Truth plopped back down, pouting for a second before Legend slid a crayon and the kids’ menu in front of him. “Here. Color.”
Truth started scribbling. Reign copied him. Sire started telling Legend about some superhero show, and Legend listened, nodding like Sire was explaining something as serious as one of his drug deals.
I watched them, feeling my heart smiling.
Two months ago, I had been in my OB’s office yelling in disbelief because I was pregnant again. Now I sat in a booth at a Black-owned pizza restaurant, nauseous and annoyed, but overwhelmed that I was the woman God chose to mother Legend’s kids.
My eyes drifted toward the brick wall behind Legend. A painting hanging there grabbed me by the throat. It was big, almost as wide as our booth. A Black woman stared straight ahead. While her eyes were tearful, she looked unbroken. Instead of a halo, a crown of the Chicago skyline sat over her head. The buildings stretched like a dark, gloomy sky. At the bottom of the canvas, small brown children’s hands reached up toward her, some clutching, some reaching. The brushstrokes were rough and honest. The colors bled into each other. It felt like grief, grind, and love at the same time.
“Babe, look at that,” I said, touching Legend’s wrist.
He followed my gaze, then nodded. “That’s a dope piece.”
A server walked past our table.
I stopped her. “Excuse me. Do you know who painted that?”
She turned toward the wall and smiled. “That’s by a young sister named Rhythm Brooks.”
“She local?” I asked.
“I’m guessing so. She and her kids come in a lot. While speaking with her, the owner found out she was an artist. She showed us some pieces. We bought a few. She’s not a full-time artist yet, but people ask about that one all the time.” She pointed to the bottom corner. “Her Instagram handle is on the tag. You should look her up.”
“I will. Thank you.”
As she smiled again and walked away, I pulled out my phone.
At the same time, Legend’s work phone vibrated on the table. We both glanced down. The name on the screen told me it was cartel business.
He looked at it, then flipped it over, face down, like it wasn’t worth his attention.
My eyebrows lifted. “You’re not going to answer that?”
“I told them I’m off the clock for a minute. They can wait. You and my kids can’t.”
My heart smiled. The old Legend would’ve answered, walked outside, and left me sitting there with the kids and my resentment. This version kept his hand on my leg and his focus on me.
The kids argued over a purple crayon. I slid another one toward Reign without taking my eyes off him. “You trying to make me cry in here?”
“I’ll fix your makeup if you do,” he said, smirking. “Where the little mirror at?”
I rolled my eyes and looked at the small tag next to the painting. Then I picked up my phone and typed Rhythm’s handle into Instagram.
Her work of murals, small canvases, portraits, and abstract pieces filled my screen. Her images were of people in all forms: mothers, kids, barbershop scenes, and city girls on buses with the same raw style, loud colors, and expressions of pain and hope.
She had pieces in other restaurants, a mural on the side of a daycare, and a canvas in a salon. She was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. She had a presence in the local art world but clearly hadn’t “arrived” yet. She had no big gallery posts or solo show flyers. All I saw was work and heart.
My stomach rolled again. I set my phone down and pushed my hair back.
“I feel huge,” I muttered. “This baby is already rude.”
Legend frowned in disagreement. “You still the finest thing I ever touched. Pregnant, flat, round, whatever. I’ll eat that motherfucka off the bone regardless. You know that.”
“Whatever,” I said, softly. I believed him more now, pregnant with a body that was nothing like the one he’d married, than I used to, and that was its own kind of vulnerability.
The server dropped off drinks and extra crayons. The kids settled, coloring and watching the Black cartoon playing on their tablet.
I looked at Legend’s hands resting near the kids’ plates, at the lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there when we met.
