him in. Smoke hums in response, low, distracted. “Nigga, you not even listenin’,” Stack mutters, following his line of sight, and then he sees it too.
Sees her.
A short laugh leaves him under his breath. “Oh, aight.”
Smoke doesn’t respond.
Across the yard, Annie dips down slightly to fix the strap of her sandal, unbothered, unaware of the attention she holds.
Someone says something to her and she looks up, smiling, answering easy.
The music swells, louder now, fuller, and it settles into her like it belongs there.
Golden.
Annie straightens, rolling her shoulders back without thinking. She moves with it, not performing or checking to see who’s watching, she’s letting the rhythm take her where it wants. Her hips sway once, twice, her hands lifting briefly before falling again, a soft laugh slipping out as someone nearby joins in.
There’s nothing forced in it.
Nothing measured.
Just ease.
Smoke’s grip tightens around the cup in his hand.
Stack nudges him. “Go on over there.”
Smoke shakes his head once. “Nah.”
“Why not?” Stack presses.
A beat passes.
“She good.”
Simple.
Certain.
Stack watches him for a second longer, then lets it go, turning back to the yard.
Smoke stays where he is. Doesn’t interrupt or insert himself into her space. He just watches the way she moves through it, the way people orbit her without her ever asking them to, as though she belongs to a rhythm he already understands.
Annie turns, scanning the yard like she’s looking for someone. Her eyes land on him.
There’s no surprise there.
Just recognition.
She smiles, big and real, lifting her chin toward him in quiet acknowledgment.
He nods back. That’s it.
No call over, no need to close the distance.
The moment holds anyway.
Annie’s chest rises slowly, her fingers resting loose against her knee. The song fills the room with that same warmth, and something in her expression softens as she listens.
Because she sees it now.
Not what he did, but how he saw her. Before she ever stopped long enough to see herself that way.
Her gaze dips briefly, then lifts again toward the stereo. Of course he picked this. Not for how she looked, but for how she moved through the world—like she already belonged in it.
The track continues, and Annie leans back, letting it settle over her. Four songs in, and something is starting to take shape.
It’s not clear yet or something she can name, but close enough that she feels it building under the surface.
She doesn’t interrupt it.
She lets the next track come.
Track 5: U Send Me Swingin’
The next track settles in slower, deeper, carrying a weight the others didn’t. Annie’s breath catches almost immediately.
Mint Condition.
Her fingers still where they rest against her knee, the movement from before fading out of her body as something else takes its place.
This one—she hasn’t thought about this song in a long time. And then she’s there.
It’s evening, but not outside. Inside. His house. The air is quieter here, cooler, the kind of quiet that isn’t empty, just contained. A faint hum runs somewhere in the background, a clock ticking deeper in the house. Annie stands just inside the doorway to his room, her hand resting against the frame like she hasn’t fully decided to step in.
“You can come in,” Smoke says from where he’s sitting.
She looks at him. He’s on the edge of his bed, elbows resting against his knees, hands loose between them. A textbook sits open beside him, untouched.
“I am in,” she answers, her tone light.
His mouth lifts barely, not quite a smile. “Then stop standin’ in the doorway.”
She rolls her eyes but steps in anyway.
The room feels familiar. Not because she’s been in it often, but because it feels like him. Clean without trying too hard. A few things set out that matter, everything else kept simple. She moves toward the desk, setting her bag down, glancing over scattered papers. “You actually studyin’?” she asks.
He leans back, picking up the book like he might prove it. “Trying to.”
She hums, unconvinced. The silence that settles after isn’t awkward. It stretches easy.
Smoke reaches over, flipping something on beside him. Music. Low. That same smooth pull. Annie pauses for a second before turning her head toward the sound. “You always got music playin’,” she says.
He shrugs. “Helps.”
“With what?”
He glances at her. “Thinkin’.”
She watches him for a long second, then turns back to the desk. “Or not thinkin’?” she mutters. That earns a quiet huff from him. She smiles to herself.
The song stretches through the room, wrapping around the quiet in a way that fills it without crowding it. Annie moves without thinking, her fingers brushing across the edge of his desk, then the back of his chair as she passes. Smoke’s attention flickers—subtle, but there. She doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does. She ends up near the bed, turning slightly as she looks down at something on the floor. “Your handwriting is still terrible,” she says, picking up loose paper.
He leans forward, reaching for it. “Give me that.” Their hands meet in the middle and pause, not long, but long enough. Annie’s fingers don’t pull back. Neither does his. The music hums low around them, something in it stretching, pulling, holding. Her eyes lift and find his, and something settles between them—undeniable.
Smoke’s gaze drops, just briefly, to her mouth, then back up.
Her breath falters.
“Annie,” he says, low.
“Yeah?”
He doesn’t answer with words. His hand loosens around the paper, not letting it go, but he wasn’t holding onto it the same way. He leans in, slow enough that she can stop it. She doesn’t. The space between them closes, and when his mouth meets hers, it’s careful, almost like he’s making sure she’s still there when it happens.
Annie stills for half a second, then softens into it. Her fingers slide against his, the paper slipping between them as her attention drifts somewhere else entirely. The kiss is brief, but it’s not small. When he pulls back, it’s just enough to look at her again, like he needs to see what changed.
Annie exhales softly, her eyes still on his. “Okay,” she murmurs, aware now.
Smoke nods once, but he doesn’t lean back the way he did before. He stays close for a second longer than necessary, then finally pulls away, clearing his throat under his breath. The room doesn’t return to what it was. It can’t. The music keeps playing, but now it sits closer, heavier, marked by something they’ve already crossed.
Annie steps back a fraction, her hand brushing against her lips without thinking.
Smoke notices that, but doesn’t say anything. He just watches, and this time, there’s no hesitation left in it.
The music keeps playing, but now she hears it. Really hears it. Something in the way the song leans into feeling, into being pulled somewhere you didn’t plan on going, something you don’t fully understand yet but can’t ignore either. Her chest tightens with awareness.
Annie’s breath catches, then stutters. Her hand lifts like it remembers the shape of that moment. The room settles back around her, but it doesn’t feel the same. Her gaze drops to the CD case, then back to the stereo.
Track one. Track two. Track three. Track four. And now this. Annie sits up a little straighter. Because it clicks. This wasn’t random. The order. The feeling. The way each song holds a moment she hadn’t named at the time.
He was telling her something. Piece by piece. Her throat tightens because now she can’t ignore it—what he couldn’t say then.
Annie exhales slowly as the song continues. He didn’t just make her a mixtape. He built a story.
And she’s only halfway through it.
Track 6: Brown Skin
The next track comes in softer, but it doesn’t feel light. It settles close, intimate in a way that doesn’t ask permission before it lands. Annie’s breath slows as soon as she recognizes it.
India.Arie.
Her shoulders sink back against the wall behind her, but there’s a new awareness sitting in her body now, quieter than nerves, heavier than comfort. Something that wasn’t there before. This one feels closer than the others.
This one is personal.
And then she’s there again.
It’s quieter this time. Late afternoon slipping into evening, the light outside softened, filtering through the windows in a way that turns everything a little warmer than it is. Annie stands in front of the mirror in Smoke’s room, one hand resting against the dresser as she adjusts the small gold hoops in her ears. She’s been there a while, long enough for the house to settle into something familiar around her. Her mama’s working late again, and instead of going home to an empty house, she ended up here the same way she always does, without needing to ask. His mama already made a plate, already told her to sit, already talked to her like she belonged there.
But something is different now.
Annie notices it in small ways. The extra second she lingers when she catches her reflection. The pause near her mouth before her fingers drop, the memory of something still sitting there. The room itself feels closer than it used to, the air carrying more than it did before.
The door is open behind her.
“Ma said tell you dinner ready.” Smoke’s voice carries in first, low, even.
Annie glances at him through the mirror. “I already ate,” she says, her voice even.
He leans against the doorframe, arms loose at his sides. “She said eat again.”
That almost makes her smile, but she doesn’t move right then, because now—she feels him there. Not just in the room. Her gaze lifts in the mirror and this time—she doesn’t just see him.
She meets his eyes and it lands differently this time. There’s no distance in it anymore. No buffer. No pretending this is just what it’s always been.
He’s looking at her with the knowledge of closeness now, with the certainty of someone who’s already crossed into something he can’t step back out of.
Annie swallows, her fingers dropping from her earring. “What?” she asks.
Smoke pushes off the frame, stepping one pace into the room. Closer than he stood before. “Nothing,” he says. But it’s not nothing.
Not anymore.
Annie turns then, slowly, facing him instead of the mirror. The room feels smaller like this, the space between them more defined now that they’re both inside it.
“What?” she asks again.
This time, he doesn’t brush it off. He looks at her. Really looks. The light catches across her skin, warm and even, settling into the natural tones of her face, her shoulders, the curve of her arms. Her hair pulled back, exposing more of her than usual. Simple. Uncomplicated.
And still—he holds it.
“You… look good,” he says.
The words come out level, but there’s something under them now, something shaped by what’s already passed between them.
Annie blinks.
There’s no space to pretend it’s casual. No way to tuck it into something lighter. It sits between them.
Clear.
She shifts her weight, her fingers brushing against the side of her shorts. “Thank you,” she says, softer now.
Smoke nods once, but he doesn’t move. His gaze lingers a second longer than it needs to. Then another, taking her in, like he already knows how she feels close.
Annie feels it. That awareness is returning, stronger now. “You just gon’ stand there?” she asks, a small edge of nervousness slipping into her voice without her meaning for it to.
His mouth curves. “Yeah.” The answer is quiet.
Honest.
Annie lets out a small breath, something caught between a laugh and something else. “You so weird,” she says, but there’s no weight behind it.
Smoke shrugs. “Probably.”
That almost pulls a real smile out of her.
Almost.
The music hums low somewhere else in the house, drifting faintly down the hallway, wrapping around the moment without interrupting it. Annie turns back toward the mirror, but slower this time. More aware of him behind her.
She adjusts nothing.
Touches nothing.
Just… looks.
And this time—she sees it differently. Not through her own lens. Through his. The way he just did and the way he already has. Her shoulders square without her realizing it. Her chin lifts just a fraction.
Smoke watches that too.
The change.
Subtle.
But there.
“Come on,” he says after a second, his voice returning to something more normal. “Before my mama start callin’ both of us.”
Annie nods, grabbing her phone off the dresser. “Okay.” She walks past him, close enough that her arm brushes his as she moves through the doorway. This time it lingers a fraction longer. Neither of them pulls away.
Annie slows. Just enough. Her hand lifts without thinking, fingers grazing against his shirt as she turns her head, and before she can talk herself out of it—she leans in.
It’s quick.
Soft.
Her mouth brushing his like she’s testing something she already knows the answer to, but this time—it’s her.
Choosing it.
Choosing him.
Smoke stills for half a second, caught in the moment of it, then turns toward her as she pulls back. He didn’t stop her or question her. He was meeting her there.
Annie exhales softly, her eyes flicking up to his for a second, something unspoken passing between them. Then she steps away. Keeps moving down the hallway like she didn’t just change something. But the air behind her feels different and when Smoke follows, it’s not the same distance as before.
Just… closer than it used to be.
Annie doesn’t move when the memory lets go of her. Her eyes stay open, fixed somewhere ahead, but her focus is elsewhere entirely. Her fingers rest still against her knee, the quiet in the room settling around her differently now.
Because that—that wasn’t small.
He wasn’t just looking at her.
He was seeing her. The way she stood. The way she carried herself. The things she didn’t say, and the things she didn’t even realize were there.
Her gaze drops, unfocused. She understands that this wasn’t just a moment. It wasn’t something that happened because they were close. Or something that could be folded into everything else and left there.
This was the shift.
The line. The point where everything stopped being what it was before. Annie exhales slowly, but it doesn’t release anything.
Because back then—she treated it like it could stay light. Like they could step back from it if they needed to. Like it didn’t change anything unless they said it did. But it did. It changed everything.
Her fingers curl against her palm. She sees it now in the way he stayed close after. The way he looked at her like he was waiting for something, not from her words, but from her understanding. Like he was giving her the space to meet him there.
And she didn’t.
Her throat tightens, just slightly. She didn’t have the language for it then. Didn’t know how to hold something that felt that real without it needing to be explained. So she let it sit between them.
Undefined.
Untouched by anything that would’ve made it harder to ignore.
Annie closes her eyes briefly, because now she knows what that was. The moment they stopped being almost and became something that needed to be chosen.
The track fades, but the weight of it stays, pressing in just enough that the next one doesn’t come in clean.
And this time—
She feels the difference before she’s ready for it.
Track 7: Fortunate
The next track comes in smoother, warmer, but there’s something steadier underneath it. It settles in like something that already knows where it belongs. Annie’s eyes lift as soon as she recognizes it.
Maxwell.
Her fingers press into the floor beside her, grounding herself as the music stretches into the room, and this time she doesn’t hesitate. She lets it take her.
She’s there again. Night, but not late. The air has cooled just enough to settle against her skin without making her reach for anything heavier. The street is quieter now, most of the movement pulled inside, lights glowing through windows instead of spilling out onto porches.
Annie sits on the hood of his car, one leg bent, the other hanging just off the edge, her hands braced behind her, holding her steady. The metal is still warm from the day, the heat lingering beneath her palms. She tilts her head back looking up at the sky.
Smoke leans against the front of the car across from her, arms folded loosely, one foot crossed over the other. His gaze moves, tracking the street, the houses, then settling back on her. They’ve been out there a while. Talking at first. Then not. And neither one of them rushed to fill it back in.
“You ever think about leavin’?” she asks, her voice soft but clear in the quiet.
His gaze shifts back to her. “Leavin’ where?”
She shrugs, still looking up. “Here. This block. All this.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Takes a second. “Nah.”
Annie lowers her head, looking at him now. “Never?”
He shrugs, pushing off the car just enough to shift his weight. “Ain’t really thought about it like that.”
She studies him for a second longer, then looks away again, her fingers tapping lightly against the hood. “I have,” she says.
That lands differently. Smoke straightens, something in his posture shifting without him naming it. “Yeah?” he asks.
She nods, small. “Sometimes.”
Silence stretches again, but it isn’t the same. There’s something in it now. Something that wasn’t there before. Smoke watches her, really watches her, the way she’s looking out past the houses now, past the street, like her mind is already somewhere else even if her body hasn’t followed yet.
For the first time it doesn’t sit right with him. Not because he doesn’t understand it, but because he does. “You’d leave?” he asks.
She exhales. “If I had to.”
Smoke’s jaw twists, his gaze dropping for a second before lifting back to her. “If,” he repeats.
Annie glances at him, catching the way he said it. “Yeah. If.”
Another pause settles between them before she nudges his foot with hers. “You’d stay here forever?”
That pulls the smallest smile from him. “Probably.”
She huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s crazy.”
“Why?” he asks.
“Cause there ain’t shit here,” she says, gesturing loosely around them. “You don’t ever wonder what else is out there?”
Smoke looks at her longer this time. There’s no hesitation in it. No uncertainty. Just something settled.
“I know what’s here,” he says.
The words are simple, but they land differently now, because this time—it’s not about the block, the street or staying because shit’s familiar.
He’s looking at her and choosing it. Choosing her. Without needing to say it any louder than that.
Annie hesitates, because she hears something in it, even if she doesn’t fully unpack it. Her gaze softens just a little. “Okay,” she says.
For a second, it feels like that could be enough.
The music drifts low from inside the car, the door cracked just enough for it to carry out into the night. Annie adjusts on the hood, her hand sliding closer to her side, closer to him, not touching but close enough that it feels like it could.
Smoke notices that too. His hand drops from where it was resting, settling beside him on the edge of the car, closer. The space between them narrows without either of them naming it.
“You think too much,” he says after a second.
She smiles faintly. “Somebody got to.”
He shakes his head, but he’s still looking at her. There’s nothing held back in it. No question. No almost. Just certainty. Like something found its place and stayed there.
Annie’s breath comes out slower, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that doesn’t quite match the song anymore. Her gaze stays fixed ahead, but she isn’t seeing the room—she’s seeing that moment, hearing it again.
“I know what’s here.”
Annie swallows, because she gets it in a way she didn’t then. He wasn’t talking about the block. He wasn’t talking about staying because he didn’t know anything else.
He was talking about her.
Her hand shifts against the floor, fingers curling in.
Fortunate.
Of course.
Annie exhales slowly, her head leaning back as the realization settles deeper, because now there’s no confusion left in it. He didn’t stumble into how he felt.
He chose it. Chose her and she didn’t see it until it was already something he was holding on his own.
The track continues, carrying that truth with it, and Annie lets it play all the way through.
Tracks 8-10: Be Without You, So Sick, Miss You
The next track settles in heavier than the others, building low—the kind of weight that doesn’t rush itself. Annie’s body stills as soon as she recognizes it.
Mary J. Blige.
Her fingers press into the floor beside her, grounding herself as something shifts in a way the others didn’t. This one doesn’t pull her into a single moment. It stretches wider than that, holding more than one feeling at once, something about staying even when distance makes it harder, something about believing in something that isn’t in front of you anymore.
And then—she’s there.
Watching it.
Smoke sits on the hood of his car, same street, same spot, but nothing about it feels the same. The air is quieter. Still in a way that doesn’t bring peace with it. His elbows rest against his knees, his hands hanging loose, his head tipped forward slightly like he’s been there longer than he meant to.
His phone rests in his hand. The screen lights up. Then it goes dark. Nothing. He doesn’t move right away. Just sits there, giving the silence more time than it deserves. It doesn’t. Because he already said everything he had to say.
Just not in a way she ever answered.
The sound changes, cleaner now, sharper, and Annie hears it before she places it—
Ne-Yo.
The tone changes. Something tighter. Frustrated. Like the feeling won’t leave no matter how many times you try to move around it.
Morning.
Light filtering through the blinds in thin lines across the room. Smoke sits on the edge of his bed, phone in his hand again. He checks it. Nothing. He sets it down. Then reaches for it again a second later, like he forgot he already looked.
Not to call. Not anymore. Just to check what he already knows isn’t there.
The room hasn’t changed, but it feels different because she’s not there, and this time that absence doesn’t sit quiet. It follows him. It presses. It doesn’t let him settle into anything else. The music plays, but it doesn’t help. Nothing does.
Annie feels that part differently, sharper, because she knows what she was doing in those same mornings—getting ready, moving through new routines, telling herself she was adjusting, that this was normal, that it would all even out if she just gave it time. But it didn’t even out. Not for him.
The sound switches again, softer now, quieter, and she recognizes it immediately—
Aaliyah.
The edge is gone, because he learned how to carry it differently.
Night.
Later than before. The porch light hums overhead, casting that same soft glow across the steps. Smoke sits there, elbows on his knees, hands loose, posture easy in a way that doesn’t ask for anything anymore. He’s not waiting anymore. There’s no phone in his hand. No checking. No holding onto something that might come through. He just sits. A breath leaves him, slow, even.
Nothing left to send.
Nothing left to explain
Just.. what remains.
His shoulders adjust as he leans back just a fraction, his hands pressing briefly against the step behind him before settling again. There’s space around him now. Quieter.
Different.
Something moves across his face for a second. Like a memory passing through instead of settling in.
He lets it. Doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t hold it. Just lets it move.
And keeps going.
Annie’s breath catches, then steadies, then catches again, like her body doesn’t know how to hold all of it at once. Her eyes stay open, but they don’t focus.
She’s there, watching him, watching time move in a way she never stopped to see before. And for the first time—she understands the difference between what they both felt.
Her fingers curl against her palm because she remembers what she was doing during all of that.
Moving.
Adjusting.
Learning new people, new routines, new ways to fill the space he used to take up. Telling herself it was normal. That this is what distance does. That they’d figure it out eventually.
Her throat tightens because while she was trying to move forward, he was trying to move through it.
Annie exhales slowly, her hand pressing against her chest again, because she never knew, never asked, never stopped long enough to see what it was costing him to stay connected to something she was slowly learning how to live without.
And he still sent it.
Even with all that distance. Even with all that silence.
He still chose to say it.
She just… never listened.
Her gaze drops to the CD case, then back to the stereo, and now—she hears all of it. The way he used the songs. The way each one said something different about what he was carrying. Holding on. Breaking. Learning how to live with it.
Her chest tightens again, softer this time, because she knows what she did with that same time. She filled it. With everything but him.
While he was putting her into something meant to last.
The song continues, low and unhurried, carrying all of it at once, and Annie doesn’t move to stop it. She lets it play. She lets herself feel all of it.
Bonus Track: Untitled (How Does It Feel)
The CD should’ve ended.
It does.
Silence settles into the room, soft at first, expected. Annie’s chest rises slowly, her body still carrying everything she’s just heard, every moment laid out in a way she never stopped to see before. Her hand moves toward the stereo, ready to turn it off.
Then—a click. The next track begins. It’s different immediately. Slower. Closer. The kind of sound that doesn’t fill a room, it wraps around you.
Annie freezes.
Her inhale comes shallow before she can stop it.
Her room.
The lights are low, a single lamp casting a soft amber glow that warms everything it touches. The window is cracked just enough to let the night air slip through, the curtain moving gently with each quiet stir of wind. Annie stands near the bed, still, her fingers loosely curled at her sides, her pulse steady but present in a way she can feel. Smoke stands a few feet in front of her.
…and this isn’t new.
Not anymore.
They’ve been moving toward this in pieces, in moments that stretched longer each time they let them. The first kiss that felt like crossing something neither of them named. The second that lingered, deeper, less careful.
The way his hands started to find her without asking—her waist, her back—like they belonged there. The way hers learned him in return, resting against his chest, sliding along his arms, tracing without thinking about what it meant.
Time passed like that, happening in a way that felt inevitable. Nights spent too close, too long, where conversation faded and silence held more than words ever could.
Where his hand would slide just enough to feel more of her, and she wouldn’t move it away. Where her breath would catch, but she stayed anyway. Where kisses stopped being something they tested and became something they knew.
Now there’s nothing left between them but the decision.
The music hums low in the background, slow, smooth, pulling something deeper into the room. Annie steps forward first, closing the space that’s barely there anymore.
Her hands find him, resting against his chest, feeling the warmth of him through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, grounding herself in something real.
Smoke exhales softly, his hands coming up a second later, settling at her waist with certainty, thumbs brushing like he’s anchoring himself to her.
Their eyes meet, and this time there’s no question in it. No hesitation. No almost. Just understanding.
Annie leans in, her mouth finding his in a way that isn’t searching anymore. It’s sure. Smoke meets her immediately, pulling her closer, the space between them gone completely now.
The kiss deepens, slow, unhurried, stretching the moment instead of rushing through it. Annie’s hands move upward, her fingers sliding along the side of his neck, into the back of his hair, holding him there. Smoke’s hand moves along her back, firm, strong, keeping her close not letting her drift away from this.
The room feels smaller, warmer, everything narrowing down to this moment, to the way they fit together now without thinking about it. Annie exhales softly against his mouth, her forehead resting briefly against his when they pull back just enough to breathe, but neither of them moves far.
“You good?” he asks, low, giving her space inside the moment.
Annie nods, small but certain. “Yeah.” That’s all it takes. Smoke’s hand moves against his back, his thumb brushing once, like sealing something into place. And when he leans in again, it isn’t new.
It’s deeper.
The music carries through the room, wrapping around them as Annie lets herself fall into it fully this time. Ready.
Smoke’s mouth finds hers again, deeper this time, and Annie feels the change in him—the way his hands tighten at her waist, pulling her flush against his body. She’s trembling already, a fine shiver running through her arms and legs that she can’t quite hide. Her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding on like it’s the only solid thing left in the room.
He notices.
Smoke pulls back just enough to look at her, his forehead still resting against hers, breath warm against her lips. “Annie,” he says, voice low and rough, “you shaking’, girl.”
“I know,” she whispers. Her voice cracks a little. “I’m nervous.”
His thumb strokes slow circles against her lower back, steadying. “We don’t gotta do this. Not tonight. Not ever, if you not sure.”
“No—no, I’m sure,” she stammers quickly, eyes meeting his. The amber lamp light catches in them, making everything feel softer, closer. “I want this. With you. Before I… before I move away.” Her throat tightens. “I want to show you how much I love you. How much I’m gonna miss you. I don’t wanna leave without knowing what this feels like—with you.”
Smoke exhales, something raw flickering across his face. He nods once, slow, then leans in to kiss her again—gentler now, like he’s sealing a promise. “Okay,” he murmurs against her mouth. “We go slow. You tell me if you wanna stop. Anytime. Aight?”
“Aight.”
His hands slide up her sides, warm through her thin shirt, and he starts undressing her carefully. Fingers finding the hem, he lifts it slowly, giving her time to raise her arms. The fabric whispers over her head and drops to the floor. Cool air brushes her skin, and she feels exposed, heart hammering. Smoke’s eyes move over her—reverent, slow—before he pulls his own shirt off in one smooth motion, revealing the familiar lines of his chest and shoulders that she’s touched so many times before.
They’re still half-clothed when he guides her back toward the bed. Annie sits on the edge, then scoots back and lying down, and Smoke follows, settling over her, but keeping most of his weight on his forearms. He kisses her again, long and deep, until some of the tension in her body eases. His mouth trails lower along her jaw, down the side of her neck, leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses that make her breath hitch.
When he reaches her bra, his fingers trace the edge first, asking without words. Annie nods. He unhooks it with controlled hands, sliding the straps down her arms, and sets it aside. The moment her breasts are bare, she feels the flush creep across her skin. Smoke doesn’t hesitate, he lowers his head, lips brushing one nipple before he takes it into his mouth, sucking gently, tongue circling slow and warm. Annie gasps, her back arching off the bed. His hand covers her other breast, thumb brushing the peak in time with his mouth, warm and gentle.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispers against her skin, switching sides, sucking a little harder now, drawing a soft moan from her. “So fuckin’ perfect, Annie.”
Her hands find his hair, fingers threading through it as the sensation builds—warmth pooling low in her belly, chasing away some of the nerves. Smoke keeps going, patient, until she’s breathing heavier, hips twisting restlessly beneath him.
Only then does he move lower.
He kisses a slow path down her stomach, tongue dipping into her navel for a second, making her twitch. His hands work at her pants next—unbuttoning, unzipping, peeling them down her legs along with her panties in one careful motion. Annie lifts her hips to help, suddenly aware of how bare she is, how vulnerable. She starts to close her legs instinctively, but Smoke’s palms settle on her thighs, gentle but firm, holding them open just enough.
“Easy,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the inside of one knee. “I got you. Just feel it.”
He settles between her legs, broad shoulders spreading her wider. Annie’s breath thins as she feels the first warm exhale against her most sensitive skin. Then his mouth is on her pussy—soft at first, just lips brushing her folds, then his tongue licking a slow stripe up through her center. She jolts, a surprised sound escaping her.
Smoke hums in response, the vibration making her thighs tremble. He takes his time, exploring—licking, sucking lightly at her clit, then dipping lower to taste her properly. One hand stays on her hip, thumb stroking soothing circles, while the other slides up to lace with hers, squeezing tight. He finds a rhythm that has her hips rocking gently against his face, soft whimpers falling from her lips.
“Smoke…” she breathes, voice shaky.
He pulls back just enough to speak, lips glistening. “Good?” His eyes meet hers, dark and focused. “You still good?”
“Yes—don’t stop,” she manages.
He doesn’t. His tongue works her clit with pressure now, two fingers gently circling her entrance before sliding in slowly, one at a time, stretching her carefully. The fullness is new, intense, but the way he curls them, the way his mouth never leaves her—it builds something deep and aching inside her. Annie’s free hand fists the sheets, her body tightening, trembling harder as the pleasure coils tighter.
When she comes, it’s sudden and overwhelming. Her back bowing, a broken cry leaving her as waves roll through her. Smoke stays with her through it, gentling his touch, until she’s panting, boneless against the bed.
He kisses his way back up her body, slow and gentle, tasting her skin as he goes. By the time he reaches her mouth again, Annie’s eyes are wet. She can taste herself on his lips, and somehow that makes everything feel even more intimate.
Smoke brushes a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “Yo… you okay? Did I do somethin’ wrong?”
Annie shakes her head, more tears slipping free. “No. It’s just… I’m leavin’ soon. And—and this feels like everything. I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose—”
His expression softens, something pained and tender crossing his face. He kisses her forehead, then her eyelids, catching the tears. “You got me,” he whispers. “All of me. You ain’t losin’ me. Aight?”
She nods, pulling him closer. “Aight.”
They finish undressing each other then—her hands shaking as she helps push his pants and boxers down his hips. His dick springs free, hard and heavy against her thigh, and Annie’s chest tightens at the sight. Smoke is patient, letting her look, letting her touch if she wants. Her fingers wrap around him tentatively, stroking once, twice, feeling the heat and the way he twitches in her grip. He groans softly, forehead dropping to her shoulder.
“Hol up…” he says, voice strained but still in control.
She nods. He leans down to grab his pants from the floor, retrieving his wallet and pulling out the square foil packet, rolling it on with steady hands while she watches, heart pounding.
When he settles between her thighs again, the head of his dick nudging against her slick entrance, he pauses, looking down at her. “Annie. We don’t gotta do this, if you don’t wanna. I love you. Just tell me what you want?”
“I want you,” she whispers, legs wrapping loosely around his hips. “All of you.”
Smoke nods. He pushes in slowly—inch by careful inch—watching her face the whole time. Annie winces sharply at the stretch, the burn of it, her nails digging into his shoulders. It hurts more than she expected, a sharp pressure that makes her breath stutter.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, holding still once he’s fully seated, buried deep inside her. One hand strokes her hair back from her face, the other gripping her hip to keep her close. “You doing good, baby. So tight… fuck, you feel incredible. Just relax for me. I’ve got you.”
He stays there, kissing her softly—her mouth, her neck, her collarbone—until the worst of the discomfort fades and she starts to move beneath him, testing the feeling.
When she nods, he begins to move—slow, shallow thrusts at first, rocking into her with control that looks like it costs him. The pain ebbs, replaced by a deep, full ache that starts to feel good, then better. Annie’s hands slide down his back, feeling the muscles flex under her palms with every thrust.
Smoke talks her through it the whole time, voice low and ragged. “That’s it… just like that. You takin’ me so well. Feel how deep I am? All yours, baby. All for you.”
Her tears come again as the pleasure builds—slow, rolling waves this time, mixing with the bittersweet ache in her chest. She’s moving away. This might be the only time. The thought makes her cling to him tighter, hips rising to meet him as the rhythm grows steadier, deeper.
Smoke’s pace picks up gradually, still careful but more urgent now, one hand slipping between them to circle her clit gently. “Come with me,” he whispers against her ear. “Let go, baby. I got you.”
Annie does—crying out as another orgasm crashes through her, softer and deeper than the first, her walls fluttering around him. Smoke follows moments later, groaning her name as he buries himself deep and stills, pulsing inside her.
They stay locked together afterward, breathing hard, skin slick with sweat. Smoke doesn’t pull out right away. He kisses her tears away, murmuring soft I love yous—how beautiful she is, how much this meant, how he’ll never forget it either.
Annie holds him close, the music still playing low in the background, the night air cool against their heated skin. In this moment, with him still inside her, the world outside—the move, the distance—feels far away. There’s only this: raw, real, and theirs.
For now, it’s enough.
Back in the apartment, Annie exhales slowly, her breath unsteady in a way it hasn’t been before, her hand resting against her chest like she can still feel the echo of it there. Her eyes open gradually, her gaze lowering toward the stereo, then to the CD.
This one sits differently. Something was shared. Something real that didn’t exist on one side alone. Her throat tightens, but she doesn’t look away.
Now she understands all of it. Not just what he felt. What she felt too. Even then. She just didn’t stay still long enough to name it.
Annie swallows, her fingers curling against her shirt, because it didn’t go anywhere. That’s the part that lands hardest.
Her feelings stayed.
Quiet. Unmoved.
Her eyes drift shut for a second and something in her settles into place.
Clear.
Unavoidable.
She’s been carrying him this whole time.
The song continues low in the background, but it doesn’t hold her the way the others did. This time—
It pushes her.
Annie leans forward, reaching for her phone where it rests beside the open box. Her thumb hovers for half a second before she unlocks it.
Scrolls.
Stops.
Pearline.
She taps it.
Types.
Sends.
The room goes quiet again, but it doesn’t feel the same. Her leg bounces once before she stills it, her gaze fixed on the screen like she might miss something if she looks away.
Then—
A response.
Quick.
Annie exhales, sharper this time, her fingers tightening around the phone as she reads it. Another message follows. She stares at it. Just long enough for doubt to try to settle in.
It doesn’t stay.
Her thumb presses down. The number fills the screen. She lifts the phone to her ear.
It rings.
Once.
Twice.
Her breath stalls, her eyes closing for just a second.
Then—
“Hello?”
Annie inhales.
And this time—
She doesn’t hesitate.
“Hey… Stack,” she says, her voice controlled, even with everything moving underneath it. “It’s Annie, I need your help.”
Disclaimer: Accompanied music for Dracula is available via Pandora App which is free. Links will be available throughout the chapter. Be sure to download the app to get the full reading experience.
Masterlist
YouTube Playlist
Amina Boudreaux POV
Vlad sears my steak with a glob of herb butter. I keep sneaking the homemade croutons from the salad bowl. I thought I was getting away with it until he sets me down on the counter while he cooks to keep a watchful eye on me.
“ How do you want your steak?” he asks. He's trying to hide his smirk because of my wandering foot. I’ve been rolling it up his leg and trying to pinch him with it for the past 15 minutes.
I snort, “ I like it raw” between swigs of my champagne. That one little immature joke, of all things, finally gets him to crack. “ I’m supposed to be celebrating you, and you’re making it really hard for me”, he chuckles softly.
“ I told you how we can celebrate, but you didn’t wanna hear it”, I sigh.
He throws in fresh thyme and a little more garlic. “ That’s the after party”, he jokes. “Excuse me for trying to cook my girlfriend a nice dinner”, he says as he flips the meat.
“ Alright, alright, fiiineee”, I sigh, trying to discreetly slip off the counter. A gentle hand on my knees lets me know that I am NOT free to go.
I wait patiently as he finishes the food. When he’s done, he slips me a piece of steak, and of course, it's perfectly tender and flavorful. I help him set the table, and he plates my food. Wagu, scalloped potatoes, and a salad. He fills up my champagne glass and then his own, sitting across from me.
“The food looks and smells amazing”, I say as I dig into my potatoes.
He adds homemade steak sauce to my Wagyu for me. “ Now, tell me again how she reacted”, he says.
Vlad was so ecstatic about my painting selling for 5 grand. He very well may have been more excited than I was. I could hardly believe I’d made that much money from my work, and the buyer didn’t even flinch at the price. “ This is so beautiful, I feel like I stole it for 5k”, I mimic in a tiny voice.
His face lights up with joy, and he laughs quietly to himself. He was really, truly proud of me. “ So how much longer do you think you’ll keep your job?” he asks.
I pause briefly, surprised at where this conversation is going. “ ….Well, it’s only one painting, Vlad.”
He half shrugs. “ There will be more.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “ I would have to sell at least…ten more to feel comfortable. It would be just my luck if I quit and suddenly my commissions slow.”
Vlad disagrees. “ That’s not gonna happen. Worst case scenario, I have a couple of friends always looking to buy art.”
“ I don’t know. I gotta’ think about it”, I sigh. Vlad backs off, not wanting to pressure me. I compliment him again on dinner because it’s just that good. He seems fairly flattered that I like the meal, and leans to cut my steak into smaller pieces for me.
“Tell me more about the ceremony”, I mutter casually, between bites of my salad. I pause at the taste of the lemony dressing. Even the fucking Parmesan was perfect. I probably look like a chipmunk right now. My brain references the dinner scene in white chicks, and I actively make myself slow down. If I were alone, this salad wouldn't stand a chance.
“ What do you want to know?” he says, resting his chin on his fist as he tops off my drink. He looks so good in his t-shirt and sweatpants, painfully casual but a nice difference compared to the tailored clothes he wears. He got his hair touched up, trimming the top just slightly and shaping the edges. His curls were tighter than usual, but they looked great. He looked great. It’s why I’ve been trying to fuck for the past hour. “ Amina”, he says, pulling me out of my thoughts. Jesus, maybe I’m really no better than a man.
“ Oh…”, I trail off, trying to organize my thoughts. I take a long swig of my wine. “ The reception…right. What’s the order of events? What goes down?”
He pauses for a moment. “ Well, every reception is different. Some are like parties and others are like Gala’s. Vampires have a flair for the dramatic, so some performance art will be incorporated. As for the main event, there will be a speech. After the entertainment, Luna and Sophia will dance. Sometime after that, they will begin the transformation. Sophia will drink from Luna right before the point of death and leave her there. Afterward, I will bless their union.”
I squint at him. “...Elaborate.”
There's another pause. I know the details are likely unsavory if he’s hesitating. Still, Vlad made a vow to always be honest with me, and he hasn’t broken it just yet. “ There is always a human offering. The offerings are people who’ve done irreparable harm to others. It's usually 10-20 people. Then, I guess you can say that I transform in a way? I will feed Luna my blood to honor her. The altered form I take is what is preferred for these ceremonies. I’ve always thought it quenched the audience's blood lust in some capacity”, he says. The tension in his shoulders tells me that this process will probably be anything but pretty.
“ Cool, I understand”, I quip.
His forehead wrinkles. “ Do you?”
I chuckle. “ Clearly, I don't, otherwise I wouldn’t be asking you any of this. What I DO understand is that this will be highly intense and that’s why you’re pussyfooting around your explanation because you don’t want me to get freaked out and leave you”, I ramble.
He flippantly rolls his eyes, leaning back into his seat to size up my reaction. “ It’s more than intense, Amina.”
“ Oh, I’m sure, but who and what you are are beyond your control. There’s going to come a day when I’m in Luna’s position. I have to be ready and willing to make that sacrifice”, I counter. Holding steadfast in my point of view. It was easy to push the idea out of my mind now. As for how I’ll feel on the day of the event, that’s another story entirely. I wanted to make a good impression and accepting this part of Vlad’s culture was important for us both.
Vlad goes quiet, and for a moment I think maybe I’ve said the wrong thing until he nods. “ My form will be very distressing. No harm will come to you. I can assure you that,” he warns. He leans forward slightly. “ I just need you to understand that you’re going to see me cause great harm. I’m going to drink from them, and they won’t be coming back. Not like Luna will”, he stressed.
I slow my chewing and place my fork on my plate. We look at each other for a moment, letting his words marinate. People are going to die. Thankfully for him, I just so happened to be someone who knows what that looks like. “ I hear you. I do...”, I murmur.
That seems to settle him a bit because there’s a slight drop in his shoulders. “ How about I show you?”, he suggests.
I slowly shake my head. “ Can I be honest?” I blurt. He, of course, waits patiently. “ I’m not really in the mood to be scared. I want to be surprised alongside the audience. I wanna’ finish this meal and maybe take a dip in the hot tub and watch some tv. I'm in this wayyyy too deep for the monster version of you to unravel the hundreds of years of history we have. That’s not gonna’ go away just because I see you in a different light. I trust you fully, Vlad. Don’t you understand that by now?” I ask, tilting my head at him.
He relaxes fully. I’m not entirely sure if it was a surrender, but it seemed pretty damn close. I get up and slide into his lap. “ I love you, and there’s nothing you can do about it, sorry”, I hum, pressing my lips to his cheek.
He chuckles and turn his head to peck my mouth, mirroring the same words back. “ I love you, and there’s nothing you can do about it either.”
“ I swear, all you Scorpios are the same. Always tryna’ scare somebody away”, I sigh as I return to my seat.
Thankfully, we do make it to that hot tub and crack open another bottle of wine. We even watched a few movies. It was hard to keep his attention on the Sci-fi pictures, but he surprisingly liked the romance ones. Of course, we didn’t finish the last movie I picked because one thing turned into another. I had all these different plans about what I was going to do to him. So prepared to hand him his ass like back at the hotel. His approach was softer than I expected, using his mouth against every square inch of my body far longer than any other man had the patience for.
I fail to understand people who say missionary is boring, because with Vlad, it’s something entirely different. In the end, he just wanted me close. No bells and whistles or whips this time, just him and all the sweet words he whispered to me. Every word that left our lips was a confession or a promise in some way or another. He practically murdered me when he pressed his fingers against me to finish me off for the 4th time. I’m unable to recover, falling asleep shortly after.
When I open my eyes, I peer down onto a woman’s head. She sits at a desk with her raven black hair twisted into a crown. Her wooden desk is lined with two books, one of which is open to a page that appears to show an herb.
“ Now, class. Surprise questions. Who can tell me the base for a tincture?” a woman calls in the distance. The girl below me raises her hand.
Movement to my left snaps me out of my concentration. It’s another veiled woman. Just like in that strange library a few nights ago. I stare at her hard, trying to make out her features. I squint to make out an eye color, but nothing.
A modulated and distorted voice seeps from behind the veil. “ You will be tested in your ability to camouflage yourself into another. Enter from the highest point of her head and wear her ”, she commands firmly. I blink at her, trying to process what’s happening.
“ I’d like to wake up,” I command my body, pinching myself.
Nothing.
She tilts her head as if to challenge me. “ You are on my time”, she warned.
I sneer. “ Wake up,” I command harder, pinching myself a second time.
“You can either wear that girl, or I can send you to a harder room? And trust me, it will feel like days within the few hours you sleep”, she warns.
I jump. Not because I want to, but because I don’t want to stay a second longer in space with that fucking weirdo.
Soon, I realize the mistake I've made. When I get that falling sensation in my gut, I want nothing more than to turn back. The drop is steeper than I anticipated, and then there’s nothing. Nothing at all but my thoughts in an enclosed space. Too small to breathe.
I stretch into her. I line my feet with her feet. My shoulders with her shoulders. It feels wrong. Like I’m slipping into a cold latex. It’s too compressing . This is wrong. This is wrong.
My inner thoughts flatten to a whisper. Her body tries to reject me when she begins coughing. The pull in my lungs burns. The girls in the class turn to look at her worriedly. When she stops, her will overpowers mine.
Amina Smith POV
Miss Wood scans the room carefully, holding a piece of candy in her hand. The rest of the girls and I giggled at her antics. At the end of the class, she always gave away treats. She didn’t make it easy though, one would have to work for it. “ I have two pieces of taffy for whoever gets this question right. Are you ready, girls? In our book of tall tales and mythology, one of the Roman gods grants a peasant a wish. He asks for the flower of life to escape death. What is the scientific name for this flower?”
I gasp quietly, raising my hand. I was the only one who remembered. Miss Wood was testing our memory for the Latin names. An important part of the apothecary and herbology class. Thankfully, she picks me and awaits my answer. “Rosa Aeternitas!”, I beam.
“ Clever girl”, she chuckles before throwing me the taffy. Once Miss Wood picks you, you're out. I wait patiently for the rest of the surprise questions to be over. She dismisses our class, and I gather my books and my purse from my desk and scurry out the door.
The bustle of Cambridge in the afternoon always flustered me. Naturally, people were on their way home. Usually, I’d be taking a Hansom cab deeper into the city to not exert myself, lest I end up in one of my episodes. My Dear Edmond would have a conniption if I dared to walk the entire way.
I make my trek towards the local park to meet Julia, a friend I’d made last year at a boutique. At first, I found her quite eccentric. She dressed in elaborate fashions and conducted herself in such a laissez-faire manner. However, it was hard to dislike her. When we met, I’d only just moved to the city and was desperate for friends. A woman can waste away in her marriage if she does not have a friend to chat with from time to time. At least that’s what Julia said. For a woman on her fourth marriage, I’d take her word for it.
I make my usual stop after class at the roasted potato cart. I grab one wrapped in paper and begin to peel it with my teeth. I should have been paying attention. When I round the corner, I bump into something firm and hard, which nearly knocks me off balance. A large hand wraps around my wrist and keeps me upright. “ Sorry”, I wince. My books slide across the cobblestone walkway, and the wind sends my hat flying. A strange man, standing well over 6 feet in a maroon suit and glasses, catches my hat and picks up my books.
“ My apologies, ma’am. Are you Alright? ” he says in a strange accent. I accept the books from him. When our eyes meet, the power of his gaze nearly knocks me off balance again. It startles me in that way something frightening does. Shocks me in a way that something beautiful does. I once saw a tiger at a zoo when I was a small girl. It felt like that. I avert my gaze before I can take in the rest of his face. I’m flustered and shuffling my things back into my bag.
“ No bother, I hear that I have two left feet”, I banter. I put my hat back on and fasten my bag, slinging it around my back. I inevitably have to meet his eyes again. Though I don’t want to. I do. They’re the most peculiar pair I’ve ever seen. Brown, but then a prism of other things, the longer you look. Like church windows. Something hot rushes through my chest when I study his face. His expression is twisted in pain. His hat is pressed against his chest in respect. Broad straight nose, perfectly proportioned lips, bronze complexion and a sharp jaw.
“ Never”, he murmurs. As if he could possibly know. His hands have a slight tremor. Maybe he’s poorly ? He’s handsome beyond compare. I tried not to dwell on that feeling too long. I’d already found my great love. I gather myself and shoot a look of disinterest. I wouldn’t want him to assume I’m open to conversation. He's well put together. feet. Here in London, a wealthy man of color was a rarity. I should know. I found one and married him.
I feel that familiar tickle in my chest. I reach for my handkerchief and begin to cough into it. His eyes darken with sadness as he watches me. I’m in no mood for a pity party. Clearing my throat, I sputter, “Thank you and Good day, Sir.” He’s stunned as he watches me walk away. Mouth moving but not finding the words. Maybe he’s not well in his mind. Either way, I wouldn’t stay to find out.
I find Julia on a park bench overlooking a large pond with swans and ducks. I hug her, as it has been a few weeks since I saw her. A honeymoon in Italy left her revitalized and glowing. “ Amina! Oh, how I’ve missed you!” she gushed. I chuckle, embracing her tightly. Her auburn hair is pinned perfectly. Her fur coat is tailored to perfection.
“ How was your honeymoon?” I exclaim, sitting down beside her.
She moans exasperatedly. I gawk. “ Splendid. We were on the Amalfi Coast. He was absolutely delicious. You know, I dobelieve this is the one. I know I said that about the first two, but this one is just….”, she trails off and shivers, cat-like eyes widening and squinting as she reminisces. She laughs at the astonished face I make.
I giggle. “ I’m happy to have you back. Please tell me all about it. Was the ocean beautiful?”
She shakes her head. “ No more about me! What about you? What have you been up to?!”, she grins like a Cheshire.
I nod. “ Well, I started my apothecary class. Edmond encouraged me to do it. It’s been really helpful. You know, I’ve been trying to find something to help with how poorly I’ve been feeling. Whatever the doctor prescribed hasn’t been working for me. It’s very insightful, and it’s nice to get away from the house for a few hours.”
Her cheerful expression drops a bit when I mention my health. It’s something I’ve gotten used to with people. She pauses momentarily, almost as if the knowledge had been dropped down into her. “ I hear mullein is quite beneficial for the lungs. Perhaps you could give that a try?” she suggests. I pull out my pencil and write it down in my book for later on. I could use all the help I could get with my search for “the cure”.
Her demeanor shifts back into her eccentric self, and she turns to me with an excited expression. “ Well, I’m glad you mentioned getting out of the house. Have you heard that the carnival is coming to the city? I think we should go. I’ll be able to introduce you to my gentleman friend that I was telling you about. The one who introduced me to my husband. He’s hosting a group of his friends and should like to show us an exciting evening on the town. Afterward, he’d like to have dinner with us at his new property”, she suggests.
I hesitate. “ Are you certain this will be appropriate? Should I bring Edmond?” I nudge.
She waves her hand flippantly. “ Of course not. There will be other people at the dinner, of course. Other women and men. It is simply a soirée. You’ll find that Mr. Tepes is quite fond of music. We will likely listen to his collection rather than speak. He’s a man of few words. It should be a fine evening indeed”, she urges. I reluctantly hesitate but ultimately agree.
Amina Boudreaux Pov
I blink awake in Vlad's bedroom. I hold my fingers out in front of me and count each finger out loud. A trick to see if I was still dreaming. My grandmother taught me this when I’d wake from one dream and fall into another.
I’m here. My body feels heavy. My energy is low. A cup of coffee helps me kick-start my morning. Nya is beside herself with joy. When I told her the news about Mexico, she screamed, and then she cried, which was understandable. This was practically a teenage dream for her. I fondly remember being in our late teens and figuring out the astrocartography for the places she wanted to visit. Her Venus line ran through Mexico —it was meant to be. The astrological place where she’d feel the most beautiful, romantic, and creative. It wasn’t hard to understand why she was drawn to it.
Her first time on a private jet was like taking a kid to a zoo. She ran her fingers along buttons and stitches. Our pilot introduced himself, and she flirted with him for shits and giggles. We took a celebratory shot before takeoff. I was under the assumption that Nya would be her usual high-energy self, but she dozed off an hour in. I kept counting my fingers in my head, discreetly pushing my fingers down one by one. Vlad quietly worked on his computer, but he caught me counting. I can see the question forming on his face, but he doesn’t say a thing. I roll my shoulders and close my eyes, trying to follow suit with Nya.
A quick nap serves me some good. I eventually tune my thoughts out and focus on Nya's experience. I’m forehand deep in a box of chicken biscuit crackers. Vlad is working in a quiet room in the back of the cabin. I notice Nya pull out one of her carry-ons, and it takes a minute for it to register. I see the colorful packaging, and then it clicks. Edibles. I gawk at her audacity.
“ I’m telling”, I blurt. She dives for me, slapping her hand over my mouth. I can taste the cheese dust on them. I lick her hand, and she moves it from my lips like she touched fire.
“You're a fuckin' loser if you tell”, she warns.
I roll my eyes. “ You’re a nurse. What if they drug test you?!” I snort.
Nya sighs with exaggeration. “ We finished our testing at the top of the year already. I don’t smoke or consume this stuff regularly, so it will clear out of my system quicker than an avid user. Any more remarks, you little prude?” she warns.
I start laughing uncontrollably. “ Don’t let them catch yo’ black ass, I’m not getting you outta’ jail”, I cackle.
I see her cut her eyes at me before she closes her bag and puts it back into the overhead cubby. “ You must not want none then”, she sings.
My laughter is cut short. “ I ain’t say all that”, I excuse.
She smirks at me. “ Whatchu’ sayin’ then?”
“ We aren’t 19 anymore, is what I’m saying”, I excuse.
She shrugs. “ That may be true, but I’m getting high on the beach, and nobody is stopping me”, she plops back down in her seat dramatically.
“ Policia! Policia!”, I yell playfully. Nya jumps on me, hand on my mouth, trying to stifle my yells. “ Poliiimmmhm!”, I screech behind my hand.
I can hear Vlad shuffle from his cabin and walk around the corner to check on us. Nya’s eyes widen when she sees him like she got in trouble. I laugh even harder. The puzzled look on his face makes me feel bad for his confusion because I realize he's been sleeping. “ Sorry.." I pout at his face.
Nya scrambles off me. “ Sorry, Slenderman! We didn’t mean to wake you. We’ll keep it down”, Nya pleads. Vlad shakes his head at us and leaves. I throw a pillow at her head, which sends us both I nto an air boxing match.
Los Cabos, Mexico, is on southern tip of the Baja California peninsula. Nothing but cliffs and beaches and a slew of resorts. It's absolutely stunning. When our jet landed, I marveled at how blue the water was. It's so bright it’s nearly neon. Nya squeezes my hand when our pilot announces our arrival on the overhead speakers.
Las Ventanas al Paraíso, A Rosewood Resort is all I see in big letters when we arrive. We’d come to find that this luxury resort was practically everything we dreamed of along the Sea of Cortez.
Our villa was disconnected from the hotel. The concierge called it the “Ty Warner mansion,” which featured two ocean-view master suites with their own bathrooms, a 328-foot infinity pool, an oceanfront terrace, a fire pit, a private garden, a private theatre room, a gym, a bar, and full staff service. I did a quick Google search as our luggage was unloaded into our room. 200k for a 4-night stay. As for Vlad? Free of charge. I found a handwritten note from the resort's owner, with a bottle of champagne, on the dining room table. Apparently, it was a Thankyou for his investments and support over the years. All vampire-related, I’m sure. Speaking of vampires, this place was crawling with them. Once you spot one, it’s hard to stop.
Everything is so blue from the amount of light the windows let in. I feel like I’m in a 2000’s sandals resort commercial. Nya takes a walk around the villa with a dirty Shirley in her hand, rubbing her fingers across the indigenous wooden sculptures in each room. The bathrooms are always my favorite part. You could see the pool from the roof.
Eventually, we both showered, changing into our bathing suits while Vlad ordered room service. We eat outside on the terrace, sun beaming down on us as we sip margaritas as big as our heads. I’m already planning what pictures to take with my camera at sunset.
When Vlad joins us again, I can already tell he’s about to give us the rundown. “ Enjoying yourselves?” he says as he slides next to me.
“ Best. Day. Ever”, Nya sighs, clearly content with the meal we both ate. We struggle to finish our drinks.
Vlad nods. “ You guys know we’ll be here for four nights. Pretty soon, security will be right outside the entrance. If you need to travel off Ty Warner, then you must have security with you”, he explains. A knock on the door cuts his speech short. Vlad heads for the door and opens it.
In walks this ruggishly handsome, greying man who stood at about 6ft tall. He’s in a black hat, jeans, and a black shirt that reads 'security'. His brown hair is pushed back, short and curly, hanging behind his ear under his cap. He’s got a gun on his hip too, which I found strange. His presence smacks me in the face. I feel a chill when our eyes meet and something tells me he’s not human.
Eventually he’s eyes roll to Nya. Vlad is now behind me, hand resting gently on my waist. And I can’t help but notice that it’s a polite but subtle way to signal who’s who. A quiet “this one is with me”. I’m sure the guard didn’t need to question who was who when he saw Nya. I can see his pupils dilate as she walks towards him. She stunned in a too small sunset colored bikini, showing off pretty much every dip and curve of her body, except the cover-up wrapped around her hips to cover her butt. He takes a quick eyefull of her body and recovers quickly, but I know that look. He’s attracted to her and for good reason. I’ve told her many times she should try her hand at modeling, but she chose the stethoscope instead. I can’t entirely blame her.
I know the sparkle in her eye. She’s up to something already. She begins to circle him like he’s prey, which is quite comical considering he towers over her, even with her above-average height. She sizes him up before standing in front of him. His piercing eyes follow her, not breaking eye contact once. “ Who are you supposed to be?” she teases.
The security guard clears his throat, “Alex, ma’am. Alex O’Neil. Head of security operations.”
“Nya…”, she drawls boredly. No handshake. No welcoming smile, just a hand on her hip and a suspicious stare.
“ Hi Alex, I’m Amina”, I wave to him. He nods in my direction but fails to meet my eyes because he’s still staring at her. And it takes everything in me not to laugh because he has no idea he might as well be staring down a shark. When Nya didn’t like somebody, it was always quite funny to me because she liked everybody. And everybody liked her. It was just the type of person she was.
She folds her arms defensively. “ You won’t be a problem, will you, Alex? I’d hate for you to put a damper on my vacation”, she warns.
Alex chuckles and shakes his head. “ No ma’am. It’ll be like I’m not even there, I assure you”, he says. I can hear the southern drawl in his voice. It’s a little too sharp to be Louisianaian. Maybe the Carolinas? Texas? Georgia?
“Is that so?” she hums. A nasty, playful edge to her words. She stands straighter now. Reeking of a quiet confidence.
“ My company prides itself on a more hands-off approach to security. I’ll stay behind to give you ladies enough space to feel comfortable. Trailing just out of sight. I intervene only when absolutely necessary while ensuring your safety and evaluating and eliminating perceived threats ”, he explains.
She cocks her head to the side smartly, as if to challenge him. “You think you’ll be able to keep your distance at a bar or a club and do your job? How would you be able to hear if something went down and you're ten seats away? Seems pointless.”
A slow smirk spread across his face. He’s enjoying this, and I nearly have to press my lips together to hold in my laugh. She doesn’t find anything funny, of course. “ Well, I have excellent hearing. It boarders on the supernatural, some might say. Don't worry”, he confirms. She doesn’t look convinced.
I quietly clear my throat and turn to Vlad, whispering quietly to him. “Is he a…?”
He gently shakes his head. “No.”
“Human?”, I counter.
Vlad shakes his head once more. “Werewolf”, he mouths to me. I gasp quietly, and I see Alex watching me. He offers me a stern but somehow reassuring look. As if to say that I can trust him? As Nya and Alex chat, I turn to Vlad quietly.
“Why?” I ask.
Vlad shrugs and whispers, “They’re masters of security, remote viewing, safety, and combat. Their ability to assess and detect danger borders on psychic. They’re the muscle of our world with a natural inclination to be protective of humankind. They will keep you safe, and they get along with humans far better than my kind do.”
I smile. “Well, I think we get along pretty well”, I flirt. A small smile graces his face, and I lean in to peck him on the cheek.
Vlad interjects Nya’s interrogation so that he and Alex can talk about the itinerary . She joins me on the couch, staring at Alex every few minutes. Alex’s gaze finds hers each and every time. “He’s really gonna let this Sons of Anarchy lookin' muthafucka' tail us the whole damn time”, she hisses.
I stifle my laugh. “ Nya, be nice.”
She quietly pouts until he leaves. Eventually, I pull her out of her sulking with her playlist, hooking it up to the Bluetooth speaker in the villa. Vlad is a great sport, retiring early so we can dance, drink, and be obnoxious. He knew how special this trip was for Nya, and I appreciated that he gave us our privacy.
I have a little bit more to drink than I probably should. We were tipsy, walking down to the beach from the villa steps. The sunset was the most beautiful one I’d seen, maybe in my entire life. Nya makes a joke about playing mermaids, and I accept the offer. That’s how we end up collecting seashells on the bank in plastic bags. At night, the waves swell so large that we have to make our way back towards the villa to get out of its path. Butler service starts a bonfire for us, and we watch TV outside until we fall asleep.
I unfortunately don’t remember much else from our night. I barely remember my back touching the couch, or even if I had dinner. That familiar falling sensation was back when I closed my eyes. This wasn’t the spins. This was dreadful. I’m pulled back into a body that doesn’t want me in it.
Amina Smith POV
Absinthe and cigar-scented nights seemed to be a regular occurrence for Julia's strange gentleman friend. Mr. Tepes has every vice a man or woman could desire. He was simply a supplier and a man of excess. If one wanted opium, Mr. Tepes could provide it. If one needed cannabis, he gave it freely. All the liquor one could hope for. A gaggle of beautiful women and men—pick your preference. Whatever the wish…he would grant it. His very presence brings out a vile hedonism in the room. People over ate, over drank, over-talked, and drowned their senses rather than gently indulging them. Something about that made me feel sick. As if it were some bribe. In a way, it kept everybody around him subdued and unable to question his curious nature. Mr.Tepes does not eat, rarely speaks, and wears glasses indoors as if lamp lights offend him. This posse he keeps around cannot look him in the eye. It brings me great offense.
I think back to the circus just hours before our current dinner. Imagine my shock when I realized that I had already met Julia’s Gentleman friend on the corner of the street. Without a doubt, I can say that this was the most peculiar evening of my life. Not even the animals could resist Mr. Tepes's presence. The wolves trailed him behind him in their cages as if they wished to stroll beside him. The birds chirped with unrest. The dancing mice ran around their enclosures in complete disarray. The owls hoot and squawk, chests swelling with fright. The foxes chirp a strange cry. It was quite disturbing to me, though the crowds enjoyed it very much. To them, it would seem that it was just a lively night for the animals. A luck of the draw. But I knew. I knew that everything in Mr. Tepes' path unraveled and malfunctioned at his feet. Though I couldn’t be sure why.
Mr. Tepes cleared a path ahead of us, strolling casually with his hands behind his back. The crowd parts in his favor as Julia and I follow, arms interlinked. There was a strange chill to the air tonight. We bundled ourselves the best we could in our coats. The animals' unrest had reached a fever pitch. They were screaming now. Mr. Tepes calmly drawls, almost as if the entire ordeal was ordinary to him. “Listen to them. The children of the night. What music they make”, he sighs in a quiet tone.
I push my food around my plate in deep thought. I study his profile while a gentleman has his attention. There is an unnatural shine to him. A strange and timed perfection to his posture, his features, the way he breathes unevenly as if to remind himself. With the grace of a swan in a skin suit. What if he were a demon? Did I even believe in such a thing? To my dismay, he catches me staring with a swift snap of his head. As if the word itself echoed into his mind the minute it materialized in my own. I can hardly hide my disgust. I look away, then down, back down at my roast.
“ Ms. Smith…?” Mr.Tepes calls for my attention.
I look up shyly. “ Mrs. Jones”, I clear my throat nervously. “It’s Mrs.Jones now, sir”, I quip.
A small smirk graces his lips. “ My apologies. Mrs…Jones. How are you enjoying the roast?” he asks me.
“ It’s delicious, "I answered shortly.
A brunette woman with strange-colored eyes sat across from me, her bubbly exterior bordering on frightening. She lifts one of the trays. “Treacle tart?” she asks.
I smile politely. “ I had one earlier. Very tasty. Thank you.”
She nods and sets the tray back down. She was another who drank but did not eat. Mr. Tepes slowly stands from his seat and walks over to the window to open the curtain, revealing a large view of Cambridge. His guests gasp with exaggeration. I can concede that Mr.Tepes has one of the largest and most extravagant apartments in all of London. I will say, however, that even with all these beautiful wonders surrounding him, he seems rather lonely. A wife and a child would surely solve his woes. I wonder why he hasn’t gone down that route.
We listen to more of the records with Mr.Tepes while his dinner guests boast about their adventures around the world. Julia knew how to work a room with her stories in France and the Far East. Even I couldn’t deny myself the entertainment of watching her speak. Mr.Tepes, however, no matter how formal, had a wandering eye. One that would land on me when he felt I was not looking. I didn’t understand this push-and-pull. It was clear he wanted to speak with me. Why? I did not know, and as the night rolled on, I realized I did not care to know. Because I dislike Mr.Tepes most ardently. His incessant need to seem mysterious was a bothersome gimmick. One, I grew tired of when the clock struck 11.
Julia decided to stay longer, which meant my walk around the corner to catch my ride would be quiet. Perhaps it was for the best, considering that I was ready to snuggle into bed with Edmond, enjoy a cup of tea, and drift off to sleep. I don’t make my exit grand. In fact, I don’t announce it at all. I sneak out during one of the performances of the rented ballet dancers in the living room.
It's meant to be a short and brisk walk. Nothing that my body can't handle. London is wet and cold tonight, as expected. My ride is just a block away once I turn the corner. I can hear thunder in the distance. It's a good thing that home is somewhat close to the fair.
My shoes click along the cobblestone as I pull my coat tighter around my neck. Londoners were lively tonight, and the party was clearly only just starting. Drunkards pass me with warble hellos. I keep my head down and track the final minutes before I reach my destination, and then I feel something pull my arm back. I react with fists, slamming against a heavy chest.
“What's the rush there, love?” a drunkard slurs, pulls me into his grasp.
“ Get away from me!!”, I seethe, leaning in to bite him on the arm. He yowls in pain and releases me with a shove. I stumble on my bum and fall backward, padding my fall with my hands. The drunkard falls back, too, drunkenly falling on his bum and flailing on his back like a bug. His hands are bleeding from scraping the ground. He raises them up to his eye level and drunkenly wheezes out a laugh when he sees the blood trickle down his forearms. I make a slow rise to stand as the man suddenly looks to his left. His eyes widen into saucers as he stares into the dark alleyway.
His face contorts into terror as he begins to crawl l away from something. “ No! No, please”, he stutters. I can barely see anything, but something closes in on him. One second, he’s a couple of feet in front of me, and then he’s gone, pulled by both legs into the alley. And then he’s shouting. Shouting and pleading. My heart is beating so fast that I have to put my hand over my face to quiet down. I don’t know what to do. Do I call for help? He may have been a drunken fool, but he deserved better than to be mauled alive. My body creeps forward. I won’t be of much help, but I looked. So maybe, if his family asks how it happened, I can tell them what ate him. It’s the right thing to do. Surely?
I creep around the corner to take a peek. I expect a fox or Cayote. Perhaps a rabid dog? Maybe even one of the animals from the circus. But no. Nothing like that at all. It’s a person. Or maybe it used to be. Standing at 7 feet tall, the tall humanoid crouched over the now dead drunkard, pulling away heaps of flesh from his neck as if it were biting into a melon. The poor victim's fingers twitch despite him being long gone, like a dead animal after a kill. I freeze in terror. It’s bulky and human-like, with sharp, pointed ears, razor-sharp teeth, and reflective eyes. I notice the too-tight clothing on its form. Shades, tall hat, crocodile gentleman dress shoes, imported suit. Just like Mr.Tepes….
The demon's head slowly turns towards me, mouth covered in flesh and blood. It slings the drunkard away from it like trash, letting his deceased form slide down the wall. I begin to carefully back away. Its hands are up in a careful surrender as if to subdue me. “ Amina!”, it rasps. Dear god. Dear god. Oh god. I grab the cross on my necklace and begin to pray.
Amina Boudreaux POV
I can feel someone gently nudging me. I jump when I see Vlad, and actively recoil. I’m so frightened I can’t even manage a sound. He flinches away. His brows are drawn back in confusion, but also in slight hurt. And that look alone grounds me back into reality.
Nya lets out a breath of relief. “We’ve been trying to wake you up for 10 minutes! I was about to call an ambulance, girl!” she exasperated.
I slowly rise from my seat, peeling my body away from the couch like a Post-it note. The evidence from last night is sitting on the coffee table. Good wine. And a few shots. I guess I stopped right before my guts could churn, but I definitely had a headache.
Vlad is already handing me a bottle of an electrolyte mix and a delicious breakfast bowl decorated with flowers, exotic plants, and fruits. I mumble in appreciation and take it from him. He looks a little worried but he doesn’t express that in front of Nya.
“I’m okay, promise,” I kiss his temple. I finish breakfast, narrowly avoiding an interrogation from him.
We started the day with a shopping spree on Vlad’s card. As it turns out, Alex was right about us barely noticing him. Once we left our escort car, we lost track of him almost immediately. I was happy that I waited until Nya was with me to do something frivolous. I might not have been able to do it alone without feeling guilty about it. I watch her try on leather Prada gloves for the winter, knowing damn well New Orleans is rarely cold enough for that kind of thing. She can’t choose between red and black, so chooses both.
Designer Resort wear was my weakness. I couldn’t stop buying those loose-fitting dresses that hugged at the hip and exposed the back. But my favorite part of high-end shopping was the champagne flutes while somebody else picked my shoes for me. The red carpet rolls out when an associate knows you’ll spend the money.
At lunch we find ourselves sitting on a cliffside restaurant overlooking the vibrant Pacific Ocean. We eat the fancy head-on fish and pluck ice-cold shrimp from the cocktail cups. In between beats of silence, all we could do was stare out into the water in awe. As little girls, we always pretended that we were on vacation and now ….here we are.
“I feel like I’m in a dream…”, Nya sighs, leaning back into her seat.
“ It’s beautiful right? ”, I smile.
“Can you believe people live like this all the time? ” she asks with an incredulous expression.
I nod. “ It took me a while to wrap my head around it. Vlad isn’t particularly a minimalist.”
She scoffs. “ Ya’ think!”
“ What do you wanna’ get into tonight?” I waved my hand at the waiter, who was thankfully already in our vicinity.
“ I definitely wanna’ do the club just to say that we did it. But more than anything, I wanna keep exploring. I mean, there’s so much we haven’t done. I saw a couple parasailing…”, she suggests.
I shake my head like a rabid dog. “ Hell fuckin’ no. Get Alex to do it. You’re a little daredevil”.
“ You’re such a baby”, she whined.
“ If you're hungry for some ocean action, why don’t we go on a dolphin tour?” I suggest.
Nya rolls her eyes playfully. “ Alright. Got any Dramamine?”
I greet the waiter and place the card on the checkbook with the cash tip. She collects it and leaves. “ I’m sure it’s stocked in the escort car. Vlad put just about everything in there. I remember one night I found a fresh pack of organic tampons in there. Dude is ready for anything”, I laughed.
Nya smiled. Her tone turned inquisitive. “ Ya’ know…he really trusts you to be giving you his card this early. I mean, no complaints from me, but rich guys are usually a lot more careful, right? What voodoo are you workin'?!”, she giggles.
I grin fondly. “We trust each other. He’s proven himself to me quite a bit.”
“ You wanna head back to the villa for a bit after the tour? I think I wanna’ nap before—-there he is”, Nya hisses, squinting her eyes.
I can see Alex in the distance, mid-call about 50-60 feet away. He waves over at both of us, and Nya rolls her eyes with irritation. Clearly, he saw her annoyance because he playfully inches his finger at her, and it gets her even more upset. “ Why don’t you like this man? You just met him. Vlad vetted him, he’s cool”, I laugh.
Nya crosses her arm and whips her head in my direction, stopping in her pursuit of the car. “ I need to get laid tonight, I really don’t need 'Mr. Foo Fighters' up my ass and in my business the whole evening.”
Alex is leaning up against the car, aimlessly chewing his gum, smirking at Nya. He opened the door so we could slide in. I nestle into my seat. Nya stares him down, eyes scanning down his features. “ I’m actually more of a Deftones guy”, he chuckles raspily at her pissed expression. Her eyes widen in fear as she slides in next to me, wondering how on earth he heard her from that far. Before he shuts the door, he mutters, “Super hearing…remember?” As he slams it closed.
The Dolphin tour was the perfect way to end the day. Imagine my shock when I realized how big they are up close. Back at the villa, I pick out a skimpy outfit for the night club before curling and rolling my hair in preparation for our post-dinner nap. Vlad had been gone most of the day and still hadn’t come back.
When it’s time to leave again, around 11pm, we stand at the door, double-checking our bags for the essentials. I add another coat of lip gloss to my lips. I’m in huge barrel curls, a mint-colored spaghetti-strap mini dress, and heels to match. Nya wore a burnt orange cowl-neck mini dress that showed off her perfect legs and complemented her skin tone. Her thick, coily hair was pinned up into a large pineapple. I helped with her makeup and accessories since I brought way more than I should have. I chose silver, and she chose gold.
Alex nearly inhales his gum when he sees her walk out of the hotel room, causing him to cough on and off for about ten minutes. It takes everything in me not to start laughing.
A club carved into the edge of a cliff had wait lines around the corner. One mention of Vlad's name got us on the list. It was gorgeous on the outside, with white stone, glass railings, and a hot-pink dance floor. Waves crashed somewhere beneath the thump of the music, the rhythm swallowed by reggaeton and flashing lights. A line of fire pits flickered along the perimeter, and the wind fanning the flames sent a thin mist of ocean water into the air. Nya stopped just past the entrance, taking it in with a slow grin.
“ Alex, can you help me up the stairs?” She turned to him as he trailed behind us. I shake my head quietly. Her tone was just a little too sweet to be entirely innocent. Alex holds out his large hand, and she thwacks her purse into it. He raises a brow at her and then tosses the handle of the bag into his other hand before offering his palm to her once more. She delicately takes it as he leads her up the steep stone steps. I click behind them, watching as the lights engulf their backs and then me. The music is so loud I can feel it in my chest.
After we ditched our purses, we headed straight for the bar. Its soft gold glow felt like a beacon. An invitation to get fucked up. We start off with two shots first. Then Nya ordered a tall, icy margarita rimmed with chili salt, mango, and lime. I go for a paloma with grapefruit fizzing under a clean pour of tequila, and a sprig of rosemary that I leave on the counter before we make a toast. “To bad decisions,” Nya said.
I add a swift, “To safe ones that feel bad”, before we clink glasses.
After a bit of liquid courage, the dance floor pulled us in like a high tide. Bodies moved close, music threading through everything like our hips, shoulders. Nya was already gone in it, her rhythm easy and magnetic. It didn’t take long before the attention followed. The music and the drinks were so good tonight that I couldn’t help but dance.
I roll my hips to Masego as we dance together. I could feel the hot air rising in the club, as the humidity from the sea air seeped onto the dance floor. A thin film of sweat coats my arms and legs, as bodies close in from all sides. I couldn’t remember the last time that everybody danced at a nightclub. It’s never been my reality before now. The movies with the dance battles were clearly all lying unless the fear of being recorded killed the dancing spirits in club participants.
Every song the DJ played kept getting better and better. Beyonce, Masego, house mixes, dancehall, reggaeton. Nya leaned in towards me. “That DJ is fine as fuck. He’d been staring for the past hour!” Nya shouted. I looked over and, lo and behold, he was. And he was exactly Nya’s type. Tall, muscular, long hair (locs), facial hair, and nice clothes. He was already smiling at her, and she was smiling at him. “ Imma’ request a song. I’ll be right back”, she slinks over to DJbooth. I head back to the bar and order another drink.
I look through the drink menu, and I feel a presence behind me, which causes me to turn my head. An ambiguous-looking guy with shoulder-length hair and a muscular build sits next to me. “ Hi, I’m Enez. I saw you from across the bar. Can I buy you a drink?” he asks politely with a soft smile. He didn’t seem all that threatening, but that didn’t mean anything. From what I could tell, he was human.
I smile back politely. “ Hi, I already paid for my drink.”
He tilts his head. “ Water, maybe? It’s pretty hot in here. Even I’m sweating a bit ”, he adds in a polite tone.
I chuckle. “It is, but I’m good. I’ve got water in the car. Thanks though”, I urge.
He nods and turns to the bar to order a shot. The waitress hands me a tequila sunrise, and I sip a bit of it before eating the cherry and placing the stem on the counter. I swirl my straw into the ice and sip it slowly, trying to look as disinterested as possible. I can feel his stare on the side of my face.
Suddenly, A fog wafts over me so heavily that I have to blink to clear it. Why do I feel so drunk all of a sudden? “ Look at me”, Enez quietly whispers. My eyes meet his, and I feel the colors in the room begin to swirl and run together like paint on a canvas. His eyes are pulsing with a warmth that pulls me in like a vortex.
“ You are sooo….gorgeous”, I slur.
There’s a disturbance. I’m jolted back into sobriety. I push my drink away standing up with a stumble, and bumping into a warm body. Alex stables me with his hand to keep me from falling. His chest is puffed and defensive, and for the first time, I see that almost crazed wolfish quality that he has. “ Do you have any fucking idea who you're fucking with right now? Do you know who she is, son?” Alex reprimands Enez in an almost authoritative tone. And considering he was clearly his senior, it was even more embarrassing. Enez stands defensively, eyes morphing to slits, and for a second, his eyes turn completely black, and it startles me. It startles me so much that I grab the back of Alex’s shirt.
Alex scoffs at his attempt to scare him. “ That’s Dracula’s bride. Wait until I tell him the shit you tried to pull. Call your buddies off the other girl, too, or I will make a scene. Do it. Now,” Alex commands. His southern drawl was thinning with each word.
Enez’s facade crumbles into fear. “ Listen, man… I didn’t know, dude,” he pleads. He then turns and whistles, which signals the Dj’s attention. The DJ stops to look at our group. I see Nya standing next to him at the booth, wearing his headphones. She waves excitedly to me, and I frown as I trail behind Alex onto the dance floor.
“ What was that?” I shout over the music, holding onto the back of his shirt so that I don’t get lost.
“ Incubus. Nasty fucking creatures. Stay away. This place is crawling with them. He was trying to siphon your attention and your money. In the worst-case scenario, he would have tried to steal your essence. Your beauty--everything”, Alex shouts back, stopping just at the bottom of the DJ booth. The Dj holds his hands up as if to surrender and whispers something into Nya’s ear. She removes her headphones and joins us on the dance floor. When she comes closer into view, I can see her frowning.
“ What the fuck?”, she snaps at Alex. I go to try and a block Alex from her incoming fury, speaking before he had time to explain.
“ They’re pervs”, I mutter. “ Trust me. Some guy at the bar was making a pass, and the DJ was in on it. Let’s go to another club”, I insist.
She puts her hand on her hip and sighs. “ Fine. I’ll take your word for it, but NOT his”, she says before cutting her eyes at him and walking towards the exit with my hand in her own.
We do eventually find another club, smaller, more exclusive. The drinks were admittedly better here, and it was right on the beach. I went heavier on the tequila than I should have. I could feel the introvert leaving my body with each sip. Nya is officially tipsy and barreling towards drunk. The dancing wasn’t helping. The night was starting to take on a strange, fuzzy quality. My memory was working less and less, until each moment felt more special than it should have. Nya and I are dancing without a care in the center of dance floor. A man attempts to get her attention.
He leans in, saying something neither of us could fully hear.
Nya tilted her head. “What?” He tried again, louder.
She laughed, not unkind, but not interested either, and turned back to me, grabbing my hands, spinning me into the beat." Stay with me,” she said.
“I’m not going nowhere,” I replied, grinning with all my teeth. Whatever they put in the drinks here made me feel like I could lift a car.
Our dance was loose, in sync without trying. Years of knowing each other show in small things. How we mirrored, how we made space, how she knew I was getting winded before I did.
Another drink appeared. Another break. Then repeat.
Somewhere beyond all the moody lighting, Alex blended into the walls like an enigma of sorts. I couldn’t spot him. Couldn’t find him. And maybe for the first time in years, neither one of us cared about getting hammered. There’s no designated driver between the two of us so why not?
Another round of shots and I felt like I could fly. We leave the club and walk back up the cobblestone steps to the main boardwalk. Everything’s funny. Nothing is serious. We dance to something I can’t remember. Nya ends up on a table somehow, and I fall into a fit of laughter that nearly takes my breath away. We run into a group of girls who buy us drinks, and we swap numbers, the liquor adding an extra layer of friendliness that we didn’t need.
Time slipped.
The ocean air was sobering enough to keep me upright. Men came and went—some bold, some polite, some instantly forgettable. Nya entertained it, flirted when she felt like it, dismissed it when she didn’t. I stayed close, amused, occasionally stepping in with a look that said enough before words were needed. We bar hop and don't pay for a single thing--not even fries.
Another drink.
This one was stronger. As soon as it hit my stomach, I just knew I fucked up. That was the last drink. Was every person we passed staring? Was it just my imagination? I felt the brush of a woman’s arm against mine as we passed a crowd. A wave of irritation descends over me, and I react before thinking. “ Jesus fucking Christ. Do people say excuse me anymore?” I scoff.
“ That girl wasn't paying attention, Mimi,” Nya slurred. I whip my head around to look back at her and I see those eyes. Lined with black. Sharp black holes pin me in place.
Amina Medina.
Amina Medina.
Amina Medina.
I dart for the trashcan to empty up the last 4 hours. “ Shit”, Nya sneers as she holds my hair. I can hear the thump of Alex’s boots in the distance.
“You're done” is the last thing I hear him mutter before my vision goes black.
My head is pounding when I wake up. A breeze of ocean mist licks my skin, and I crack my eyes open. It’s still dark. I’m on the patio, and Vlad is across from me with his laptop in his lap. There’s a tiny lined trashcan below me and a bottle of water. I sit up, holding my head. The pain is sharp and ice-picky. In a blink, he’s at my side, nursing me with water.
I grab the bottle and sit up straight, fully accepting whatever my stomach does with the fluid I add back into my body. Thankfully, my stomach seems to have settled, but my head is still pounding.
“ I wasn’t aware you were such a party girl”, he chuckles as he joins me on the opposite chair.
I shake my head in utter regret. “ Nya brings it out of me. I figured, why not for old time's sake, and clearly that was a mistake”, I chuckled painfully.
“ Let’s get you washed up and in bed”, he soothes, picking me up bridal style. A long shower helped take the edge off the headache. By the time I got to my room, the sun was starting to come up. I knew it would be a late start to the day.
Amina Smith Pov
My tears spill into my Lapsang. Edmond rests his hand on my knee in support as I begin to quiver in thought. "Razor-sharp teeth. Pale skin. L-Like he could be made of stone. Glowing eyes. Like a cat's eyes. And the wings. I couldn't tell how long they were, but they were as wide as his body. M-Maybe wider", I stuttered.
Doctor Van Helsing smokes from his pipe and offers me a sympathetic look. "I see", he ponders. His eyes trail around the room before they land on something placed far behind me. He slowly stands and retrieves it. It's a brown journal. He flips through the pages before he lands on a photo. He holds the book up. "Like this?" he says, flashing the page in my direction. I scream in fright, slapping my hand over my mouth, feeling the tears gather in the inner corners of my eye.
Doctor Van Helsing takes my cup and places it on the coffee table. Emond grabs both of my hands, trying to soothe me quietly. "I apologize for the scare, Mrs.Jones. I just had to be sure. This creature you've stumbled across is very old. Very, very old. A calculated beast. There is a Latin word called sanguisuga, which means blood sucker or leech. Romanian folklore tells the story of a man named Dracula, the father of all vampiric life. The name of this creature comes from the Greek word Pi which means "to drink". He was the King of Wallachia in the 1400s. He was cursed by god for his cruelty and brutality. In turn, he was forced to live the rest of his days entirely immortal. This demon feasts on the blood of human beings to stay alive. It is very powerful indeed. It can only be killed through fire or decapitation. Wood can badly injure, but the correct blow can be fatal. It's a nasty creature. He has spread this curse to other people through his bite. I've encountered quite a few cases of vampirism. It cannot be undone. Consider yourself lucky to have gotten away, my dear", he warns.
I can feel the panic bubbling up inside my stomach. To think that I was so close to death. "I-I do not feel that I have escaped him. I-I feel that I am being watched. Especially at night, doctor", I plead.
Van Helsing does not look surprised. "Oh yes, my dear. You are being watched indeed. But never the matter. We will not let him take you. I specialize in this type of beast. They seem to have taken a liking to England recently. Every few years, there is a trend in a new country. There were whispers in the coastal African cities and Eastern Europe. In America, the natives were calling it all kinds of names. Wendigo. Skin walker. Wabanaki. In my research, they said the creature was feeding on the white-skinned settlers. And then some of the natives started disappearing and coming back, but not quite like before. Something had changed. I do not feel you need to worry about this creature harming you. If it wanted to kill you, it would have done so the moment it laid eyes on you. Instead, this creature is stalking you. Tell me, Mrs.Jones. Who introduced you to this man? "he urges.
"Dear god, Edmond shuddered.
"My friend. Julia. Julia Moreau", I blurt
"Expect any friend you've been in contact with recently to be compromised. They're informants. Spies. Cease contact with them immediately", Helsing warns.
I nod earnestly. "Of course, Doctor."
"The stalking? What interest do you suspect he has taken in her? What are his intentions?" Emond asks carefully.
Van Helsing takes a deep breath of his pipe and exhales for a moment.
"I have reason to think that this creature believes that Mrs.Jones is his lost bride.”
Amina Boudreaux POV
Another dream. Another dream I didn’t ask for. I calm my mind at the wash bowl, checking my missed messages. Zanto wanted to speak with me.
For some reason, her message sent my stomach into knots. I can’t think of a single positive reason as to why I’d fully hallucinate my past life after one too many shots.
I send back a quick and kind reply before I close my phone and try to get through my hair appointment without freaking out.
Apparently, the twins had sent special instructions about how they wanted my hair. I'd be getting a shiny, slick ponytail. Nya, on the other hand, was encouraged to play up the curly hair.
An hour later, we were inside Nya’s bedroom, with racks full of clothes. Chichi and Ada absolutely adored Nya. Nya was clearly likable, but I was worried they would clash with her strong personality. She didn’t always hold her tongue. Off the clock, she’d say the first thing on her mind. They loved that about her in an almost maternal way, which was strange because the twins looked to be around our age.
The twins decided on our look. “We want Nya to be the garden, and we want you, Amina, to be the flowers", said Ada.
The garment bag slid open, and honestly, it looked less like a dress and more like a garden. Just as the twins envisioned. Nya stepped into a mess of silk, shimmying the bodice up her body. The color was this gorgeous, a pale seafoam green Elie Saab 2004 couture gown. But it wasn't just plain green. It was covered in these tiny blush-pink floral bits that made it come to life. My favorite part was the gold thread stitched everywhere. It caught the light every time she breathed, giving the dress a bit of a shimmer. The body shimmer she added to her arms was the perfect finishing touch. The fit was perfect, hugging her in all the right places at the top before cascading into a massive, flowy skirt with peekaboo pink thundering underneath. She took a quick spin, and the silk trailed behind her like a cloud.
Chi Chi turns to her. “ Isn’t she just darling, Ada? Like a little doll”, she swooned as she fixed Nya’s dress in the mirror.
“ I’ve been telling you, Chichi. We need one of our own”, her sister retorts.
“ Whatever that means, chile,” Nya hums as she does another twirl, not caring to ask them to elaborate.
I'm put into a pink Atelier Versace 2012 fall couture gown. Ada finally stepped away after fidgeting with the back of my dress. It was something like orchid, a shade of pink so vibrant against my skin.The fit was exact, with a deconstructed cage of silk strips and neon patent leather that nipped my waist into a sharp, dramatic curve. Nearly transparent silicone threads ran along my shoulder, making the gown look as if it were floating. I shake the ends of my dress with my hands and then drop it.
“ Perfect”, Ada spreads out the bottom of my dress to keep it from catching my heels. I look in the mirror, running my hands down my cinched stomach. I turn to Nya, standing behind me.
“ You look incredible”, I gush at Nya as she shifts her coily hair into the correct position.
Nya seemed to shrink away from my compliment in a shy manner. An expression I so rarely see from her, and I feel her pull me into her side as we both now stand in the mirror. “ You know what I was thinking earlier?” she asks.
“Mm?” I turned to look at her.
“ We look so much better than we could have imagined as little kids. I mean, I even got the titties I wanted so badly. It’s poetic, really,” she blurts. I laugh at the thought of us stuffing our shirts and putting on our fake, imaginary lipstick and drinking our imaginary liquor from soda bottle caps.
“ Well, we’re finally women. We can drink the wine, pay the bill, and wear the bras. All the shit we dreamed about. Not as fun as I thought it would be”, I snort.
“ Sometimes it’s fun but only with you", she nudges me with her hip.
Ada and ChiChi present us to Vlad, satisfied with their own work. He compliments us both in that gentlemanly way. The way only he could.
We’re off to the wedding in a black car, all three of us. Alex and his car full of beefy guards follow behind us. I inch my hand into Vlad’s open palm as our car traces the side of a cliff.
The heat of Los Cabos usually sticks to your skin like a thin sheet, but at the southern tip of the Baja peninsula, the breeze off the Pacific made it all the more bareable. Vlad leads Nya and me towards an entirely paved cliffside lookout, our heels clicking against the cobblestone in unison. Usually, this spot was swarming with tourists taking selfies against the horizon, but today the public had been cleared out, leaving the expanse as a private sanctuary for the ceremony.
I gasp at the foggy aquamarine view. The water crashes onto the jagged rocks below, spraying a mist of salt in the air. The setup was very much an intimate garden party, a sharp contrast to the desert-meets-ocean landscape. The steep stone steps were lined with lush flower arrangements—mostly white roses. In the distance, I can hear a live orchestra thanks to the speakers installed behind the roses to carry the sound.
"They really rented out the whole lookout," Nya whispered, adjusting her sunglasses as we approached the crowd of about fifty guests. “ Looks like something out of Eat, Pray, Love, " she chimes. I couldn’t agree more.
At the very edge of the cliff, a simple wooden arch draped in white linen, vines, and white roses, sat framed by the turquoise water below. In the sitting area, there's a large glass canopy that blocks UV light, likely for the vampires in attendance. A live orchestra was tucked into a shaded corner near the entrance. A cello and three violins played a rhythmic, classical cover of a contemporary song, the music swelling to compete with the crashing waves against the rocks.
We’d have to go down three flights of these steep cobblestone steps that left me feeling unsteady. Vlad already takes my hand with his steady, firm one. I turn to grab Nya behind me, and in a moment's notice, Alex swoops in and grabs her free hand. She whips her head around to see him in a cream suit and an earpiece that was likely for show more than anything. His hair was still wet like he had just hopped out of the shower. “ Oh, you saved me”, Nya teased with the back of her hand on her forehead. I could already see her wheels turning, thinking of something smart to say, but it was clear she liked what she saw. Alex looks at her with a softness that hardens when he notices Vlad and me eyeing the interaction.
“ You clean up nice, Alex,” I say kindly.
Alex clears his throat. “ Much obliged, Ms.Boudreaux,” he drawls.
Vlad gently guides me to our seats, just a row behind the close family and friends section. We were early because not even his fledgling was standing there waiting for her bride.
“He is very fond of Nya,” Vlad speaks up.
“Isn’t everyone?” I ask.
“ She makes him nervous. Alex doesn’t get nervous. Out of respect for your friend, I didn’t do any digging on her behalf. But her heart races when he is near. It’s impossible to ignore”, says Vlad.
I nudge his side.“ Boy, do I know the feeling”, I joke.
He pulls the back of my hand to his lips and pecks it before resting it back in his lap. I take a look around the venue, watching guests fill the seats and talk amongst themselves. “Small wedding?” I ask.
Vlad shrugs. “ The ceremony is more so for Luna’s human side. There are about a dozen vampires here—all older. The reception will have many more. Hundreds. The two compromised. You see.”
“ Ah. Well, it seems like they’re already off to a great start on the marriage front. Not that I know anything about what makes a marriage…a good one”, I ramble.
“ Your parents?”, he adds.
Now it's my turn to shrug. “ They weren’t perfect, but I guess there was a concerted effort.”
In a playful tone, he counters my argument. “ I’m sure you’ll get some firsthand experience soon.”
My head whips to look at him, but he stares ahead, and I can see a small smirk on his face. A 6-foot-tall woman in a sharp black tuxedo walks down the aisle. She has long, curly, black hair and hazel eyes, looking to be in her early 30s. There’s a masculine air about her. She's a beautiful woman with strong features. She swoops in for Vlad, and he stands before she even rounds the corner. They embrace wordlessly and tightly. I figure him being here meant a lot to her because I can see tears rim her eyes.
“ This is her?”, the mysterious woman asks incredulously. She shakes her head silently. “ Aye Dios mios”, she murmurs to herself.
Vlad quietly nods, and they both smile at me with so much warmth, likely in some cerebral conversation that I’m not privy to.
The woman shakes her head. “ Where are my manners? I am Sophia Mendoza. I was Vlad’s fledgling. He helped me a lot in my formative years”, she explained, wiping her eyes. I stood to meet her and shake her hand.
“ So, where did you guys meet?” I ask.
She smiles widely. “ Long story, but we actually met in the mid-30s. I’m from Michoacán. West Central Mexico,” she explains.
My eyes widen in fascination. “ Wow. The 30’s. What was that like?”
She laughs. “ Chaotic, but thankfully Vlad saved my ass quite a few times. I owe him my eternal life. By the way, is she coming to the reception?” she turns to Vlad.
“ We’ll both be there”, he says. I pick up a hesitant expression on Sophia’s face. Vlad adds, “ We felt it would be good to prepare her. I think she's ready”, Vlad reassures her. Sofia’s shoulders relax.
Sophia eventually leaves to greet Luna’s friends and family. Vlad and I sit back down, and Nya rounds the corner where Alex deposits her in her seat next to me. I can see her winking at him as he hands her back her purse and walks off, stealing a few glances as he walks away. Nya’s a professional tease. She was collecting and giving away phone numbers left and right all night. There may be an attraction there, but I wasn’t entirely sure if she’d make a real move on him.
The bride, Luna, was gorgeous. Strangely enough, she shared a slight resemblance to Sophia, though she looked to be in her 40’s. The resemblance wasn’t the weird kind, either. Rather, they had the same stylistic font. Dark features, long voluminous hair, dark brows. Luna, every bit of 5 feet 4 was in a cream silk slip wedding gown with her hair in beach waves and a floor-length veil.
Sophia slips a few tears. They exchange their own vows which I thought was incredibly sweet. I see a few misty eyes in the crowd as well. The love radiating off the couple was palpable. There was a sense of relief between them. Almost as if they fought like hell to make it to this very moment.
In their vows, I can pick up that they'd been together for quite some time. Luna, visibly a little older than her partner, clearly needed more time to make up her mind about things. That was perfectly fine with Sophia, who was clearly enamored by her. No way would Luna get rid of her that easily. She'd wait. And if there's one thing I know about vampires, they’re incredibly patient.
After the wedding, Vlad stays behind for a bit to catch up with Sophia and her new bride. The reception wouldn't be for another two hours. This time, it's my job to dress myself. The twins left me a Black Saint Laurent Mini slip dress. As for the shoes, Tom Ford Padlock sandals. I inspected the padlock design on the side of them. I find the styling a little edgy for a reception, but I'm no professional stylist. Nya slips into the bathroom while I smoke out my waterline.
" You look sexy", she says. She sits on the edge of the tub watching me touch up my makeup. "You nervous?" she asked.
"As hell…", I sigh, leaning on the counter.
" Why? You've been to events with him before", she counters.
" Not like this one. This one is special", I said.
I hear the crinkle of a bag behind me. I turn to watch her as she breaks it in half and pushes the entire thing into the side of her cheek. I stare at her, stunned. "Nya. That's too fucking much", I scold her, grabbing the package to look at the dosage.
She shrugs. "I've had this brand before with the exact dosage. I'm good. Here. You need to chill out", she grabs the bag back from me and breaks a fourth of the half piece off. She hands it to me, and I eye it hesitantly before popping it into my mouth and chewing. It's a very small piece—maybe 2mg at best. It should be enough to mellow me out.
When the car finally comes, I rummage through my luggage trying to find a shawl. I find a red one and throw it over my arm as I grab my clutch and head for the door. Nya whistles at me on the way out as I shoot past Alex.
I smell the smoke from outside the car as I slide inside. Vlad had the window halfway cracked, but not by much. He's taken off his jacket, loosened his cuffs, and tie. I'd been too busy assessing him that I didn't notice him assessing me.
“ Are you trying to stay here?” he asks in a falsely curious tone. I roll my eyes playfully.
“ Why would I want that?” I snort.
I can see him wet his lips and put out the end of his cigar with his ashtray.“ It would be awfully easy to convince me right about now", he murmured.
I shake my head, looking out the window as we drive further and further away from the villa. “ Tempting offer, but you won’t get out of this that easily”, I warn. My seatbelt ruffles and unclicks. I look down and notice the belt slowly retracting into the holder. Vlad looks out the window to throw me off before his hand shoots out, clasping my waist and pulling me into his lap as I squeal in surprise. I’m giggling, pushing against him when he kisses the side of my face.
His mouth trails to my jaw, pulling back the strap on my dress, diving for the skin on my neck. My laughter turns into small sighs of pleasure when he finds my pulse with his lips. I get chills when he cups the back of my neck, holding me steady when he kisses me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that the partition was already up before I could say anything. My arms sprawl over his shoulders, leaning into him as he keeps me tight in his embrace, his nose takes in large helpings of my scent.
Here, on my neck, I’ve become so sensitive that I can hardly stand it. My body knows what comes next. He's inadvertently trained me to respond in this way. I struggle to sit still when he begins to suck the skin. His arms encase me, keeping me anchored to him as I bite down on my tongue, trying not to draw attention to the backseat in case the driver could hear.
I feel his hands trail up and down my dress, on my stomach, looking for an entryway, gaining intel. His thumbs sweep over my breast before he squeezes. My eyes fail to stay open, and the sound seeps out. I can’t hold out for much longer when I kiss him roughly. He's a wall I can’t get through because he hardens against me the more I push against him. I feel my temper flare as I try to seize control that he won’t let me have. These last three days he’s accommodated me endlessly, so I don’t suppose he’ll let me have this so easily.
I wrap my hands around his throat as I lick into him, feeling the way his tongue snakes into my mouth. He grunts as I twist my head to get a better angle. And then I grab the bottom of his face, pressing my nails into his skin. He squeezes me hard as I assert myself onto him. We kiss hungrily, and eagerly, as if trying to enhale one another. My hands run under his untucked shirt, feeling his abs flinch under the warmth of my palms as I trail them up and up, feeling the rouge scars on his stomach. I slowly run my nails back down and feel him shiver.
There's a switch in his demeanor that happens far too quickly. He grabs hold of my hair and pulls firmly until my neck is bared to him. His mouth cranks open, unfurling his fangs to me. They’re the shiniest thing in the car, needle sharp and glinting in the passing street lights. My heart is beating so quickly I can feel it in my ears and behind my eyes. I know what he’s going to ask. He'll ask me where.
“ Don’t tell me…”, I whisper.
He lets me stew in my anticipation. I feel his muscles tense as he calculates the best place to pierce. He strikes me the way a snake would, quick and fast before retracting completely. I whimper out in pain. He doesn’t suck. No, he watches the blood begin to pool from my exposed shoulder before he goes back in to suck slowly.
He’s taking large gulps, pulling my essence into his mouth like a leech. I hear him exhale softly, as if the pressure building between us had finally released itself. Every suckle makes me wince with a fleeting pain that doesn't stay for long. It's quickly soothed with a euphoric buzz that trickles down my body like static. I groan out when the feeling greets. His large hand blankets the bottom half of my face, silencing me as he laps at the trickle of blood running from my shoulder. When he’s had his fill, he pulls away to assess me. I look at him, eyes wide in the dark, with his hand still over my mouth. Slowly, he unseals his skin from my lips, and I take in a sharp inhale.
When I exhale, the tears come. They always do. I feel them dry on my temples. The pleasure seeps and spreads, here to wash away the pain he inflicted. I press myself back into his embrace and press my mouth to his. He’s iron and smoke. The two things I’ve become all too familiar with since knowing him. And pleasure. A third and very big theme in this dynamic. It’s practically all I know when I’m with him. It’s intoxicating…making me all pliant and fuzzy. He knows how to get my mind off of almost anything. And at times, I worry that it’s too shallow a feeling to keep this together. That maybe it’s too much of a good thing. Now I realize that I don’t really care.
I break away from our pleasure stupor to see that we've driven to the other side of the island, which isn’t nearly as developed as the rest of the resort. Dense jungle leads us down a pitch-black path that shoots off into a clearing overlooking a cliff. The car stops and Vlad lowers the partition. Demitri has his brights on, revealing something akin to a storm shelter nestled into the grass. A stoned path runs right up to the doors.
What my brain took for trees were, in fact, not trees at all. On each side of the door stood 8-foot-tall beasts. I can think of no other word to describe it. One a smoky grey color and the other a light green. Short and small tusks jittued from their bottom teeth like walruses. Their bodies were an endless expanse of muscle under their custom suits. Their black hair was shaved short to the scalp. I can feel Vlad move, getting ready to leave the car. “ …..What is that?” I whisper under my breath. He chuckles softly.
“ Orcs. You’ll be fine. Come”, he encourages. He opens my door for me and pulls me out. I fix my dress and take a quick look in my compact mirror. My eyeliner is running, so I wipe the skin above my cheeks. What was left of my lipstain, I’m sure he ate. My hair is still somehow holding up, but the big mess had already dried on my shoulder. Blood.
“I need something to wipe this off.” I reach back into the car, but Vlad rests a hand on my back, a sign to slow down.
“ Leave it like that”, he murmurs. He kisses me on the shoulder, and it's pathetically enough to win me over. With his hand at my waist, he leads me towards the opening of the stairs.
The orcs quietly eye us with their black eyes, not saying a word. I can’t imagine what would happen to a trespasser in a place like that. They’d probably swing them over a cliff and go about their night. Thankfully, they open the doors for us, and we enter the stairwell. The steps are steep, and the narrow hall is dimly lit with torches spread a few inches apart from one another.
I followed behind him, stepping onto the stoned steps as the doors shut behind us with a loud clang. My fists are balled into the back of his shirt as we echo down the corridor. I keep my right hand against the wall as extra leverage in case my legs give out. I'm greatful that they don’t.
When we reach the bottom, a set of elevators awaits, already open and completely transparent, exposing red brick on the opposite wall. “Must you vampires make everything feel like an Illuminati ritual?” I scoff.
“ What is life for a vampire if you can’t indulge in secret?” he murmurs humorously. We step into the elevator, and Vlad presses the only other button, a down arrow.
I fidget with my reflection. The piece of Nya's edible should be working by now, but I don't feel much of anything. Vlad reassures me that I look perfectly fine as the Elevator comes to a halting stop. We're spat out into an entirely red room. Red floors, red ceiling, red art. It’s disorienting and sharp. A woman dressed in black sits behind a translucent desk. A man in a black mesh mask walks towards us with trays holding flukes of blood. The stench of iron hits me like a train. It’s not the champagne glasses. No. It’s the red-tinted waterfall behind the receptionist. And then I realize…it’s not water.
It gives me pause. So much so that Vlad has to tug me along. He puts his hand up to the masked server, passing on the refreshments. Then another masked man appears with a real tray of champagne. I take one to be polite and fake a small sip as we approach the woman at the desk. The reception looks like Rita Hayworth with a wicked smile. The badge pinned above her right breast reads “ Sybil”. Her eyes are the color of flames, rings of orange and red, coming together just short of her large pupils. Her teeth are filed into tiny points that make me want to retreat.
“ What an honor it is to have you back, my liege. And you’ve brought a very special guest”, she turns to me expectantly. I give her a brief smile, even though I want to slip behind Vlad’s back. There’s an almost piranha-like quality to her that makes it hard to look at her for too long. “Welcome to the underworld, Persephone”, she jokes in a cheery tone. She chuckles at my dazed expression. “ Wrist please”, she quips in a syrupy transatlantic tone.
I look at Vlad for reassurance. He nods quietly, not bothered in the slightest. I slowly put my wrist on the table. “ Oh, I don’t bite”, she cooes, before placing a red band on my wrist. When she’s done she moves on to Vlad, placing a black band on him. I observe her as the two of them make small talk. That’s when I notice her sit back down on not a chair, but a person. A man, positioned on all fours, offers his back as her chair. He doesn’t speak or make a sound. He’s human furniture. All three of these men must be her human pets. The idea is confirmed when one of the servants kneels at her feet, and her hand sinks into the top of his curly hair as if he were a dog.
She waves me goodbye as we walk to the end of the room, taking a sharp left down a dark red hall. We step onto a black glossy escalator. I hold the railing, and Vlad stands close behind me. The sound of the escalator’s metallic gnashing groan echoed off the stone corridors. As we reached the bottom, the stairs flattened, ejecting us into an eerily quiet crowd in a large ballroom.
Floor-to-ceiling red velvet drapes hung in heavy, soft folds along the walls. The fabric turned every corner into an ocean of crimson, with the deep pleats creating endless vertical shadows with no beginning or end. Beneath us, the floor was a jarring, glossy onyx that twinkled under the light as if one were walking on stars in the night sky.
Black and red chairs and sofas sit a few inches apart. Some people sit and other stand in small groups. The ceiling mirrored the floor, black and endless. I had no idea where the light source was coming from, but it was just a few notches above candlelight. Could it have been magic? Or just a design trick? I couldn't be sure. I couldn’t be sure of anything. Not my sense of self. Not my sense of up or down. Not with the piercing eyes trailing our every move. This wasn’t like the gala. There was an unspoken tension in the room. I feel something coil deep in my stomach. Vlad presses a reassuring hand to my lower back as I look around at the spectators. They give nothing more than a polite nod.
I’ve got a million and one questions in my head but I figure it’s best to wait until later to ask them. Vlad ushers me to the bar on the right. A dazzling monolithic slab of black obsidian, polished to a mirror finish. It was crowded with figures draped in silk and heavy jewelry, their movements unrushed and graceful. Something I believed most vampires possess. Masked servers waltz between groups in their black mesh masks. Their nametags were merely numbers. Was it meant to demean? Or is it for the server’s anonymity? Near the back, a narrow, shadowed gap in the velvet led to the washrooms, marked only by a stand with a sign that read “lavatory”.
I look around for some familiarity between myself and possibly anybody else here. Rainbow eyes find mine. Some are sharp blue, others coal black, and others in strange colors like purple or pink. Some eyes are too tiny and others too big to be human. A man with pointed ears passes me. He’s unusually tall with glowing skin, the same color as his hair. An almost translucent pale.
“ Fae. Irish fae to be exact”, Vlad murmurs to me, swirling his drink with his wrist.
I look at the side of his face in disbelief before watching the fae join a black woman with monarch wings on her back. Monarch wings of all things. I have to check my pulse at what I'm seeing.
“ Aziza. They're a more benevolent species of fae. There is also a Valkyrie around here somewhere. No shortage of wings in our world, as you can see,” Vlad explains humorously, like it's some inside joke. Really, I'm too busy questioning my reality. How on earth can all these beings exist on earth, and most humans never notice? Where do they go? Where do they hide? I take a tiny pacifying sip of my champagne. Maybe it was a good thing the edible didn’t really work. God knows how I would have taken all of this in under the influence.
“ Amina!” I hear my name in the distance. I look up towards the escalator to see Zanto and Mato. Her assistant, Jeff, gives her a supportive arm as he leads her to me. I spot Mato walking with three other women. A middle-aged blonde woman, a young Asian woman, and an older black woman with auburn locs.
I embrace her while Vlad and Mato talk quietly. “ Hey”, I beam, setting my glass down to give her a hug. Jeff heads to the bar. The three other women stand a short distance away, observing us. They look beautiful in their sparkly gowns, patiently waiting for…something? I’m not sure.
Zanto grins. “ It’s so great to hear your voice again. Is it okay if we speak privately? I want to introduce you to my sisters”, Zanto whispers. She looks gorgeous in her vintage red gown and pinned-up hair.
“ Of course, are you kidding?!”, I gush. The three women wave, signaling for me to follow them to the back of the ballroom. Zanto grabs my wrist as I follow behind them. We huddle into our own little human circle, and for the first time tonight, I take an actual breather.
“ Amina. Lisa, Deborah, and Lettie”, says Zanto. In order, the younger Asian woman, the older blonde woman, and the black woman.
“ We’re so excited to meet you. And don’t worry. This conversation is charmed. Nobody can hear us,” says Lisa. I chuckle at the redness in her cheeks. It’s a relief to know that my business won’t be put out on Front Street. Vampires and their hearing…
“ We’ve been wanting to do this for months, but we didn’t know if it was the right time”, Lettie explains.
I blink in confusion. Every knew something I didn’t. “..Do what?”, I ask.
Zanto clears her throat. “ Those dreams weren’t just dreams. We’ve all met before. After our meeting in Wallachia, I’ve realized how much potential you have. We’ve been testing you. You come from a line of very powerful women. But…have you ever thought about whether or not you’re the reason for that ?”, she suggests.
I laugh. “ The chicken or the egg thing. Right?”
Zanto chuckles. “ Exactly. I know you're trying to enjoy the reception, so I’ll keep this brief. All four of us are what you would consider high witches. In simpler terms, we’ve reached complete self-mastery. A high witch can work with any medium through practice and experience. We all started off much like you long ago…”, Zanto urged.
Deborah clears her throat. I find her to be a little cold. Not rude per se, but she wasn’t as warm. “ Our kind has a way of finding one another. Each of us has a role as a high witch, and each of us has a certain… specialty. For example, mine is scrying. Lisa's is energy manipulation. Lettie’s is spell casting, and Zanto’s is mediumship. I’m sure you have a certain specialty as well…likely potion brewing. Tell me, how good are you at making a drink? Considering your work—”, I cut her off with a discombobulated shake of my head.
“ Have you been spying on me?” I ask worriedly.
Deborah sighs tiredly. “ We don’t exactly have to, but all in all—yes. As I was saying, generally, we all collect data from past events and record them. But you're a natural dream walker. That means you can access information and events through sleep and sometimes involuntarily ”, she says. Now I remember her. She was the woman who pushed me into Anima Smith. I wasn’t a fan of her. It will probably stay that way.
Lisa chimes in now. She steps closer to me, looking right through me. As the youngest, it seems like she’s the most excited of all of them. “ Witches are archivists. To extract information from a specific event requires significant effort and many years of practice. Add your clairsentience and claircognizance, and you might as well be a time traveler. There is so much we could accomplish with your gift”, Lisa rambled. My mouth opens and closes in shock.
“ You’re overwhelming her….”, Zanto says in a flat tone.
I let out a long breath. Lisa steps back and smiles politely, as does Lettie. Deborah takes a sip of her champagne, looking around indifferently.
“ Our proposal is this. I would like you to consider training under us at our institute. There, you'll be able to develop your abilities and truly flourish into the witch that I know–WE know that you can be”, Zanto asks. A sincerity to her tone that never strays too far.
I shake my head cautiously. “ …The whole reason why I even came here is because im trying to prepare for the idea that I’d become…”, I trail off, pointing to the vampires in the crowd. I feel so incredibly out of my depth as I look at the group. “ I can’t leave him to endure his condition alone. He’s waited long enough. There will come a day when he will turn me. Surely I can't be both. Don't witches need a connection to a source? Vampires don’t have that, at least not entirely. Right?,” I rant.
Zanto takes hold of my hands. Her cloudy eyes stared directly into me as if she’d gained sight to relay the message more memorably.
“ We’re not asking you to choose. How old do you think I am?”, she challenges.
I scan her face. “ Uh….32?”, I blurt.
“ I am 506 years old”, she quips. My eyes widen with surprise.
Lisa chimes in. “ I’m 98 years old.”
Then Lettie. “ I’m 211”, she grins.
Then Deborah. “ I’m 463 and counting”, she challenges.
I look at their three faces, feeling a chill go down my spine as I look back at Zanto. Zanto is smiling knowingly. As if she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “ When you master yourself, you master the rules of your life. I won’t die for a long while. And when I’m ready I will join my husband. Amina, whatever you thought about your future. Think bigger”, she whispers.
A little tingle flutters over my entire body. “ Holy shit…”, I chuckle, nervously taking a small sip of my champagne and thinking about what this could mean for me.“ Okay. Okay, I hear you”, I press. Zanto backs away as the three of us stare at each other in silence. Deborah flagged down a server carrying a tray of champagne flutes, and they all grabbed one.
I let out a long sigh, feeling a familiar weightless feeling spread throughout my body. The fucking edible was working just when I thought it wouldn’t. Even more worrying, I should not be feeling like this from 1-2mg.
“ Ladies. It’s been amazing talking to you guys, but I’m just gonna’ be frank…” I pause, looking at all four of them. “ …. I’m high”, I mutter.
Lisa tucks in her lips to stop from laughing. Lettie gives me a sympathetic nod, and Deborah just stares at me. Zanto’s mouth opens for a brief moment, then closes before she mutters. “ Understandable. Let’s table this discussion for when you’re sober. When do you leave? ” she blurts.
I blink a few times, processing what she said. “ Monday morning, but maybe let's talk back in the states?" I ask.
Zanto gave the ladies my number. I suppress a needless giggle. Nothing was funny, but everything was funny in an almost sick kind of way. In fact, the urge to laugh is so strong that I have to look elsewhere. “ Sounds good. It was nice meeting you guys”, I put my hand out to shake their hands, and hugged Zanto last before heading back to Vlad. Mato was already walking back to his wife with a tip of his hat to me. I sit beside Vlad and rest my drink on the counter. I know he wants to know what we spoke about. I’d be sure to fill him in later, but right now I was just focused on getting through the night.
Two masked attendants cut through the crowd and pull back the velvety red curtains, revealing the wall behind them. What I thought would be a doorway was a massive, black iron portcullis, its teeth suspended over a jagged stone archway.
Applause echoes across the room as a crowd forms in the middle of the floor. Sophia and Luna are hand in hand. Luna wears a thin, simple nightgown with a silk robe over it. It’s just simple enough to look less like nightwear and more like something chic and intentional. That is, until I saw her lack of shoes. Sophia clears her throat and grabs a drink to make a toast. The applause quiets down as everyone waits for her speech.
“ Luna and I would like to thank you all for being a part of this special night as we accept her into this family. All of you know what an incredible sacrifice it is for somebody to join you in this condition we call vampirism. A condition we’ve failed to know the true origins of all these years later. Be it a curse from a god or the mark of the devil or sheer misfortune —or luck depending on your perspective”, Sophia pauses. The audience chuckles. I can feel Vlad pull me closer by my waist, throwing his arm over my shoulder.
Sophia continues. “ Some of you here didn’t have a choice. You were thrust into this world and had to find your own way. Some of you escaped a troubled past —like me. And maybe you’ve found life much better after death. Whatever your circumstance. No matter who or what situation put you here, know that we couldn’t be more honored to have you embrace Luna tonight. Know that we consider you an integral part of our lives, no matter how little or often we may speak. I know that you’ll all play a pivotal part in Luna's self-acceptance and her confidence in who she’ll become in this next phase of her life. I want to raise a toast to all of you and to my beautiful wife, Luna.” Sophia raised her glass.
We raise our glasses with her. An overwhelming sea of red peppered with yellow flukes. Then, Sophia and Luna wait at the gate as it rises. Luna directs the crowd to follow them both into the tunnel. The crowd divides into pairs, lining up behind the newlyweds and waltzing under the cold metal, passing the threshold that smelled of wet flint.
Vlad and I emerged into what could best be described as a Colosseum. A circular amphitheater of paved stone built to hold the crowd at maximum capacity. It’s subterranean engineering all the more obvious as the whispers bounced off the stone like we were standing inside a fish bowl. Each tier rose in these perfect, steep rings that gave the illusion of leaning inward. We spilled into the center of the room, looking at how high each tier of seats went. Endless rows that went up so high that I lost count.
Vlad did not lead me to a floor seat. Keeping his arm looped protectively through mine, he led me up a set of steep, narrow stone steps to a high, protruding dais that hung directly over the arena.
Our chairs were heavy and high-backed, made from dark basalt. The vantage point was nauseating. From this height, the circular rows looked like a giant eye, and we were perched right on the edge of the lid. Sophia and Luna sat on the other side of the room, in a dias identical to ours. Below, hundreds of watchful eyes tracked our movements with the synchronized, unblinking precision of a school of fish. It’s so quiet. Too quiet. This is a culture I don’t belong to. The baseline of what’s polite and what’s rude was all twisted and rearranged here. Tonight I was nothing more than an observer. Under the cover of the stone armrest, Vlad reached for my hand and squeezed, his thumb tracing my knuckles as the silence below became more and more absolute.
Annie, an 18-year-old from New Orleans, moves to Clarksdale with dreams of building a life all her own. There she meets Smoke, a 21-year-old war veteran with a dangerous reputation. What grows between them is sweet, sticky, and Southern— a smoldering love set against a world of bootlegging, Hoodoo, and blues.
Chapter 3
Contains: Explicit language, slow-burn/build, mentions of Hoodoo, racism/segregation
Clarksdale was waking up in a way that had nothing to do with the time of day. A way that felt looser— less structure, more warmth.
The sun had begun its descent behind the rooftops, casting thin streaks of honey gold onto the sidewalks, still warm with the fading afternoon heat. Sunset bloomed across the sky like a bruise, its colors pooling against faded storefronts.
Music slipped out of the open doors of jukes, slow and sultry. The smell of hot oil and spiced meat wafted thickly through the air, mingling closely with the earthy scent of tobacco and the sweet aroma of perfume.
Annie’s eyes swept the street. Lanterns flickered to life one-by-one, their soft glow catching on glass windows and passing faces.
The men had their own ecosystem.
Smooth talkers. Quiet ones. The ones who held secrets.
Then there were the women. They had their circles too—those bold enough to play the game with their own set of rules, and those who waited around to be chosen. Those who tried too hard to be noticed, and those who didn’t have to try at all.
And then there was Annie.
A newcomer who suddenly felt too much like an outsider in her own body, too.
She walked beside Aunt Della, basket looped over her arm, steps matching her aunt’s without a thought, while everything felt increasingly sharper.
The light.
The sounds.
The way people looked around when they thought nobody was watching.
A breeze moved through the street, turning the dust around them into small cyclones before settling again. It brushed against Annie’s skin— cool for a moment before the heat threatened to swallow it back up.
“Don’t get too used to that breeze,” Aunt Della said. “It’ll turn on you soon as the sun come back.”
“Mmm,” Annie replied, quicker than she meant it to.
Aunt Della’s eyes flicked over to Annie, reading the look on her face. Glassy eyes. Pursed lips.
She kept quiet.
A group of girls passed them, skirts swaying, laughter bright and easy. One of them nodded at Annie and Aunt Della. “Evenin’,” she said warmly.
“Evenin’,” Aunt Della returned politely.
Annie blinked. Nodded back. “Evenin’,” she said, replying a beat too late. She adjusted her grip on her basket though it hadn’t slipped from her grasp.
Her eyes drifted over to the doorway of Messenger’s without meaning to, the music getting louder as they got closer. Guitar and piano weaved together, pulling at something low in Annie’s chest, her gaze lingering just a second longer than it should have before she pulled it back. She pressed her lips together, steadying her breath as the hum of the street wrapped around her, lingering as they got closer to home like it knew she needed the distraction.
The sounds of town folded into the low residential hum as they turned into their neighborhood, but the bass still thrummed underneath it all, low and deep.
The boarding house sat at the end of the block like a warm welcome, dim light from the front room bleeding through the curtains and onto the porch floors. Annie lingered outside for a moment as the bass still carried faintly from town, then opened the front door, letting the noise of the house swallow it whole.
The front room was alive with lodgers unwinding in from a long day’s work or preparing to step out for the night.
Aunt Della was standing at the door while Annie began to head towards the staircase, her eyes flicking between the men sitting on her couch and the tin cups in their hands.
“Uh-uh, I know y’all ain’t in here drinkin’ my good hooch!”
Their conversation quieted before one of them spoke up.
“‘Course not, Miss Dee,” he perked up. “We don’t go in your stash without you,” he said with a slick smile.
“Mhmm,” she replied, steps heavy and dramatic as she stomped into the kitchen. “Better not or you gon’ be sleepin’ with the chickens.”
“Ooooooh,” Annie teased. The buzz of conversation got louder as Annie slipped away to the staircase. Right now, she just needed quiet.
She took two steps at a time up the staircase to her bedroom, exhaling a sigh of relief when the door shut behind her. Crossing the room to the foot of her bed, she sat on her haunches and lifted the lid of her trunk, tossing the fabric sample from Luella’s in before closing it back up.
Annie looked over to the low table that sat in the corner of the room. It was slightly lopsided with splints of wood sticking up from its surface, but the perfect size for an altar. She paused before turning back to her trunk and lifting its lid again.
Annie didn’t rush this part. She never did.
She pulled out a white candle and items to place on her altar.
Arranged them just like she was taught. Like she was dealing with something sacred—because she was.
Candle at the center. Florida water by the window. She took a moment to look it over, made sure it was right, then got out a matchbook.
She struck the side.
Once.
Twice.
It took three times before the match took, finally coming to life with a roar.
She lit the candle. The flame danced for a beat before settling into a straight line.
Then she lit her sage.
Focused her mind, setting it on her intentions.
Just as she opened her mouth—
“ANNIE!”
It was like the air left the room.
Annie didn’t react right away, though she let out a sharp, exasperated breath through her nose.
Aunt Della’s shriek had cut right through the smoke of the sage and the peaceful moment she was trying to conjure for herself.
She took another deep breath, licked her thumb and index finger, and snuffed out the wick.
I'll finish it later, she thought to herself.
She padded to the bathroom to wash up, the hallway quiet save for a random cough and the shuffling of drawers. Downstairs, Aunt Della was rolling a bundle of herbs in the kitchen, the fragrant smell of thyme, collard greens, and cornbread filling the air.
“Stir them beans for me please, sweet girl.”
Annie slipped on an apron and grabbed a wooden spoon, the rich, velvety aroma of beans floating upwards, steam curling through the air like incense from the cast iron pot.
“A travelin’ preacher sent word he needs a place to stay next week,” Aunt Della murmured, rolling the bundle of herbs slower now, the leaves crackling under her palms. “From Texas.”
“Oh?” Annie asked, feigning interest.
“Mhmm. Young man, too. We’ll take him to the church picnic. You can meet some nice young ladies your age there.”
Annie’s lips curved a fraction. She turned from the pot, facing her aunt. “Some nice young ladies?” She said sarcastically. “You really want me goin’ to that party, huh? Why?”
Aunt Della let her words hang in the air for a moment. Then—
“I think you really gon’ wanna go to that party. Twins gon’ be there.”
Annie scoffed. “So you want me to show up with the twins so them folks can talk about me like a dog, too?”
“Listen,” Aunt Della replied, tone playful. “I seen the way y’all was lookin’ at each other last night.”
Annie froze.
“Mhmm. I noticed,” Aunt Della continued. “Smoke ain’t a man of many words, but I’ve known him long enough to know when he actin’ a lie.”
Annie huffed.
“I met them two when they was schemin’ to keep themselves alive. They daddy was too drunk to meet his quota. Spent all the money he did have on liquor and loose women.”
“Really?”
“Mhmm. Stack tried to run a scheme on your Uncle Lester at the train station. He was good too, but he was no match for a young girl from New Orleans who grew up with a gang of schemin’ ass tricksters for brothers,” she said with a chuckle.
“Smoke only like two things enough to chase ‘em— money…and his brother.”
“And as long as that lil’ starin’ contest went on last night, it wasn’t because he saw somethin’ he ain’t like.”
A beat of silence passed. It wasn’t awkward, just loaded with things unsaid and broken open at the same time.
“Now you can go to that party by yourself or with somebody you meet, if that makes you feel better. But if the twins there, you gon’ hardly be alone.”
The next morning moved fluidly, but the air still felt different— thinner, more charged.
Annie was up before the church bell again, everything quickly falling into a routine.
Breakfast.
Serve, scrape, pile, wash, rinse.
Tend the garden, do the laundry, do her roots—alone or with Aunt Della.
Dinner was almost the same as breakfast, but the stomachs they fed were hungry from a long day’s work, not sleep. So the task was harder. The food, heavier, simmered longer.
A small window of time for herself before she bathed and went to sleep.
Then wake up and do it all again.
On Tuesday, the iceman came. White man—different kinda white though, Aunt Della claimed. He topped off their icebox, tipped his hat when he left and called them both ma’am. Left with a small brown package that Aunt Della slipped in his pocket, too. Annie filed that away for later.
By Wednesday, Annie was starting to know the coffee orders of the lodgers who stayed late for breakfast and headed to the sawmill shortly after. Shorty, Terry, and Joe. Terry had a glass eye— said something about an accident he had as a kid, but she swore she heard him mumble twins under his breath. She filed that away too.
Thursday felt like a break from the monotony of routine. A man showed up at their door that afternoon— tall, dark hair to his shoulders and deep, dark eyes. He called himself Chayton, a member the Choctaw tribe. He took them foraging in wooded area outside of town, where he showed Annie what to look for and what to avoid. How much to take and how much to leave. What soil feeds and what soil rots.
“The yield may change,” he said matter-of-factly, like he knew was saying something Annie already felt in her gut. “But the land still speak the same no matter where you go.”
By the end of the week, Annie found herself drifting further down Fourth than she meant to.
She didn’t end up in front of one of her usual stops, or the place where Aunt Della had sent her with a long grocery list.
That was next door.
She stopped just short of Chow’s, drawn in by the clink of forks and the low hum of conversation.
The sign outside said Blackbird Café.
The air inside here was warm, or maybe it just felt that way. Like the atmosphere held onto people a little longer than it should.
Diners sat in booths and at the counter, lingering long after their meals were done, plates pushed aside—but no one in a real hurry to leave.
Laughter drifted from table to table, folding into the low clatter of the kitchen in the back.
Music slipped in the back door that always stayed cracked open, sometimes from the jukes, sometimes a lone guitarist on the sidewalk playing for change.
“Afternoon, Miss. Table for one?”
Annie looked around, listened, exhaled sharply. “Actually, I’ll take a seat at the counter if that’s alright.”
“Fine by me, miss. Got a mind to what you want?”
“What’s the lunch special? The 25 cent one.”
“That’s the catfish sandwich.”
“Yes I’ll take that.”
“Coffee? Tea? Water?”
“I’ll take a water, please. With ice if you have it.”
“Yes ma’am. Gon’ have a seat.”
Annie sat at a booth close to the kitchen, its half door swinging once then stopping as the server stepped through it.
“Hot in here,” a man next to her remarked, fanning himself with his hat.
Annie glanced to her side. “Sho’ is,” she said politely. “Hotter out there.”
He was older, bald, bottom row full of silver teeth.
He took a sip of his drink, cleared his throat. “You new ‘round here?”
“Yes, sir. Miss Della’s niece.”
“Oh, you don’t say?” He chuckled, leaning back in his stool.
“What you doin’ over there?”
Annie sighed. “Cookin’. Supper mostly, and I help out with breakfast.”
“What you cook?”
“Gumbo. Shrimp stew. Fried catfish. Red beans and rice. Anything.”
“New Orleans food, huh?”
Annie nodded emphatically. “Yes sir.”
“Well,” he said, pushing back from the counter. “If she could spare you…need some help ‘round here.”
“What kinda help?”
“Cookin’. Waitin’ tables. Few hours. Few days a week.”
Annie paused, looking around then back to the man. She raised a brow. “You the owner?”
He popped a toothpick in his mouth. “Sho am.”
She nodded again, a smile growing on her face. “Let me ask my aunt and I’ll get back to you. Mister…”
“Hightower. Luther Hightower.”
Annie thought for a moment while the server placed her food in front of her. “Monday afternoon, Mr. Hightower?”
He patted the counter then offered his hand out to shake, which Annie returned. “See you then.”
Annie beamed. A job? A real one? She’d never had that before. Just tidied shelves in her grandmother’s shop. Helped out with cooking sometimes.
Never earned her own money. Just scrip from picking cotton in Algiers— but even that went to the family. They weren’t a well off Creole family like the ones in the Seventh, but she and her siblings never wanted for anything. A roof over their head, food in their bellies. Clothing that fit most of the time. That’s all they needed. But then again, she hadn’t been anywhere else to know what she needed if she saw it. And everything she’d heard about didn’t sound like anything she’d want any part of.
She’d overhear white folks in town talking about going to the theater. Traveling to different states for fun. Ordering from a catalog.
That didn’t grab her attention.
If she had the money she’d help people who couldn’t help themselves. The ones too weak to work. Too sick. Mothers with kids whose daddies stepped out on them.
Annie took a bite of her catfish sandwich. Almost heaved. It was half-done on the inside, too done on the outside. She cleared her throat slowly.
Yeah, she needed to talk to Aunt Della tonight. This place could use—no. This place needed a woman like her.
The late afternoon heat was a tangible thing.
Once Annie stepped out of Blackbird she felt it, thick, damp, and unrelenting— the kind of heat that made stepping outside feel like walking into the devil's own breath.
She immediately sought the relief only Chow’s Grocery could give her. She was there primarily to grab a few things for Aunt Della, but also for the air. Mostly for the air. The Chow’s new cooling system had people flocking to the store just to stay out of the heat.
Anywhere else felt like a stove, but the Chow’s felt like an icebox.
She approached the store and paused at the threshold. It wasn’t as busy as she expected. That was her second sign that today was different from the others.
When she stepped inside, the familiar hum of the system was absent. Large fans ticked slowly overhead, but instead of slicing through the heat they just moved it around. Annie fanned herself with her grocery list, the effort futile.
“Afternoon, Miss Annie.” Charles and Bo Chow said from behind the counter.
“Afternoon Mr. Chow. Bo.”
Bo was Charles Chow’s son. Tall with olive-colored skin and dark, shiny hair, he always greeted Annie with a welcoming grin.
“How you feelin’ today, Annie?” Bo asked with a smirk.
“Hot! What happened to that cooling stuff y’all got?” Annie exclaimed, gesturing at the thin layer of sweat at her collarbone.
“One of the lines got tripped by a mule over at the sawmill. Gotta wait for county to come fix it. Reckon it’ll take a few weeks.”
“Ugh!”
“Sorry, Miss Annie. Here go a fan.” Bo stepped out from behind the counter and handed Annie a cardboard fan, appreciation quickly spreading on her face.
“Thank you, Bo. How you be?”
“I’m good. Grace good. Lil’ Lisa too.”
“Lisa,” Annie inhaled. “Beautiful name. How she?”
“She’s a light. Barely cry. Sleep when we do. Just peaceful.”
“That’s a blessin’.”
Bo rubbed Annie gently on the side of the arm. “Sho’ is,” he reflected, pausing for a beat. “Anything I can help you with?”
“I think I got it Bo, thank you.”
“If you need me,” he said, walking away, “just holler!”
Annie smiled warmly then looked down at the list Aunt Della gave her: coffee, pig’s feet, salt fish, cornmeal, beans, buttermilk, and lard. She wiped the sweat off her brow with the hem of her dress and moved deeper into the store.
She was turning down the aisle with dry goods when the bell above the door jingled. It opened fully, the sweltering Mississippi air coming in with it. Annie fanned herself harder.
Smoke stepped inside Chow’s with a mind to grab his smokes and leave.
Until he saw her.
Her back was turned, but he knew that figure like it was a buried memory. Tall, long legs, curvy hips, soft waist. Luminous skin, smooth, like melted chocolate. Thick coiled hair, pinned in a tight bun at her neck.
“Smoke!” Bo said, clapping him on the shoulder. His voice lowered. “Got that special blend in. That New Orleans smoke you like.”
Smoke’s mouth curved a fraction. “My man,” he replied, his eyes flicking behind Bo for half a second as he guided them to the counter. “How's fatherhood treatin’ you?”
“It’s…” Bo said as he wrote in his ledger book. “It’s different. But it’s good, man. Just got finished talkin’ to a lady who called it a blessin’. And that’s exactly how it feel. Stores doin’ well. Grace’s whole family here helpin’ her with the baby. Let her rest some. Can’t ask for more than that.”
“Speakin’ of stores,” he continued, voice just above a whisper. “I heard y’all just came back from Memphis. How that go?”
“Went good—aw shit, that reminds me,” Smoke said, sliding a small package from his pocket across the counter. His voice dropped a fraction. “Brought you back somethin’. This honey whiskey.”
Bo whistled low. “How much I owe you for this?”
“Nothin’ this time,” Smoke said, looking around the store. “Just need you to settle a tab for me and we good.”
Annie walked up the aisle with her basket in tow, half the groceries on her list in it. She bent over to grab a sack of beans when a shadow suddenly darkened her path. When the air in front of her shifted, her breath hitched.
Smoke.
“Afternoon, Miss Annie,” he greeted, voice deep but even.
She stood up slowly, beans temporarily forgotten on the shelf.
He looked rugged but put together. A subtle contrast that made her mouth go dry.
He wore dark trousers, clean and pressed. A navy shirt, ironed neatly but mended in places. Suspenders that smoothed over the tension that lived in his shoulders. Worn work boots. And a hat that all but hid the quiet sharpness in his eyes as he met her gaze.
He stood tall in front of her. Even though he only had her by a few inches, his presence made him tower.
Annie looked at his hands that flexed every so often where they hung at his sides. The way he held his face. The slight furrow in his brow— something his brother didn’t have.
His boots shifted slightly on the floorboards— like he wanted to move closer but thought better of it.
Annie nodded politely. “Afternoon, Mr. Smoke.”
“Smoke,” he corrected, taking off his hat. “Just Smoke.”
She nodded again, just once. “Smoke.”
Annie straightened her posture, causing her chest to lift. Smoke’s eyes dropped to it for half a second, then flicked back up—like the slip was involuntary.
“You Miss Della’s girl,” he said. Not a question.
Annie readjusted her grasp on her hand basket. “Yes.”
“…From New Orleans.”
“Yes.”
“You here…long?”
“A while.”
He nodded once, and let out what sounded like a low grunt as he put his hat back on. “Guess I’ll see you then.” He tipped the brim and turned, disappearing down the aisle.
“Guess so,” Annie muttered quietly, mostly to herself.
She cleared her throat and looked down at what was left on her shopping list. Beans. Peppers. Lard.
The beans went first from the shelf, their sack small but dense. Buttermilk was next, she poked and prodded through the icebox for the best looking jug. The lard sat in a canister on a high shelf by the flour and baking soda.
Too high.
She reached her right arm up just to test the distance. Missed. She paused, stopping to look around. The shop was bustling with patrons, but her aisle was empty. Not a worker, not a ladder, not even a tall stranger in sight. She exhaled sharply, setting her basket and purse down on the floor.
Annie got on her tiptoes this time and reached again, arm stretching just a bit higher. Her fingers brushed the edge of the canister, then stilled.
Not because she was losing her balance.
But because something was touching her.
She slowly looked over.
He had come up behind her without a sound.
His hand, large, calloused, and warm, covered hers where it rested against the wood of the shelf.
His other hand was planted firmly on her waist, right where the fabric of her dress curved to her hip bone, preventing her from tipping over to the left.
He smelled of tobacco and peppermint— sharp, clean, with an edge.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Smoke’s fingers didn’t tighten. Didn’t pull away. They just stayed like he hadn’t registered the touch yet.
Or maybe he had— just a beat too late.
Annie didn’t snatch her hand back. Didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. She just stood there. Feeling it.
Smoke exhaled quietly, like something had just caught up to him. His hand shifted slightly against hers.
And that’s when it clicked.
Where he was.
What he was doing.
Who he was doing it to.
But even then— he didn’t pull away. At least not right away.
He finally lifted his hand and reached past her, taking the canister down like that had been the point all along. He set the item in her basket, then lowered his mouth to her ear.
“Could’ve asked me,” he said, voice low but rough with something she couldn’t name.
He lingered there for a moment, hand still on her hip, words settling deep in her chest. Then he slipped down the aisle just as quietly as he came, and out the front door where the shop bell rang dully overhead.
Annie let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding in.
She stood there in the aisle. In the aftermath. In the subtle pressure he had left there. Her basket hung heavy on one arm, her purse wrapped tightly around the other. But she couldn’t even feel the weight.
His words, the way he said them, sent a shiver down her spine and made something pool low in her belly. She could still feel his touch. His hands. His palms. His heat. His stillness.
She straightened up and walked towards her counter, but her steps felt too slow, like she was wading knee-deep in river water.
By the time she got there, he was gone. No sign of him around. Out the window. On the sidewalks. But she could still feel him, his voice, his words. Like a sensation humming underneath her skin.
She set her basket on the counter without a word, still underwater.
“Miss Annie?” Bo asked.
“Sorry,” she replied as she came back to herself. “How much I owe?” She asked, digging into her coin purse.
“Nothin’,” Bo replied. “Tab settled.”
Annie’s brows raised. “Sorry?”
“It’s settled,” Bo said, watching her face.
A beat passed. “You enjoy your afternoon, now.”
He came around the counter, handing her the basket of groceries.
“NEXT!”
The air felt cooler when Annie stepped out of Chow’s Grocery and onto the sidewalk, like the heat before she stepped inside was all in her head. Her feet felt lighter as she made her way to the boarding house, her steps steady but slow.
Aunt Della sat on the rocking chair outside with a fan of her own and a jar of sweet tea, condensation beading on the glass. She had half dozed off, her soft snores hidden under the noise coming from the house.
“Was startin’ to think you wandered back to New Orleans,” she croaked.
“Nah. Just made a few extra stops,” Annie trailed off.
Aunt Della sit up from her sleep-induced slouch. “Yeah?”
“Mhmm.”
“Where you go?”
“Just one place,” Annie said quickly. “Bo sends his best. Say they named they lil’ girl Lisa. She a light.”
Aunt Della narrowed her eyes. “I asked you a question, young lady.”
Annie paused.
“I stopped at Blackbird for lunch.”
Her eyes warmed. “How was lunch?”
“Catfish was soggy. Mr. Hightower offered me a job. Cornbread was flat—“
“Hold up,” Aunt Della interrupted. “He offered you a job at Blackbird?”
“Yeah.”
“Cookin’?”
“And waitressin’.”
Aunt Della’s eyes went narrow again. “How often?”
“Few times a week. Few hours a day.”
Aunt Della’s face softened. “Hmm. It’d get you out the house and around people your age. How you feel about it?”
“Oh auntie,” Annie said emphatically, rushing to her aunt’s side. Her basket sat at the top of the steps, forgotten. “I really want to. I never earned my own money before.”
“What you gon’ do with it?”
“Save it.”
“For what?”
“To get a shop…like grandma’s.”
Aunt Della moved a curl that fell in front of Annie’s eyes in her excitement, tucking it behind her ear.
“What you think? You think it’s a good idea?”
“I think…” she said, looking off, “whatever comes to your mind ain’t for no reason.”
Annie blinked at her aunt, her eyes held an innocence she wanted to protect and a curiosity she wanted to let linger. “So I have your blessin’?”
Aunt Della looked at Annie with a smile as bright and warm as the sun that hung at its highest in this very moment. “‘Course you do, sweet girl.”
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