Then she said softly, “Lay over there. Opposite the door. Just in case.”
He nodded and placed the comforter and pillow on her bed. He peeled off his hoodie and jeans, folding them quietly. He was left in a wife beater and boxers, slim but strong, the kind of frame that said he was used to fighting what life threw at him. He lay down on the floor and pulled the blanket over him as she scooped up his clothes and trotted out the room.
Downstairs, she moved like a church mouse. Loaded the washer. Added fabric softener. She debated on going back to her room and asking him if he was hungry but decided not to risk embarrassing him. Instead, she pulled out the plate of leftover spaghetti and fried catfish her mama made earlier and warmed it up, stopping the microwave at 0:01 to avoid the beep.
She slowly grabbed a cold grape Faygo out of the fridge, a fork, then tiptoed back to her room.
He was on the floor, curled under the comforter, staring at the ceiling. His body tensed a little when she walked in, and he quickly pulled the blanket higher.
She giggled. “Relax. You ain’t got nothing I haven’t seen in health class.”
“Still,” he muttered. “Gotta protect my modesty.”
She rolled her eyes and handed him the plate and the pop. “Here.”
His eyes widened. “Yo, . . . is this catfish and spaghetti?”
“It’s what we had. I ain’t tryna spoil you.”
Zay took the first bite and melted. “Nah, this . . . this the real deal. You know I ain’t ate since like noon?”
She sat on the edge of the bed and curled one leg underneath her.
“You good?” she asked quietly.
He nodded, mouth full. “Been workin’ on the music heavy. Studio, writing. I know something major about to happen. I feel it.”
She smiled. “I believe it. I see your name everywhere now.”
He looked up at her with something unreadable in his eyes. “For real?”
“Yeah. I’ve been hearing things too . . . Some people said you been selling.”
He paused. His eyes shifted to the floor, then he nodded. “Little bit. Just enough to stay above water.”
“Zay.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I ain’t proud of it. Just temporary. Gotta eat while I’m building this.”
She studied him for a moment, then softly replied. “Just . . . be careful.”
He looked up again, took another bite, and replied with a mouthful. “Awww, . . . you care about me?”
She laughed. “You’re in my room at two a.m., and I just warmed you up some fish and spaghetti. Take a wild guess.”
He laughed too.
He finished his food as she sat quietly and watched. She took in her feelings in this moment, as this was something new to her. Something she hadn’t felt for any boy. She’d had her share of them too, sure. But none of them matched what she felt in this moment. She tried to decide if it was admiration or pity. Maybe a mixture of both. He spoke and broke her thoughts.
“I really appreciate this. You didn’t have to, . . . but you did.”
She looked at him, then reached out and touched his hand.
“Anytime you need to come here,” she whispered, “you can. But next time, call my cell first. My dad gets home really late sometimes.”
He smiled that same warm, chipped tooth smile that reached all the way to his eyes.
And for that one quiet night, in the middle of a Detroit winter, on a bedroom floor that smelled like lavender and stories, Zavier Woods didn’t feel like a burden.
