Kam slowly nodded. “I already knew it, bruh. I knew it was something.”
“You ever realize you ain’t ever healed from something? Like, . . . you thought you were good, until you see the one person who could always see through your shit?”
Kam tilted his head but didn’t respond. There was a silence that fell between them, but not an awkward one. It felt more welcoming.
“I been movin’ my whole life like. . .” Zay tapped the console, then sat back. “If I keep working, keep grinding, I don’t gotta stop and think. Like I could outrun the shit that broke me.”
“You can’t outrun what lives in you, Zay,” Kam responded. “You either face it or it grows. Once it grows bigger than you canhandle, that’s when shit gets out of control. And it’s hard to come back from that, baby boy.”
Suddenly, there was a buzz from Zay’s back pocket. He leaned forward, reached behind him, and pulled out his phone. The screen shined bright with a message.
Amora (off Hot Girlz Hit TV show):
You free tonight? You bring the weed I got the wine.
He stared at it for a moment, then two attachments followed. One, a picture with her in a jacuzzi with a yellow bikini top, the next, without one.
He locked the phone without replying.
Kam raised an eyebrow, having caught a glimpse of the photos. “Seem like you don’t need me to remind you of that though. Go ’head. Take the rest of the night and get your mind off this.”
“She ain’t what I need right now,” Zay muttered. “That ho barely has a brain. I like that, . . . but maybe that’s the problem.”
He nodded again, slower this time. “So what you gon’ do?”
Zay looked back toward the booth where the artist swung the door open and walked back in. The artist stood in front of the mic, grabbed the headphones off the stool, and raised his chin at him, signaling if he was good to hop back into work. Zay scooted his chair closer to the talkback mic and clicked it on.
“We good for today. Get some rest. I’ll call you when I’m locked in.”
The artist gave a confused “bet,” placed the headphones back on the stool, and grabbed his things to leave.
Zay slumped back and steepled his hands behind his head.
“I need to figure some shit out,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.
Summer 2008
“Close your eyes.”
Princess shot him a puzzled look. “Zay . . .”
He gave that same crooked, chipped tooth boyish grin that had long melted her guard. “Come on, Pretty Prin. Don’t ruin the moment.”
The nickname made her heart flutter like it always had.
She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway and let out a soft sigh. “Fine. But if you got me another one of those knockoff purses from Forman Mills?—”
“Chill.” He chuckled, already fishing something from his pocket. “Just hold out your hand.”
She lifted her palm with fingers curled slightly. He placed something cold and delicate into it carefully, almost reverent.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Now open.”
She opened her eyes and gasped at the sight.
What rested in her hand was a sterling silver necklace. A small heart-shaped pendant shimmered beneath the soft yellow light of her bedroom lamp. It wasn’t iced out or flashy, but it was real. Thoughtful and earned.
“Zay . . .” she whispered with a fragile voice. The weight of it hit her all at once, how much he must’ve saved, how this wasn’t just a gift. It was him saying I see you.
