Normal stuff. Boring stuff. Beautiful, precious, regular degular boring stuff that I used to pray he’d get to worry about instead of all the grown folk trauma I’d been dumping on his shoulders.
Prime listened. Asked questions. Gave advice when Yusef wanted it, backed off when he didn’t. He was so natural with my nephew—patient and firm at the same time, pushing him to be better while making it clear he was safe enough to mess up.
Like a father should be.
Like the father Yusef never had.
After dinner, Yusef helped me clear the table and load the dishwasher—his idea, not mine, which nearly made me check his temperature because WHO was this responsible child and what had he done with my nephew? Then he disappeared to his room claiming homework, but we both knew he was about to be on that phone for the next three hours.
I let it slide. The boy deserved a normal night.
Prime and I ended up on that massive sectional, some movie playing on the TV that neither of us was really paying attention to. I was curled into his side like a cat, his arm around my shoulders, my head against his chest. I could hear his heartbeat—slow and steady, the same rhythm that had been lulling me to sleep every night for the past week.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table.
I reached for it lazily, expecting a text from Cookie about scheduling or maybe Mehar wanting to talk more about everything we’d missed in each other’s lives.
But it was Brandi’s name lighting up the screen.
Every muscle in my body went rigid at the same time.
I sat up so fast I almost gave myself whiplash, and Prime noticed immediately because of course he did. Man noticed everything.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Brandi.” I stared at the phone like it was a snake about to bite me. “She’s calling.”
“Answer it.”
I took the deepest breath my lungs could manage and picked up. “Hello?”
“Hey, Zahara.” Brandi’s voice sounded like someone had taken sandpaper to it. Raw. Worn down to the bone. But there was something steadier underneath it than the last time we talked. “Sorry for calling so late. I just… I wanted to let you know. The funeral is Friday.”
My heart dropped straight through the floor and kept going.
“Okay,” I heard myself say.
“It’s at Greater Hope Baptist over on MLK. Eleven o’clock.” She paused, and I could hear her trying to hold herself together. “I know this is a lot to ask. I know it’s hard. But… Yusef was Nigel’s best friend. They was so close. It would mean everything to me if he could be there. I think Nigel would’ve wanted that. For his boy to say goodbye.”
I closed my eyes and tried to breathe through the wave of nausea rolling through me.
His boy. His best friend. The same best friend who’d been bullied and tortured by her “sweet angel” for months. The same best friend who finally snapped and put a bullet in him behind their building.
And now I was supposed to dress that child in his Sunday best and march him into a church to mourn the person he killed? Make him sit there and listen to people talk about what a good kid Nigel was? Watch him try to hold himself together while guilt ate him alive from the inside out?
What if he broke down? What if he couldn’t handle it? What if he opened his mouth and the truth just fell out right there in front of everybody—the family, the pastor, God himself?
What if Zoo was there, watching, looking for any sign of who was responsible for his son’s death?
This was a nightmare. An actual waking nightmare that I couldn’t wake up from.
But what was I supposed to say? No, sorry Brandi, we can’t make it because the boy you want to comfort is actually the reason you’re burying your child?
“Yeah.” My voice came out way steadier than I felt, which honestly deserved some kind of award. “Yeah, of course. We’ll be there. Absolutely.”
“Thank you, Z.” Her voice cracked and I could hear the tears breaking through. “Thank you so much. You don’t know what that means. You really don’t.”
“Of course, girl. We’re here for you. Whatever you need.”
