She nodded even though her skin was on fire and her head was running a mile a minute.
Zaire’s jaw twitched, the smallest movement, but enough to say everything he refused to speak.
Meadow hesitated, just a half-second, right before slipping down into the BMW.
She wanted him to stop her…to grab her hand…to saystay…to sayyou’re mine…to saydon’t go with him.
Again, he didn’t, so she slid into the car with a giddy feeling washing over her. Zaire was who she wanted but Brent was a good runner up. That and she needed a night out. It had been too long since her last one with Tia.
Brent pulled off with a smile on his face like he’d won the girl, not knowing the girl had already been promised to the golfing prince with the funny accent from a far away land.
Zaire stood there just watching. Fists in his pockets, chest rising hard, Ray watching him like a man who knew exactly what heartbreak looked like.
“You okay?” Ray snickered.
Zaire kept his eyes on the end of the driveway. “She really went with him.”
Ray nodded. “She did.”
Zaire whispered, “That’s supposed to be me.”
Ray’s voice softened. “Then go get her.”
Zaire shook his head once. “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because when I come for her,” Zaire’s eyes were dark and certain, “I’m not lettin’ her go back.”
Brent drovewith that lazy confidence Meadow remembered, one hand hanging off the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, knuckles glinting under the passing streetlights. The bass from the music vibrated through the car doors. Meadow sat back in her seat, arms crossed loosely over her chest, wanting to relax but knowing the tension riding her shoulders wasn’t going anywhere tonight.
Brent kept glancing over at her with that half-smile tugging at his mouth every few minutes like he couldn’t help himself. Every time he caught her looking, he’d shake his head and murmur under his breath, “You pretty as hell tonight,” and she’d ignore him but also not really ignore him, because Meadow was human and she hadn’t been adored out loud in a long time.
It wasn’t too long a drive from Juniper to Saint Loris, so it took them no time to get to their destination.
The restaurant was lively in a way Juniper Falls never was— music floating over soft conversation, people dressed like they took pride in being seen, and that warm hum of Black people with money and time and nowhere to be. Brent knew half the damn staff; daps and hugs were exchanged before they were even seated. Meadow felt herself loosen in her chair, not because of Brent specifically, but because it felt good to be out, to be in a room where nobody needed her to fix anything or carry anything. She ordered what she wanted without thinking too hard about the price for once, and Brent cracked jokes through the whole appetizer like he’d made it his personal mission to get her to forget the world existed outside this table.
But the second the TV flickered to a sports segment above the bar, Meadow felt her entire body shift before her brain did. There he was. Blue golf bag slung over his shoulder. Cap low, jaw set, walking with that quiet, heavy energy she recognized now that she’d seen him up close.
Brent noticed the way her eyes locked onto the screen, but he didn’t comment…not immediately at least.
The commentators started talking, voices dripping with the exact condescension Meadow always hated hearing about Black athletes, and they did it with confidence too, like Zaire couldn’t hear them from wherever he’d disappeared to. They questioned his work ethic, his mental strength, his ability to handle pressure. One of them laughed and said the tour would survive without him because“talent that fragile never lasts.”
Meadow’s eyes were stuck to the point she didn’t blink for a long time. Letting out a low breath, she shook her head, and cut into her salmon like the plate offended her. After another condescending line floated down from the TV, she put her fork down and leaned slightly toward the screen.
“I swear y’all talk like he can’t hear you.” She was heated. “Always bringing up ‘pressure’ and ‘mental strength’ like he ain’t made y’all numbers shoot up the second he touched a golf course. He take one damn break and suddenly he weak? Please.” She rolled her eyes with a scoff.
Brent leaned back in his chair, watching her with a grin that wasn’t mocking…just amused. “You got a whole dissertation ready,” he laughed.
“I just don’t like ignorance,” she defended, taking a swallow of her drink. “He’s the best. They know he’s the best. They only talk like this because he’s Black and too good at a sport they ain’t used to sharing.”
The bartender cracked a smile. Brent lifted his glass toward her. “Tell ‘em, baby.”
Baby didn’t feel that good rolling from his lips. It was nice enough though.
Meadow tried to go back to enjoying the food, but it was pointless pretending her mind hadn’t wandered somewhere else entirely. She laughed at Brent’s stories, nodded when appropriate, let herself appreciate the atmosphere, but there was a part of her that felt tugged somewhere deeper, like an invisible hand pulling her attention toward a man miles away.
Brent caught the shift eventually, the quieter breaths between her laughs, the way her eyes kept drifting toward nothing. He tilted his head and studied her for a long second, then shrugged lightly, not offended.
