By the time I turned back, the girls had a table near the window. It was close enough to hear the beautiful teacher and far enough not to keep us from intruding on her group. Reagan already had her essay out, pen moving like she meant business. Reece had her notebook open, pen in hand, posture straight, and eyes focused.
“Forty-five minutes,” I said as I set the drinks and pastry down. “Homework first. Then y’all can talk about whatever you feel like.”
“Yes, sir, Brutha Daddy, sir,” Reece said, smiling.
Reagan muttered something under her breath, but she was already writing.
I leaned against the wall where I could see the whole space. There were two teenaged boys at the pastry case, shouldersbumping, voices rising like they wanted attention, joking too loudly. They caught my eye and dropped their volume right away. The barista gave me a quick nod. I nodded back. No words were needed. I stayed watching. I was always on guard, always on alert, and I wanted peace to stay intact.
My mind kept circling that flyer in my wallet, my girls locked in at the table, that pretty teacher by the window steady with her students, and life placing responsibility in my hands, then testing whether I’d complain or build. I learned early that love can’t live off vibes; it lives on discipline, boundaries, and men who stay alert, loyal, and intentional—even tired. And right there in The Pour House, with my sisters behind me and opportunity in my pocket, something settled in my chest, firm as law. We would be good—not because it was easy, but because I didn’t quit on what I carried.
Reece tapped my arm, taking me from my thoughts. “Can I read you something when I finish this question?” she asked, voice soft, eyes bright with that careful bravery she carried.
“After you finish the homework, yeah,” I said, keeping my tone firm, even though my heart always softened when she asked like that. Reece didn’t demand attention. She offered it up carefully, like a gift you could break if you grabbed too hard. “Handle business first, then we’ll get into your art, baby girl.”
A little later, she slid her notebook to me with both hands, shoulders tucked in. On the page sat a short poem in small, neat handwriting—no frills, no distractions, just truth with weight.
She read it softly over the shop’s noise, but every line hit home. Fear, named with precision. Strength, stated without flexing. Missing our parents in a way that didn’t beg for pity, just recognition. She reached places I never gave her directions to, writing my silence down like she’d been studying it.
My chest cinched, so I bit down on my composure and kept my face calm while my mind flashed hospital-bright and chapel-still. When she finished, she looked up quickly, checking my reaction, waiting, not needy, just brave.
“That’s strong work,” I said when she finished. My throat felt rough. I nodded once, letting her see I meant it.
“I hear you, feel what you’re saying.”
I wanted to say more. I wanted to tell her she just did something grown. She wrote truth without bleeding all over the page. She didn’t flinch from grief; she gave it structure. I didn’t want to overwhelm her. Reece didn’t need a sermon; she needed confirmation.
Her lips pressed together into a small smile, proud but contained. Reagan nudged her shoulder, smug like she called it. “I told you he was gonna like it,” she said.
On the way out, an older man approached the entrance with a cane. I stepped aside and held the door. The bell chimed again as the door opened, and the cool air rushed in, carrying that outside smell. As I held the door, the beautiful teacher near the window looked up. Our eyes met for a brief second. Her gaze was steady, open, unafraid. No staring contest or performance, just awareness. She gave me a small smile, like she saw the girls, saw my stance, my attention, and understood what it meant without needing an explanation. I returned it and kept walking—no conversation, no flirting. My spirit didn’t rush it, nor did it chase. If that path was meant for me, it would show up again. It would circle back. Life had taught me not to force doors. I’d seen what happened when you pushed too hard on something that wasn’t ready to open.
That night, after we ate and the girls finished their assignments, they disappeared to their room to argue over hoodies, boys, and playlists like the world didn’t come with bills and consequences. Their voices traveled down the hall—Reagan loud and animated, Reece firm and calm—two different storms in the same sky. I sat at the dining table with my laptop open.The job posting from the flyer filled the screen, bright white against the dark room.
Head Swim Coach – Self Ridge Senior High School. Requirements. Responsibilities. Salary. Benefits.
I entered my information along with my years at the community center, early mornings, and long evenings. I spilled about my college experience on a full-ride swim scholarship, the championships I won, swim clinics, and my lifeguard certifications. I wrote about building teams and building character and discipline, and not just winning races, because lanes and stopwatches weren’t the only things I coached. I kept my answers straight, just facts, and no begging. Begging wasn’t my language. I’d prayed in private and hustled in public for too long to get on a screen and act helpless.
Every line I typed reminded me of that promise I made in the hospital chapel.Protect them, keep a roof over them, and show up even when I am tired.I thought about the stack of bills on the counter and the way my father’s voice still sat in the back of my head, telling me to be a man they could stand behind. I was halfway through the application when a knock tapped on the door.
“Open up, big bro!” my little cousin Bryce called.
I shook my head before I even stood up and went to let him in. “This dude.”
When I opened the door, Bryce stepped in with a six-pack in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other, smelling like motor oil, cologne, and a long day. He owned his own car garage and worked on cars. It was his passion. His shoulders were tense like he’d been holding stress in the blades. His eyes were bright, though. Bryce always found a way to laugh, even when life was swinging.
“You took long enough. You in here hiding or what?” he asked, closing the door with his foot.
“I got work to do. Responsible citizens got applications to fill out,” I said, heading back to the table.
He followed me and leaned over my shoulder, squinting at the screen. “Oh, you fancy. Self Ridge High swim coach? That’s you all day. The twins are about to have you on campus full time. They gon’ hate you and love you at the same time.”
“That’s the idea. More hours, steady cash flow, and more structure.”
He set the drinks on the counter and grabbed two. He handed me one. I left it closed for the moment.
“You not drinking?” he asked.
“Not yet. My brain already worn out. I don’t need anything else slowing it down.”
