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“Don’t start your shit,” Mercer warned.
I couldn’t contain myself and neither could Malachi. The two people that Makai missed most, because they spent so much time away, he picked on. It was his way of telling them how much he loved, cared for, and missed them. For us, it was pure comedy.
“Ion know. You sure you ain’t nev—”
“Shut up,” Mercer belted. “Just shut the f—”
Taking a deep breath, he restrained by stuffing his face with food and shaking his head.
“A hit dog gon–”
“Shut up, Makai. I’m with your brother on that one.”
Pops was fed up with his shit just as much as Mercer. Unfortunately, Makai didn’t care.
“I shoot old niggas, too.”
“He’ll be the last old nigga you shoot,” Malachi assured him.
“Makai just loves to hear himself talk,” Pops huffed. “Nature, how’s my great-grandson doing in there?”
“He’s fine, Pops. Almost time to make his debut.”
“Yeah? Mason. That’s a nice name there. Falls right in line with the rest of these knuckleheads.”
There were verbal protests in the form of grunts, grumbling, and blatant disagreements.
“Mason Maurice Domino.”
Silence swept across the oak wood table. A pin could drop and it would be heard by everyone in attendance, even Maz, whom quieted as well.
“Maurice?”
Pops recuperated first, swallowing back whatever was lodged in his throat. He loosened the collar on his shirt, pulling it away from his neck to stretch it slightly. I watched his chest rise before releasing a heavy breath.
I straightened my back before allowing my body to slump again. Pride and grief were fighting for residency in my head and my heart, both needing the moment for themselves. I struggled to hand it over, but eventually, pride prevailed.
“Yeah. We decided on Maurice for a middle name.”
“That’s what’s up.” Mercer nodded.
“Aw, nigga, he done one upped you. Now you’ve got to have a daughter and name her Catherine,” Makai tittered, staring straight at Malachi.
“Nigga,” he barked, ending it there.
“Alright. Maurice,” Pops said, nodding in approval. “God, it’s been so long since I’ve said his name.”
“Same,” I admitted.
“It feels good.”
I agreed by lifting my head up and down.
“Hand me that bottle, Mercer,” I requested, beckoning with my hand.
“Pour me something when you’ve poured your helping.”
I filled the glass halfway and then tilted it over Pop’s glass. He lifted his left hand to let me know when I’d poured enough.
