“Are you going to be the one making the repairs?”
He paused, one hand on the doorknob. “Depends. You gonna cuss me out again?”
“If you knock like that again, maybe.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He chuckled before closing the door. I sat there, staring at the closed door. Quae Lo had just left myhouse. I rolled back over to my canvas and grabbed my phone off the counter. Curiosity was getting the best of me. Opening my search engine, I typed in his name.
It only took a second for all his information to be plastered on my screen. JaQuade Washington. Quae Lo. One multi-platinum hit single. Several underground mixtapes. A fan tried to snatch his chain after a club concert, and Quae Lo shot him. Arrest. Trial. Gone. According to the internet, he was released on parole two months ago. There were no interviews, no new music, nothing about how he was now living his life. I didn’t know whether to feel sorry for him or impressed. He was moving forward. A lot of men in his predicament would be too prideful to get a regular nine-to-five after experiencing super stardom, but he wasn’t. I stared at his pictures. Damn, he was fine, and I was already looking forward to when he’d be back.
“Alexa, play Quae Lo,” I called, grabbing my paintbrush and trying to lose myself in the deep, navy-blue paint I was spreading across my canvas. The speakers filled with the upbeat, gritty intro to “Hands on Me.” This wasn’t his big hit single, but an old, local classic before the world knew him. His voice was smooth and gritty, sailing through the room like smoke, latching onto my skin, and making it hard to focus.
I barely found my rhythm before another knock hit my door. It was softer this time. I cursed the part of me that was hoping it was Quae Lo coming back. I rolled over and swung the door open without thinking or taking a second glance.
“Did you forget something—” I stopped short. Here he was again. I looked up at Shawn standing in the doorway like a bad habit I couldn’t kick. Tall, dark skin, fine, and full of the same swagger that used to have me breathless. He held up a takeout bag from my favorite chicken restaurant in one hand, like he knew I wouldn’t close the door on his face if he fed me.
“Hey, no,” he said. “Brought you something to eat.” He stepped inside without waiting for permission. Of course. That was the thing about Shawn. He was so entitled. He never asked, just stepped in and pressed a soft kiss to my cheek before I could protest. I stared at him as he made his way through my house, caught in the rhythm of something I hadn’t quite broken yet. He didn’t ask about my day or how I was feeling. He placed the bag on the counter like a checkmark on a list, then walked straight to my bedroom as if he belonged there.
I closed my eyes and inhaled. Old Noa would’ve called him out, cursed him out, and slammed the door. But I wasn’t her anymore, not fully. Not yet.
“You need to call first!”
“I wanted to surprise you,” he replied, already kicking off his shoes. I followed behind him, rolling into the room slower than I needed to.
“You’re painting more,” he stated as he unzipped his jacket and tossed it aside.
“Trying to.”
“Your work should be in a museum,” he said, voice low and unbothered, as always. “You know, I always enjoyed watching you paint.” He moved closer to me, his cologne brushing against my nose before his hands grazed my body. His compliments used to mean something; now they just felt empty.
“I missed you.” His hands found my waist. The way he lifted me from my chair always felt like charity work, and I hated that.
His fingers brushed the hem of my shirt, eyes lingering like he wanted me to say something, and maybe I should have. Maybe I should’ve said, ‘No. Not today. Not anymore.’ But I didn’t. Because somewhere deep down, I still believed this was all I had. I lay there still, staring at the ceiling as he pulled off my t-shirt and took my nipples in his mouth. I wasn’t present. I was floating out of my body and into the life I wanted; the life Ihad before I was sick; a life where I didn’t feel like a burden; a life where I didn’t settle for half-hearted apologies and exes that meant me no good; a life where someone looked at me and saw me, all of me, including my broken parts and stayed anyway. I let my eyes drift shut as Shawn continued to undress me.
“You know I love you, Noa,” he whispered, and I just nodded my head. This wasn’t love, but it was what I knew, and tonight,… that was enough.
“I’ll call you?—”
I shut and locked my front door behind Shawn before he could finish his sentence. Click. Done. There was no need to pretend that either of us felt anything for the other that wasn’t related to our private parts. Shawn always wanted to act cordial, but in my mind, the less we said to each other, the better. That way, I wouldn’t have to admit how far I’d drifted from the woman I used to be.
Pre-lupus Noa wouldn’t have settled for this. She wouldn’t have let a man who cheated then bailed when things got hard back into her space, let alone her body. But here I was, again, letting my insecurities show their ugly head.
“That was the last time, Noa,” I whispered, like I hadn’t said it before, like maybe this time I actually believed it. I exhaled a deep breath and rolled away from the door. The day was winding down, and I felt every bit of it creeping into my joints. My spine throbbed, and my shoulders were stiff as a board. The ache had crept in somewhere during Shawn’s deep strokes to myabdomen, but I’d pushed through it like I always did. This illness was not about to stop me from getting my needs met.
“Needs met! What needs?” A bitter laugh escaped my lips as I stopped in the middle of the room to just sit there. I let my hands rest on my knees as I inhaled and exhaled a few deep breaths. My eyes drifted around the room to the paintbrush I’d abandoned earlier. It still sat where I left it, beside my easel, dried up and useless now. The spark I had earlier was gone. All I wanted to do was grab my phone, roll into bed, and scroll through social media until sleep came, maybe even throw up some of my work on my artist IG page.
I rolled over to the table where my phone sat face up, like it had been waiting for me to return. As soon as I touched the screen, it lit up. The search engine was still open to where I left off before the knock that derailed my day.Quae Lo. My thumb hovered over the thumbnail of Quae Lo’s old video, and before I could think about it, I was tapping the screen to press play.
Quae Lo “Money Up” — Official Videoflashed across my screen. It was seven years old, the song that had the streets and clubs jumping before he got locked up. I stared at the screen as I used one hand to roll toward my bedroom. The beat dropped hard and fast, all bass. I smirked without meaning to. I’d watched this video a dozen times in the past, even had this song on repeat back when I could still dance without checking my energy levels every couple of minutes.
“Money up… Money up… Money up!” Quae Lo’s voice echoed through my phone speakers.“Y’all niggas done fucked up. Y’all let me get my money up!”
He swaggered onto the screen, shirtless, with several gold chains around his neck, a haze of smoke behind him. A girl in a thong strutted past the camera, another grinding on him like they were on stage. I shook my head as money floated down thescreen like rain. I couldn’t believe that seven years ago, this was one of my favorite videos.
“Got my money up, flipped it twice—yeah, I did that. Niggas ain’t on shit. I’ll take they life. I don’t pray, bitch. I roll the dice—yeah, I did that. If she’s bad, she gettin’ a flight. And if I want it? Fuck it—what’s the price?”
I laughed low in my throat, singing along with the lyrics. He was every inch of a reckless, pretty-boy stereotype. I stared at him as he bopped across my screen. Under all the money, clothes, and hos, I saw him. I couldn’t stop thinking about the version of him that had stood in my living room earlier—a hoodie, boots, and sawdust on his hands. That man didn’t smile for the camera; he barely smiled at all, but he saw me. He saw my wheelchair, my clutter, and my attitude, and he didn’t flinch, didn’t offer sympathy, and didn’t try to make small talk to fix the awkwardness. He was quiet, maybe even a little annoyed, but he didn’t look away.
Maybe that’s why I couldn’t get him out of my head. Quae Lo had been buried but didn’t stay down. He didn’t wait for the world to hand him his old life back. He moved on to something new. The fact that he went from rap star to construction boots and still showed his face around the city was honorable. He didn’t move like he pitied himself, and after all this time, all this pain, I didn’t realize how much I craved that—moving through life without feeling pity for myself. Maybe that’s what stuck with me, that quiet strength he displayed and the choice he’d made to keep going, even though his new path looked nothing like his old dream.
