Women always did this. Chose men who looked good on paper or felt good in the moment, then acted like victims when those men turned out to be exactly who they’d always been.
Zahara wasn’t any different. She’d chosen Meech, let him knock her up, and now she was paying for it. Working dead-end jobs, struggling to feed her kid, living in a tiny apartment in the hood while Meech sat in a cell upstate.
Her choices. Her consequences.
So why the fuck did I leave those groceries?
I took another sip of cognac, letting it burn down my throat. The cigar lounge was quiet tonight, just a few older men in the corner playing dominoes, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. Rashid would be here soon. He’d want an update. Want to know if I’d handled the situation with Zahara, if she’d agreed to bring Yusef to the prison on Saturday.
She had. Because I’d made sure she understood she didn’t have a choice.
But I hadn’t told Rashid about the groceries. Didn’t plan to. Because how would I explain it? How would I explain standing in her kitchen, seeing the empty cabinets, and feeling something twist in my chest? How would I explain those trophies making me think of a fat kid with a stutter who loved music but learned to love violence instead?
I couldn’t.
“You look tense, baby.”
Destiny’s voice cut through my thoughts before I saw her. She materialized at my table like she always did, all curves and confidence, her bartender uniform doing nothing to hide what she was working with. Honey-brown skin, long braids pulled back into a high ponytail, lips painted a deep burgundy that I knew tasted like cherries and trouble.
She set a fresh glass of the family’s liquor in front of me, even though I hadn’t ordered it. “On the house. You look like you need it.”
“I’m good,” I said, but I took the drink anyway.
“Mmm-hmm.” She leaned against the table, her hip cocked, eyes traveling over me in a way that was anything but subtle. “You always say you’re good. Even when you’re not.”
Destiny and I had history. I’d hit occasionally when I was in town, but didn’t give much else.
“I got a meeting here,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “Business.”
“So you got time before they shows up.” She traced a finger along the edge of my glass. “When you gonna stop playing hard to get, Prime? We both know how this ends.”
“It already ended.”
“Did it?” She smiled, slow and knowing. “Because last I checked, you still got my number. Still text me when you need me late at night.”
“That was once.”
“Three times. But who’s counting?” She straightened up, but didn’t move away. “Look, I’m not trying to pressure you. I know you got your whole ‘I don’t do relationships’ thing going on. But we’re good together. You know we are.”
“Destiny—”
“I know, I know.” She held up her hands. “You’re not ready. You got shit to figure out. You need space.” She said it like she’d memorized my excuses. “But I’m just saying, whenever youareready? I’m here.”
“You shouldn’t wait for me.”
“I’m not waiting.” She leaned down, her lips close to my ear, her perfume wrapping around me. “I’m just… keeping the option open. For both of us.”
Then she was gone, walking back to the bar with a sway in her hips that she knew I was watching.
I downed half my drink and tried to refocus.
But my mind drifted to Destiny’s words.Whenever you’re ready.
I wasn’t ready. Didn’t know if I’d ever be ready. Relationships required things I didn’t have; softness, vulnerability, trust. All the shit Grandma Rita had tried to teach me while Vivica beat it out of me and the streets finished the job.
Destiny deserved better than what I could give her. They all did.
The TV mounted above the bar caught my attention. On the local news was my mother, standing at a podium with the DC skyline behind her, looking every bit the polished politician she’d become.
