CHAPTER ELEVEN
SYNTHIA “JUICY” BROOKS
Finally, we were landing. When the plane descended, I held my breath, feeling my stomach drop and clutching onto Romelo’s hands tight with my eyes closed until the plane came to a stop. It felt every bit of ten minutes, and Romelo was talking shit the entire time.
“This is my last time flying,” I retorted.
“Fuckin’ wit’ me, you’ll get used to it.”
“Did you call the car to come get us?”
“I got you so fuckin’ spoiled,” I heard him say as he retrieved our bags. I was in such a rush to exit the plane that I didn’t care about leaving him behind.
Gripping my phone, I turned it off to save my power. I forgot to let it charge last night. By the time daylight hit, it was too late. We could’ve stayed another day—another few more days—but Romelo had business to execute. Powering my phone on, I entered the code to unlock it and frowned at the influx of messages Trecee was spamming my phone with. I was so engaged in her maniac threats that I didn’t hear Romelo behind me, but his YSL cologne lingered past my nose.
“Why you lookin’ like somebody just died?”
One notification after the next, then another came from Yolanda, one chime after the next. Reading over her message, I frowned in confusion, and rereading it over and over didn’t help it make sense.
Check on your fucking cousin! The dumb bitch tried to kill herself.
“Bae, what’s wrong?”
“Check your phone,” I muttered.
“What you mean?” he frowned as he reached for his phone from his gray Nike Tech pants. Reading over the notifications that matched mine, I assumed he got the news too.
“What the fuck?”
“Did Yolanda text you too?”
“Naw, hell nah. My mama said she found Trecee passed the fuck out, sum’ ‘bout her goody ass might’ve overdosed.”
My heart sank to the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t move—my feet felt planted to the ground. But Romelo was his usual self, with the phone to his ear, talking to his mom as he loaded our bags in the Uber XL. I was trying to make out what he was hearing, but his phone volume was low. When he told the driver to switch routes and take us to Methodist University, I knew it was a matter of time before guilt sucker-punched the fuck out of me, making me want to retract my steps and blame her suicidal attempt on me.
I smashed my head into the headrest after my seatbelt clicked into the latch. Romelo was caressing my knee, muttering something that I’d tuned out. I was so deep in my thoughts that I couldn’t focus. He was the cause of this, and no matter how he dressed it up, it wouldn’t erase the facts. I love my cousin to death, but I don’t want her dead. Is it really worth dying over a nigga? Will I be her one day? Is his love so sticky that one day we’ll be forced apart and the last thing on my mind is moving on?
“Juicy,” he snapped, giving my knee a hard squeeze.
My eyes tore away from my daydream and gazed into his handsome face. Romelo is the sexiest man on earth. His eyes were something you’d see in a dream. He was front cover of anEssencefine—a full fucking spread fine! If he was in a ’90s guy singing group, girls would gawk over him, throw their panties on stage, and have him doing weird shit like asking him to sign their bras or something—he was fine, but is he worth all of this fine? Is he worth my peace fine? Is he worth being in too deep with fine?
“What the fuck is wrong wit’ yo ass, mane?” he snapped with agitation.
“Romelo, please, not right now,” I mumbled. “Don’t fucking yell at me.”
“You was just smiling like a fat kid eating cake. Now you all in yo fuckin’ feelings and shit over some shit that ain’t got shit to do wit’ you or me!”
“How come it don’t? You see the timeline of events that led up to it, so how come it don’t? You’re the only one between us who’s acting like shit is copacetic and my cousin didn’t just commit a suicide attempt because of what we did.”
“So it’s my motherfuckin’ fault that she chose to sing melodies from Heaven? Don’t put that foul shit on me.” He spat, leaning up and turning his body towards me. “Bitches ain’t woman enough to take what they dish out. You knew just like I did what the fuck was goin’ on. It ain’t ’bout me not havin’ no fuckin’ heart. It’s about knowin’ where the fuck I stood. ’Cause if I went broke fuckin’ ’round wit’ her, I wouldn’t be an inkling in her thoughts. Fuck is wrong wit’ you. Now you want to be a fuckin’ saint? Fuck outta here wit’ that stupid ass shit.”
He sat back after waving me off.
“Sounds like you two dumb asses belong together because you tried to kill yourself.”
He stale-faced me, his eyes burning a hole through me. I stared back too, unfazed.
Reaching Methodist University, his mama was waiting on us at the door, pacing back and forth. She was beautiful—drop-dead gorgeous. She was short and had a petite frame. Her complexion was the color of shortbread, like Romelo, but he was a shade darker. Her hair was in a black pixie cut, and the soft glam makeup only added to her beauty. She was dressed simple but cute in a Future Hendrix graphic shirt, a pair of jeans, and laced on her feet were some purple Spezial Samba Adidas. A purple Chanel lambskin single-flap purse was cloaked around her shoulder.
