I let him go and turn away.
Their voices ring in the stillness as I try to remember which direction I should go.
“I should punch you myself,” Brant seethes.
Theo laughs. “Everyone knows you have a temper. It’s not fun to bait the redhead.”
I spin around. “Fun? This is fun for you!?” My nostrils flare as I inhale as much air as possible. I poke him in the chest, and he grabs my finger.
The worst part is, he’s right. My anxiety has been on high alert for days, weeks, but now that I’ve let my anger out, I can breathe. What does that say about me? Theo recognizes the deep-seated anger that I shove down. My therapist would call it repression.
“Not my problem,” I accidentally say out loud. “You’re not my problem.” I convince myself my words are true and take out my phone so I don’t make a dramatic exit in the wrong direction like my life is a sitcom.
“Never thought I was,” he states as an accusation, not letting go of my finger. It should piss me off. I should take my finger back. I don’t. Theo’s warm hand stokes my raging fire. He said I keep my anger on a leash, but it feels like he’s controlling it.
“J, dude.” Brant’s voice sounds horrified.
It breaks the hold Theo has over me, and I snatch my finger back. Brant reaches for the back of my hair, and I instinctively duck out of his reach.
“What?” I say harsher than I mean.
“I heard the guy spit …but…but…” His eyes widen with concern.
Theo pushes Brant out of the way and inspects my head. “Motherfucker.” He’s so fast I don’t have time to react before he pulls something from my braids. “Gum.”
“Don’t touch it.” There’s a strand from my head to his fingers. “Don’t touch it,” I say again as my mind runs through all the worst-case scenarios, making breathing difficult.
“Hold still.” Brant rips the gum about an inch from my head.
“Stay away from my hair.” I dial my mom, but it goes to voicemail, so I try the first name that pops into my head. “Tyrone, help me.” I’m standing on the corner, rolling my shoulders and tracking the tingling feeling in my arms.
“Sup? I’ll be right over.”
“No, I’m in Detroit.” If I have to cut my hair because of some dickhead… I force air into my lungs. I’ve had my braids for years.
“Do you need bail?”
“No,” I groan. “Is your sister there? A Detroit fan spit gum in my hair.”
“Say what? Oh, that little bitch did not. I’ll kick his ass.”
“He was gone before I realized what he’d done. Is Jada there?” His sister is a hairstylist, so she’ll know what to do.
Tyrone’s footsteps plod along, and I hear him whispering.
“Hi, baby, can you come to my shop?” she asks.
“I’m in Detroit. I can’t wait that long.” My frustration of having to explain leaks out as anger.
I walk away from them, going in the wrong direction, but at this point, I don’t care.
“Okay. Are you near a store or a gas station?”
“There’s a convenience store a couple of blocks away.” I jog toward it, focusing on a solution, already planning to get a rideshare back to the hotel.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get it out. I need you to buy peanut butter, a toothbrush, and a small-tooth comb if you don’t have one. Video call me when you’re ready. Do you have all that, or should I text you the list?”
“I got it. Thank you.” I sprint, not even questioning the need for peanut butter.
