Page 33 of When Love Takes Root

Not tough.

Not calculating.

Wide.

“Please, man,” Kacey said, voice cracking. “Siah, please. I messed up. I messed up, bro.”

“You were never my brother.”

Domonique sobbed behind me. “Josiah, stop.”

I didn’t look at her.

Kacey’s knees bent slightly, his body folding before I even decided what to do with him. “Please. On everything, please. Don’t do this. Don’t do this to me.”

He clawed at my wrist again, not fighting now, bargaining with fingers that kept slipping against my hand. I shifted my weight, and he flinched so hard his head bumped the wall. The sound did something to the room. Took the air out of it. Took the performance out of him. He was trembling beneath my hand, all that envy and slick talk reduced to breath, blood, and begging.

I leaned close enough for him to feel my breath and low enough for Domonique to stop crying so she could hear me.

“I did three years behind somebody else’s choices,” I said. “You won’t get another day out of me.”

He swallowed so hard I saw his throat move.

My fist was still curled in his shirt.

My other hand was open.

That was the hand that saved me.

Pops stood in that open hand. Mama’s face stood there too. County glass. The phone cord twisted around my fingers. Pops saying, “Hear me with your life.”

I released Kacey so suddenly he slid down the wall and caught himself on one knee. He stayed there, breathing like the floor had mercy in it. Domonique whispered my name again, but it came out small, a pretty thing with no power left.

I stepped back.

The room smelled like rain, perfume, candle wax, and betrayal trying to dress itself.

The second punch had been ready. My body had already built it. My shoulder knew the route. My rage had drawn the map. But a man didn’t survive what I survived to let a coward send him back into a cage.

I took one more breath, then another.

“You two can keep the lie,” I said. “I’m taking my peace.”

Kacey didn’t get up until I turned away.

Domonique followed me toward the door, blanket clutched to her chest, voice breaking into pieces. “Josiah, please. I love you. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

I stopped with my hand on the knob and finally looked at her. Her gloss was gone from the center of her bottom lip. Mascara had gathered beneath one eye. She still looked beautiful. That irritated me for one foolish second, how betrayal had not made her ugly, how the outside of a person could remain polished while their choices left glass all over your floor.

“You meant every step that brought you here,” I said.

Then I left.

Juice was the one who came over after. He didn’t ask too many questions. He walked in, saw the watch on the table, saw the picture crooked on the wall, saw the candle on the floor, saw my hands washed clean but still shaking, and started packing my things without a word. That was love too. Not speeches. Not pity. Just a man finding boxes while your life burned behind you.

A few weeks later, Domonique called crying.

By then, I’d blocked her once and unblocked her only because Mama said closure was cheaper than bitterness. Domonique said she was pregnant. Said she didn’t know who the father was. Said the timeline was confusing.