“Saint at the funeral like he was carryin’ Sal’s ghost.”
“Mayor’s boy got his hand in it, bet that.”
“Debts don’t stop at the casket; they get passed on like rent.”
I stiffened, jaw grinding. Secrets traveled faster than food in this city. I leaned across the table, lowered my voice.
“You hear that?”
Nova’s hazel eyes lifted, wide, haunted. She nodded once, small.
I reached out, tapped the table with one finger. “Listen to me. You keep your head down, your mouth shut, and your baby close. Streets gon’ chew on Ro and spit him back out. Don’t let them use you to get to him.”
Her lip trembled. “But what if I still…” She stopped herself, pressing her palm flat over the chain.
I cut her off before the tears could spill. “Ain’t no ‘what if.’ You made vows. Stand on ‘em. Don’t matter what shade Saint standin’ under you, don’t matter if Ro walk in with all that history drippin’ off him. You decide who gets your peace. And baby, don’t hand it to nobody who ain’t earned it.”
The fryer popped, kids at the back booth laughed too loud, and the gossip at the counter thinned down into whispers. But right there, in that booth, it was just me and her.
“You ain’t alone, Nova Rae,” I told her, voice soft but firm. “Don’t let the storm tell you different.”
Nova’s eyes glossed over, lashes heavy. She traced the rim of her coffee mug, breathing like every sip she wanted to take carried a decision with it. I knew that look. Woman torn between history and survival. I’d worn that mask myself.
“Nova,” I stated, voice low but sharp, “you gotta stop lettin’ ghosts eat off your plate. Ro back, yeah. Saint lurkin’, yeah. But at the end of the day, it’s you and that baby girl. Ain’t no man out here worth you losing your damn mind for.”
She pressed her lips together, shoulders folding like she’d been holding a scream. “I don’t even know what’s real anymore.”
I leaned forward, dropped my rag flat on the table. “What’s real? That little girl in your arms every night. That ring on your chest every day. The rest? Noise. And baby, I know noise when I hear it—I been married to noise for years.”
For a moment she cracked, laugh short and bitter. I reached across, squeezed her hand. My skin rough from grease and bleach, hers soft but trembling. “I’m with you, Rae. Don’t forget it.”
Before she could answer, the front door swung wide with a clang! of the bell. A blast of street air rushed in—smelling of wet asphalt and exhaust. And in he came…Toothpick Tony, oversized tee hanging past his knees, flannel half-buttoned, camcorder strapped across his chest like he was channeling Spielberg with food stamps.
“Ladies, ladies, ladies,” he crooned, toothpick bobbing between words. “Did I just walk into an episode of As the Hood Turns?”
Nova rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might stay stuck. “Tony, don’t start.”
He slid right into the booth beside her like he paid rent there, slapping his palms on the table. “Don’t start? Girl, I already been started. Y’all sittin’ here lookin’ like a funeral reunion spin-off, and I’m just tryna direct the pilot.”
I snorted, even though I wanted to stay mad. “Tony, ain’t nobody want your bootleg DVD series.”
He grinned wide, toothpick twitching with every syllable. “Shoot, the streets do. I keep y’all legends alive. Tell it raw, no cut. Y’all gon’ thank me when VH1 calls in ten years.”
Nova tried to stifle a laugh, but it slipped through, soft and cracked. I watched her shoulders ease a notch. Tony didn’t even know the gift he carried, acting the fool just enough to let a woman breathe.
I wiped the counter clean of crumbs, shook my head. “Tony, go order before I toss you back out with that rainwater you dragged in.”
“Order? Girl, you already know my order.” He leaned back, throwing his arms out. “Three-piece dark, extra hot sauce, Kool-Aid red enough to stain my soul.”
Nova finally chuckled, low and warm. Her hand lingered at her chain again, but her eyes softened.
And I thought—yeah. Sometimes, even in the middle of debts and whispers and ghosts, God sends a clown to keep you upright.
Tony tore into his chicken like the man hadn’t eaten in three days, juices shining across his chin, toothpick waiting on deck. He chewed loud, talked louder, and somehow still managed to grin at Nova like he was doing her a favor.
“So lemme ask y’all—” he pointed a drumstick at us like it was a microphone, “that Saint dude? He always been that smooth or he practiced in the mirror?”
Nova stiffened; I caught it. Her eyes cut away, back to her coffee.
