“Not the same thing. You’re not going to fix this thing with Lot by charming her. Just be straight. Tell her you miss her friendship and want to understand what went wrong.”
“Grovel?” He kisses his teeth. “Yeah, that ain’t my style. She’s the one who shut me out. Just like that.” He snaps his fingers. “If anyone should be making shit right, it’s her fine ass, not mine.”
“Okay, play it that way. Hang onto some macho bullshit. But how’s that going to be if her father needs surgery? In case you missed that detail, she could end up being your boss.”
“Shiiit. Lot has no interest in Docks. You know it, and I know it. Maurice should be putting me in charge.”
“Maybe if you didn’t fuck his customers, he would.”
“No one’s complained,” he fires back, grinning like the cocky bastard he can sometimes be.
“That’s not the point. Sex and business don’t mix, especially if you want Maurice to see you as a potential leader.”
“That dude is just a judgmental asshole. Lot doesn’t get on with him either. Why do you think she left and hasn’t been home in over five years?”
“Yeah, but she’s back now.”
“For her mother.”
“She’s still back. So, don’t be a dick.”
I check my phone again. Still nothing from either of the women in my life. The pressure building from all the unanswered questions is ready to split my skull open.
Miss Arlee comes in, requesting her usual order and an Al Greene song in her kind Southern drawl. I fake a sore throat, hating to disappoint her, but I just can’t muster the energy to sing a damn love song. Not when the one I sang to Lexie had gone so horribly wrong.
After I dropped the L-bomb, I wasn’t one hundred that I’d get the words back, but I didn’t expect that look—fear and horror.Then, the sound of her retching in the bathroom. It would be comical if it weren’t so fucking tragic.
The lunch rush slows to nothing, and I leave the café in Jamar’s hands, walking over to Val and Eva’s. The door’s unlocked in neighborly welcome. Bitsy greets me as I step inside, her furry tail wagging, her jowls dripping slobber. I rub her head and scratch her damp chin.
“It’s just me,” I call out.
“Mijo?” Eva exits the kitchen with a dishtowel slung over her shoulder. “To what do I owe this surprise visit in the middle of the day?” Her response quickly shifts as she takes one look at my face. She doesn’t ask what’s wrong. She just pulls me into a hug, strong and warm, the way my mom used to whenever I was hurting.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she soothes.
I let myself lean into her comfort, into her, the only thing that’s holding me up right now.
Heading home that evening, I’m relieved when I check the app and see Soph made it back. Still, something feels off. She hadn’t called me at the café, which was weird for her. Normally, by now, she’d be in full-on chatter mode, raving about the conference, the dinner, and all the big names she met like they were celebrities. I could use the distraction, even though I can’t stand that corporate bullshit.
When I walk into the house, the first thing I notice is her bag, sitting right by the front door. Sophia has this maddening habit of removing just the essentials and leaving the rest exploded like a landmine all over the floor. I always have to nag her to clean it up. But here it is—untouched.
The second thing is the silence. No shout-out or footsteps racing to greet me. The house feels heavy. Wrong.
I kick off my boots and shrug out of my coat, my stomach churning with unease as I head toward her bedroom. The door is closed, and the light is off. Maybe she’s napping after a late night and the long drive back. But my spidey sense isn’t buying it.
“Soph?” I knock lightly. Nothing. I try again, louder. Still no answer. I jiggle the knob and find it locked. I pound on the wood. “Sophia, open this door.”
There is no answer, and my worry spikes. Forget privacy—I need to know if she’s okay. Grabbing the small screwdriver from the kitchen drawer, I return and pop the lock. The soft click echoes through the quiet. I push open the door and poke my head inside. The light from the hallway spills across the room, catching the shimmer of her silver-threaded comforter. She begged me to buy it for her when she redid her room to match the colors of Beyoncé’s Renaissance tour.
She’s curled on her side, back to me, almost swallowed by the thick covers.
“Soph?” I cross the room to her bed and gently shake her shoulder. Everything I’ve been dealing with takes an immediate backseat to focus on my sister.
“Ughm,” she groans in protest, but it’s faint, none of her fight.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” she mumbles, her voice a shadow of its usual vibrancy. “I’m just tired.”
