“Girl, yes.” Lesha snapped her fingers like Meadow was slow. “You think he out there in the rain playin’ with fence pieces? Nah. He told ‘em every plan he had while he was half asleep. He wanna turn this place into somethin’ bigger with a proper driving range, a school, spot for kids…something he said gon’ feel like family the minute you walk on the dirt.’”
Meadow stared at her knees, tears collecting so fast she had to blink hard to keep them from falling. “He did all that…this morning?”
“No, he did half of it last night. You was knocked out, baby. He was outside pacing like he was building the ark.”
Meadow covered her face with both hands.
The tears slipped through her fingers anyway.
Lesha sat gently on the edge of the bed, rubbing her back with small patient circles.
Her touch was warm, steady, mother-coded.
“What you cryin’ for?” Lesha cooed softly. “This the good part.”
Meadow shook her head. “It’s too much.”
“No,” Lesha corrected. “It’s exactly what you deserve.”
A sob escaped before Meadow could muffle it.
She leaned into Lesha’s shoulder like her body finally gave up pretending she was fine.
Lesha pulled her close with both arms, humming quietly. One of those old Black woman hums that carried history, comfort, and hope in the same breath.
“He loves you,” Lesha spoke into her hair, “and he ain’t scared of the work that comes with you. That’s rare, baby...that’s precious. Don’t throw that away ‘cause fear whisperin’ in your ear.”
Meadow nodded slowly, tears soaking the collar of Lesha’s sweatshirt.
After a long moment, Lesha patted her leg and stood. “Now,” she said, pointing toward the bathroom, “you get yourself together, and make sure you change them sheets. I know my boy put you through there.”
Meadow choked on a gasp. “Lesha?—!”
“What? Y’all grown!” Lesha grabbed her bag. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a little cardio. But don’t be lettin’ him break the pole before I get a chance to see you spin on it correctly.”
Meadow threw a pillow at her. Lesha dodged it like she used to doing this with Zaire his whole childhood.
“Oh and before I forget,” she added, opening the door, “he sent up breakfast for you.”
Meadow froze. “Sent…breakfast?”
“A whole tray - eggs, bacon, fruit, toast, that little fancy honey butter Ray said you like. He said ‘let her rest today.’ You know how men get when they in that guilt-and-love stew and when you show them your pole work.” She wagged her tongue.
Meadow pressed her palms to her face again.
Lesha smirked. “Mmhmm. That’s what I thought.”
She pointed at the dresser. “Eat…cry…shower. Then come downstairs when you’re ready. Ain’t nobody rushin’ you, though.”
Then she closed the door behind her.
The room fell silent except for Meadow’s heartbeat and the low hum of voices drifting from downstairs — Zaire’s voice among them.
She wiped her face with the back of her hand and sat there a moment, her breathing shallow but getting steadier.
Meadow let her eyes drift around her room, taking in the mess of clothes, the soft glow from the lamp, the cold imprint on the sheets where Zaire must’ve been sitting before he left her to sleep.
It felt unreal, this quiet morning after a storm that should’ve destroyed them but didn’t.
