I teeter around with the mop handle in my hand. “So, that’s how he broke his jaw? That’s how Zaire died? In…in…”
“The pit.”
“That’s barbaric.”
“That’s their life.” Aunt Faye lifts the side of her mouth and pushes off the counter before turning around. “Why do you think all those boys showed up on our porch with darkness in their eyes?”
She snorts, grabbing the wet towel I left in the kitchen sink and wringing it out. “That life is brutal. It’s fast and hard, and this generation is different. They’re terrified of dying in the pit so they look for any way out of there. They’re not their daddies or grandaddies. Most of them just don’t have the heart to keep up with their namesake at Lucky’s.”
Rich’s face pops into my head as soon as she utters that last sentence, but I can’t picture him at Lucky’s doing those things I heard Uncle Kenny say they do there. He doesn’t raise his voice; he buys me as many Honey Buns as I want; he even kisses on Ky…and some nights I think of silly things like what it might feel like if he kissed on me.
I shake my head to get rid of that last thought.
“That barbaric stuff has been paying folks’ bills around here since before you were thought of,” Aunt Faye mutters, staring into Ms. Vera’s lush backyard while wiping out the sink.
“Are you saying you’re okay with what they’re doing down there?”
“What I’m saying is that it’s all some men around here know.”
“Like Rich?”
She casts a cursory glance over her shoulder. “Despite the ignorant things that Kenny says about Rich, Rich is still a man. He still has to feed his family just like every other man around here, and he deserves respect.”
I’ve never heard her speak with so much conviction about any of Uncle Kenny’s projects, but Rich made passion crackle all throughout her voice for some reason.
“So he’s trying to get away from that lifestyle just like Zaire, Legend, and EJ were, right?”
She lets out a sigh so deep that her shoulders droop. “You know Kenny’s dying wish is to mold the next?—”
“Heavyweight champion. Yeah…I know.”
“Well…” She shrugs. “I told him that Rich is it, but I ain’t say it was gonna be easy to convince Rich that a life outside of Lucky’s is better for him.”
“So he’s not trying to get away from i?—”
“That’s enough, Lovie. You and Terrica go ahead and drop the cake off, but y’all need to just drop it off and go. Hazel said Terrica was talking to some guy she met on vacation over the summer so that’s who she needs to stick with. She needs to let Rich be.” She tosses the towel on the faucet, pushing away from the counter and picking up her phone. “All these little side missions you’ve been going on stays between me and you because I don’t wanna hear Kenny’s mouth, alright? I’ve heard enough of it in the past two months.”
She walks back toward the hallway that leads to the sunroom, but before she crosses the threshold, she tosses one last look over her shoulder. “For God’s sake, mop the rest of the damn kitchen. Folks are paying me for a service, girl.”
I glance at the time covering Paco’s chubby cheeks on my phone—6:57 PM.
I missed Copeland’s strict fifteen minute grace period all because I had Ubered home first where I stood naked in front of my closet for thirty minutes because I couldn’t decide if my long-sleeved denim mini dress and knee-high Maison Margiela boots weretoomuch to deliver a birthday cake to a man I know I should stay far away from.
Somehow the dress still fit the same as it did two years ago when I picked it out while shopping with AJ at Neiman’s in The Galleria even though I’m at least ten pounds lighter. This dress and these boots were my first taste of luxury. The first time I touched them was one of the last times I probably felt alive, and I left them in my closet along with everything else AJ bought me before our New York move because he always said that “big moves came with even bigger things.”
Tuh.
I shake my head.
A mild breeze blows across my bare legs as I glance toward the empty handicapped spot in front of Terrica’s shop. I shouldn’t be relieved that she’s gone, but I just can’t stomach another disgusted look from her.
I step under the Commons’ awning and walk toward the front of Copeland’s. The rusty bell rings above my head as I push the door open and try to come up with all the ways I can beg Mr. Copeland to pull a German chocolate cake from thin air three minutes before he closes because the only person who can see through me says this is what he wants for his birthday.
“You picking up, lil’ lady?” Mr. Copeland asks, swiping his hands down his flour-covered apron.
“Well, I uh…I wanted to place an order, but I think it’s too late,” I stammer.
“It is.”
