Page 31 of When Love Takes Root

Juice swallowed. “I know it wasn’t fair.”

“I was sixteen.”

“I know.”

“I thought keeping my mouth shut was loyalty.”

“I know.”

“I thought if I took it, the family stayed standing.”

Juice’s eyes shined, but he blinked it back fast. “I know, Siah.”

The name sounded different when he said it like that. Not teasing. Not clowning. Just holding.

I turned back to the bag because looking at him too long would make something in me loosen. “Pops told me loyalty without wisdom would bury me.”

“He was right,” Juice said.

“He usually was.”

“Except about that old Buick,” Juice said.

I huffed a laugh before I could stop it. “That car was terrible.”

“Terrible?” Juice asked. “Man, that car coughed when it saw hills.”

“It had character.”

“It had asthma,” Juice said.

The laugh helped. It didn’t fix anything, but it opened a window.

I hit the bag again, lighter this time. Rhythm found me. Jab. Cross. Step out. Guard up. The room narrowed to breath and leather, sweat and memory. Boxing had never been about violence for me, not after county. Violence was easy. Discipline was a higher language. Any fool could make a fist. A man had to learn when to open his hand.

That lesson saved Kacey from becoming another locked door in my life.

Juice heard the thought before I said it.

“You ain’t talked about Domonique in a while,” Juice said.

My gloves paused. Outside the room, somebody laughed in the bay. A wrench clanged against concrete. Life kept interrupting pain with noise.

“What’s there to talk about?” I asked.

“You loved her.”

“I tried to.”

“That ain’t the same,” Juice said.

No.

It wasn’t.

Domonique had the beauty of a woman who knew mirrors were not neutral around her. Deep brown eyes, wide and watchful, with lashes that made every blink look intentional. Smooth brown skin that held light like it had been taught to behave. Cheekbones high enough to sharpen her whole face, a soft, rounded mouth always glossed, a slender nose with just enough lift to give her expression a permanent little edge. Her jaw was delicate but defined, her neck long, her shoulders graceful, her waist narrow enough to make every dress look tailored even when it wasn’t. She had that tall, polished, corporate-fine shape. Curves disciplined into elegance. Not loud with it. Worse—certain.

She wore her hair like image was a language she spoke fluently. Sometimes bone-straight and silk-pressed with a middle part so clean it looked measured. Sometimes pulled into a sleek, low ponytail with her edges laid like punctuation. Sometimes shoulder-length waves that moved when she wanted attention and behaved when she wanted control. Every style looked expensive, and every expensive thing on her somehow looked like it had been waiting for her permission to exist.