Seth always had to be the one who got the credit. Everything had to run through him, like he was the only one built to handle real pressure. And maybe that worked for everybody else, but not for me because every time he swooped in like some hood superhero, a part of me wanted to scream “thought we were a family though we were a team” His words not mine.
I should’ve been the one to take Dre out. Stormi’s my sister. She was supposed to be my responsibility. My blood but let a couple niggas with money slide into the picture, suddenly the ones who held you down on them broke days get tossed to the curb like trash nobody claimed.
I sat low in the driver’s seat; my whip tucked in the shadows as I watched Leon’s house. By now, I knew his whole routine it was a script he never bothered to change.
“Old nigga predictable as hell,” I muttered to my boy, fingers drumming the steering wheel.
Every morning it was Sonny’s for breakfast, eggs, grits, and gossip. Then the corner store for a beer and to play his numbers. He’d stay there damn near an hour, chopping it up with the same old heads posted outside since the ‘90s. After that, home. His wife cooked him lunch and dinner, and once he hit that recliner in front of the TV, he barely moved till nightfall. I watched the porch light click on. Right on schedule and my jaw tightened.
He was going to pay for everything he did to Jo, for never being there for Stormi when she needed him most. This wasn’t just revenge. It was proof. Proof to Jo, to Stormi, and to Seth that I could handle shit on my own. That I wasn’t the weak link needing to be saved every time things became out of control.
I leaned forward; eyes locked on the front door.
“Nigga, you said we was goin’ to get some bitches. What the fuck we doin’ here?” my boy whined, twisting in the seat like he was uncomfortable.
I didn’t even look at him at first. My eyes stayed locked on Leon’s house on that porch light that glowed, daring me to enter the home.
“Calm down, nigga,” I finally muttered, voice tight. “I had to check on some shit.”
“Check on what?” he pressed. “I thought bro-in-law handled the problem. Why you watchin’ Leon like you scared to go home?”
Something in my chest pinched. He didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, but it didn’t stop the words from stinging.
“Seth ain’t take care of shit,” I snapped, jaw locking. “I would’ve offed Dre myself if his ass would’ve just listened to me for once. But nah, Seth always gotta be the hero.”
My boy scoffed. “Man, count your blessings havin’ Seth as family. That nigga put everybody on. Look around half the hood only eatin’ ’cause of him.”
I finally turned to him, eyes burning. “Your ass wanna walk back to the crib?”
“Bro, why you so pressed?” he asked, eyebrows raising. “You got serious mommy and daddy issues for real. You mad ’cause your sister got a husband who stand on business about her?”
My breath hitched. Just a little. I hoped he didn’t hear it. “He wouldn’t need to stand on shit,” I muttered, voice cracking around the edges, “if he ain’t put her in that situation in the first place.”
My boy leaned back, folding his arms like he had me figured out. “Shit… I heard you the one that let Dre get close. Heard he played in your face like a big brother just to slide next to Seth and Stormi.”
Something inside me snapped clean in half.
“Ain’t nobody played in my fucking face!” I yelled, my hand already gripping my 9 before my brain caught up. I pointed it right at him, hands shaking; not from rage, but from everything I ain’t ever said out loud.
“Bro, Noah, chill!” he shouted, hands going up. “Damn, you gon’ shoot me ’cause of what the streets saying?”
“The streets been saying shit about me my whole life,” I growled. “Always calling me the weak link, the fuck up, the one Seth gotta save. Man, fuck the streets and fuck you.”
My voice broke mid-sentence. I prayed he didn’t notice. The way his expression softened made my stomach twist. I hated thatlook. That pity look like he could see right through every wall I tried to build.
“Whatever, man,” he muttered, shaking his head as he reached for the door handle. “I’m out. I ain’t about to sit in this whip and watch you stare down some old man do absolutely nothin’.”
He opened the door and stepped out, slamming it shut so hard the rearview mirror rattled. He paused outside the car for a second, like he was waiting to see if I’d call him back or if I’d completely crumble the moment he walked away. But I stayed silent. Too mad.
He finally shook his head again and started walking up the street, shoulders hunched, hands stuffed in his pockets. Each step he took felt like another piece of something breaking off inside me. The car went quiet, and the neighborhood hum slowed. It was just me, the gun resting heavy in my lap, and Leon’s porch light staring at me like it knew.
And for a moment, just a small, painful moment, I wondered if I wanted to kill Leon or if I was trying to prove something to everybody but myself. The engine hummed under me, but all I heard was a memory pulling itself out of the dark.
Stormi was eighteen. I remember because she’d been packing that whole damn week folding jeans, stuffing notebooks into a duffel, trying to act excited while her eyes kept drifting toward me.
I was only five. A baby, really. Thirteen years behind her, trailing after her like her shadow .
Jo was on the couch that morning, half conscious, mumbling at the TV that was playing some 90s tv show. The burnt smell from her pipe still clung in the air. Stormi knelt in front of me,her knees popping softly. She cupped my face in her hands, hands that had done way too much raising for someone barely grown.
