The silence stretched long enough for Lesha to arch her brow at him. “Son,” she whispered, “what do you have to lose?”
He didn’t have an answer.
Not a real one at least, just the vain shit and the ego shit that made him feel less of man by running. Niggas from Crescent didn’t run. They faced their shit head on, whether jail, a gun, or the police. They were taught young to never fold.
Dalton spoke again. “Look, young man…greatness is still in you. You just need space to breathe.”
Lesha pointed at the phone, mouthing, ‘This is your sign.’
Zaire exhaled slowly, “Send it.”
“Will do. Good luck, Mr. Cooks.”
Click.
The call ended.
The room went quiet again.
Just Zaire, his mama, and the soft hum of the refrigerator.
Lesha placed her hand on his knee and squeezed. “Baby…you can’t fix your life from a kitchen stool. And you damn sure can’t heal while you watch folks tear you down.”
He stared at the counter, mind racing. “Ma…what if this doesn’t work?”
She tilted his chin toward her, eyes steady and warm. “Then you come home, regroup, and try again. But you not gon’ sit here and rot. You hear me? Men like you don’t rot. They rise.”
Her voice steadied him, soft but carved from steel. Lesha was bred in Crescent too. She’d never been on a plane or left the city before her son started swinging a club and changed their lives. Regardless, she was a hood baby and repped it with pride.
“Pack a bag and get outta here ,” Lesha suggested, standing up and stretching her back, “before those reporters outside figure out you still home. Go where it’s quiet. Go find you.”
Zaire nodded.
Lesha kissed the top of his head. “Now hurry up. I’ll put some food in your bag. You ain’t slept and you ain’t ate. That’s why you over here crashing out.”
Zaire laughed under his breath. “Yes ma’am.”
She walked toward the pantry, grumbling to herself. “Punchin’ people, not eating, not sleeping…you gon’ give me a stroke. Lord, give me strength…”
Zaire watched her, feeling a strange, quiet gratitude settle in his chest.
He didn’t know what Juniper Falls would bring.
He didn’t know who awaited him there.
He didn’t know if he would heal or crumble.
Whatever came from having a quiet place to get himself together, he knew it was better than sitting in the house hiding from the blogs.
“Ican’t believe you’re really leaving me,” Meadow groaned. “What am I supposed to do without you, huh? Who’s gonna tell me when my hair looks crazy?”
“You’re gonna do what you always do…talk too much, look too good, and act like you don’t need nobody,” Tia teased, sipping her cocktail like she hadn’t just roasted her best friend in front of the whole bar.
Meadow was in the city - no more traveling by golf carts, or slow traffic. The city was live andLounging Aroundwas always too lit on a Sunday night. After the week she had, she needed this. That and one last hurray with her girl in the city they swore they would live in one day. They were from Juniper Falls. A small Black town about thirty minutes from Saint Loris, the booming metro area that sat up high in altitude and even higher tax brackets.
Meadow clutched her chest. “That’s crazy disrespectful to say in my time of mourning.”
Tia snorted, “Bitch, please. You act like I died. I’m moving, not disappearing.”
