Quentin finally moved. Looked at her hand on his sleeve, then at her face. Teacher-voice flat, final. “Goodnight, Ms. Coleman.”
She read it, I saw it land. Still, she tried a last graze down the seam of his sleeve like an “oops.” I tilted my head and didn’t blink. Her fingers fell.
“Seems I read this all wrong,” she said, chin high.
“Just make sure you take down this history this time,” I shot back, my voice sugary sweet.
Her heels clicked away, each step ringing like chalk snapped in half.
I turned to Quentin. “Don’t stop your game for me,” I said lightly. “Play.”
He searched my face for support. Found none. Nodded and went back to the table.
And unraveled.
He tried to play. Tried to stand tall with those broad shoulders like nothing happened. But his rhythm was gone. Missed an easy two-ball, scratched on a safe that should’ve been child’s play. His under-breath count—the four-count that usually steadied his hands—vanished. His cue looked heavy in his grip, like the weight of my eyes made the wood bend.
The Green Room felt it too. Heads turned. Rail talk thinned. That hush rolled in—the kind of hush that always saidsomebody’s shook.
I crossed my arms, found a pillar, and watched my own power do what I’ve spent years avoiding—make a man lose his footing. A petty piece of me liked it. A truer piece hated that I liked it.
Tino slid by with two waters, bumped my elbow in uncle-speak. “You want me to bounce her next time?” he murmured.
“She bounced herself,” I murmured back.
“Uh-huh. You ain’t slick,” he said, fond, pressing a bottle into my hand before drifting off to bully the mic stand.
Quentin lost the rack on a miss that he had no business missing. Not a tough cut, not a bank—an easy drop he could’ve sunk blindfolded. The cue ball rolled limp, clattered against the rail, and died.
Heads turned. The hush rolled in—the kind that alwayssays somebody’s shook. His under-breath count—the four-count that usually steadied his hands—vanished. His rhythm was gone, and without it, his whole frame looked wrong. His cue hung heavy in his grip, like my stare had bent the wood.
He set it on the rail harder than he meant to and walked to me.
“Step out with me?” he asked.
I nodded. We hit the night.
Penn Avenue breathed cold—air with teeth. I pulled it in like I was drowning.
Quentin’s hand hovered at my back, not quite touching. My body remembered every place it had, every place it wanted it again, but my mind—my heart—was back in that exam room. Paper gown. Dr. Rutman saying pregnant like it was fact carved in stone.
I’d made a decision that day. I’d said yes without saying it out loud. Yes to this baby. Yes to the terrifying, beautiful risk of letting myself be a mother. Yes to trusting him to be more than a good fuck, more than a warm chest at night. Yes to believing he could be a partner, a father, the anchor my child deserved.
And then that heaux walked into The Green Room like she belonged, and all that confidence wobbled. Shook loose.
Because if Quentin was mine, why did she think she still had a chance? And if she thought it—if she dared it out loud—did that mean part of me wasn’t sure, either?
That was the real scratch. Not her hand on his sleeve, not the smirk she wore like armor. The scratch was inside me—wondering if I was enough to hold him, wondering if the man I’d chosen to build forever with was already mine, or just passing time.
I glanced at him under the streetlight—tall, broad, glasses catching gold—and I wanted to believe. God, I wanted to believe. But belief felt fragile when forever was already blooming inside me.
He turned toward me, jaw set. “Rayna, listen?—”
I put my hand up. “Don’t.”
My palm shook. Not big, just enough that I felt it in my bones. The nausea I’d been holding down rose mean, pressed against my ribs. My body was giving me away.
He stopped. Watched. His jaw ticked once.
