Page 25 of When a Soul Cries

“You promise?”

“On everything.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too. Now put that damn phone away before Mr. Potato Head fires you for real.”

She gave a weak little laugh before hanging up.

That laugh was the reason I always joked when Sol was close to falling apart. Not because I didn’t take her pain seriously. I took it more seriously than almost anybody. But I had learned that sometimes, when life had its hands wrapped around your throat, one good laugh could loosen its grip just enough for you to breathe.

I finished buckling Halo in, kissed the tips of my fingers, and pressed them gently to her cheek.

“Your mama worries too much.”

Halo stared at me.

“Don’t look at me like that. She does.”

Her eyelids slowly closed.

I stood there for a moment, watching her breathe. The anger I’d felt inside the daycare shifted into something heavier. Fear had a way of doing that to me. It entered my body as worry and came out looking like an attitude.

That was probably why so many people thought I was mean.

Maybe I was.

But being soft had never kept me safe.

Growing up, family was one of those words other people said like it was supposed to mean something warm. To me, it meant waiting by windows.

Waiting on my mother to come back after promising she would only be gone for an hour.

Waiting for a father whose name I knew but whose voice I couldn’t remember.

Waiting for birthdays, Christmases, and school programs, pretending I didn’t care when nobody showed up.

My grandmother raised me for most of my childhood. She loved me the best way she knew how, but she was already tired by the time I came along. Her knees hurt, money stayed tight, and affection wasn’t something she knew how to give with words. She kept food in the refrigerator, pressed my clothes for school, and made sure I never left the house looking crazy. That was her version of love.

When she died during my junior year of high school, what little structure I had disappeared with her.

I bounced between two aunts who treated me like an extra bill and a family friend who made sure I understood the couch I slept on belonged to her. I learned to keep my belongings in one bag. I learned not to get too comfortable. Most importantly, I learned never to need anybody more than they needed me.

By twenty-five, I had relatives, technically. A few cousins followed me online. One aunt sent me a happy-birthday message every year—usually two days late. My mother called whenever she needed money or forgiveness, and somehow she always asked for both in the same conversation.

Friends weren’t much better.

I knew plenty of people. I could go out any night of the week and recognize half the room. Women invited me to parties because I was fun. Men stayed in my messages because they liked how I looked. But there was a difference between having people around and having people who would show up.

I knew that difference better than most.

That was why I had gravitated toward Sol.

We met online when she was twenty, after she responded to something I posted late one night. At first, it was just a few messages. Then those messages became daily texts, long phone calls, and FaceTimes that lasted until one of us fell asleep.

Sol was quiet where I was loud. Careful where I was reckless. She thought through every possible consequence before making a move, while I usually made the move and dealt with the consequences whenever they caught up.

On paper, we didn’t make sense.