“I’m just sayin’,” Antwan pressed. “You sound like you smiling while saying her name in your head.”
“I didn’t even say her name.”
“You ain’t have to, cuh.”
Zaire laughed again, covering his face. “Her name Meadow.”
“Ooh,” Antwan coaxed. “That’s a wife name.”
Zaire threw his head back. “Cuh, chill.”
“What?” Antwan argued. “Meadow sound like a woman with edges laid, a good attitude, and a cast iron skillet she don’t play about.”
Zaire couldn’t stop laughing. “She do got a skillet and attitude.”
“Aha! I knew it.”
“It ain’t like that,” Zaire tried again. “She just…be making it easier to breathe.”
Antwan stilled on the other end. The line went quiet for a few seconds.
“You hold onto people like that,” he skillfully advised. “Not too tight. Just…don’t push ’em off when life gets loud.”
Zaire nodded, his neck going taut.
“You hear me?” his father added.
“Yeah,” Zaire whispered. “I hear you.”
“Good, and bring me a plate when you come visit. I want whatever she cooks.”
Zaire smiled into his hands. “She can cook.”
“I knew it.”
They sat on the phone for another few minutes sharing light banter, teasing and updates. The kind of call that patched holes in the soul without being dramatic about it.
Finally, the automated voice cut in.
You have thirty seconds remaining.
“Alright, young king,” Antwan said. “Take care of yourself. And take care of that girl you not dating.”
Zaire snorted. “Bye, Pops.”
“Love you, son.”
“Love you too.”
The line clicked dead.
Zaire lowered the phone and stared at the ceiling again, chest warm and eyes a little wet.
He didn’t feel as heavy…didn’t feel as alone.
Meadow.
Her laugh.
