TWENTY-FOUR
LOVIE
I hear Mama again.
Her raspy laugh curls around Rich’s voice in the message he sends me after I text him that I can’t get out of bed today.
“I ever tell you about the first time I lost a fight?” he asks between deep breaths as birds chirp in the background. “I was sixteen. It was the second time I ever fought a grown man at Lucky’s. The first time I fought down there, I won, and Arnez told me it was just dumb luck. She said they had put me up against some ole’ tired nigga who’d lost more than he won all his life and that wouldn’t be the case every time.”
I pull my heavy duvet over my head and bring the phone closer to my ear as the next message plays.
He laughs. “The dude’s name was Showtime. He had to have been at least ten years older than me. I remember bumping his fist before the match started and feeling the weight of it. Felt like I was pounding a brick.”
I try my best to paint a picture of Rich at sixteen, but all I see are his scared, russet-colored eyes that make me want him even more.
The next message plays.
“I never even touched his face during the fight. I think I got one body shot in before his fist hit the side of my head and knocked me out. Man, I felt that shit in my heart.” He sucks his teeth. “A complete KO. I thought I was dead. Next thing I remember was waking up in the parking lot with Smitty flashing a light in my eyes, Senior asking me if I knew how many fingers he was holding up, and Arnez crying.”
He laughs hard as if he’s reminiscing about some silly schoolyard fight while I grimace.
“After that I ain’t wanna get out of bed for a minute. All the folks that had bet on me because of what I did the Sunday before were assed out of rent money, light bill money, car note money. I felt like shit. How could I show my face at Lucky’s knowing I’d let a motherfucka knock me out cold? I even had the proof on the side of my head.”
An unintentional smile covers my lips, and I glance down past my faded Target bra where my healing bruise sits in a swirl of brown-gray that blends into my skin.
“But you wanna know what I did after that, baby?” he asks.
I suck in a gasp as if he’s here, lying next to me, whispering that soft word in my mouth. I try to pull the feeling of his lips to the forefront of my brain, but it’s hard. I’m convinced they have to be experienced in the now. There are too many little things my imagination can’t replicate, like the way his stitches feel against my tongue or the way his fingers curl around my throat when I get too carried away.
His last message plays as I scroll back to the others and save them for tonight when my loneliness gets the best of me and my fingers try to recreate his touch.
“I got up out of bed and ran back to Lucky’s,” he says. “Senior said the only way to face my fears was to run straight to the shitthat scared me the most. So I did…and I’m still here, just like you’ll still be here. You a big dog, remember? Get up outta bed.”
I toss the duvet from over my head and sit up, scratching my tangled curls with my healed nails that look worse than they feel. The burnt orange color had mostly flaked off, leaving me with raggedy, unintentional orange French tips.
I push up from the bed, leaving my phone buried underneath my duvet and pulling on a sweater and Rich’s sweats I left on the floor.
I hear Uncle Kenny’s grunts from the backyard as I patter barefoot through the house and into the kitchen where I grab the full cup of coffee Aunt Faye forgot on the counter.
I look into the mug.
My wild curls stick up in the coffee’s black reflection as the steam tickles my nose. She didn’t even bother adding any sugar or cream to it.
I tighten my grip around the mug, walk toward the back door, and pull it open.
Uncle Kenny puffs out a breath, pounding his gloved fist into the punching bag dangling from the tree that sits between our yard and Old Man Hester’s. His white T-shirt clings to his body like a second skin because it’s one of those days where the leftover summer heat simmers.
I step outside and let the back door close on its own, but he doesn’t look up.
“Morning…” I call out, walking toward the steps and sitting down.
He whips his head toward the porch, and his eyebrows shoot up. “Girl, I thought you were gone with Faye.”
“I wasn’t feeling good.”
He throws a lazy punch at the bag. “You know it’s Tylenol in me and Faye’s room.”
“Yeah…I know. I don’t think I need Tylenol, though.”
