The ladder bit into the soft dirt where the grass had worn thin, sunk just enough that Caine felt it through the soles of his boots. He tested it once with his weight before climbing, palms rough on the aluminum rungs. The tree leaned over the edge of the church roof, branches grown wild and careless, scraping shingles every time the wind came through.
He had already taken two limbs down, the thicker ones dropping with a dull crack before dragging through leaves and twigs on the way to the ground. The pile at the base of the ladder was starting to stink green, sap and crushed leaves already darkening.
The chainsaw vibrated up his arms, a steady angry hum that made his fingers tingle. Sap flecked his forearms and stuck there, tacky when sweat ran through it. Sweat slid from the edge of his hairline and down the back of his neck, soaking into the collar of his T-shirt until it clung. The AirPods stayed jammed in his ears, bass thudding loud enough to flatten everything else.
He leaned out farther than he probably should’ve, cut another branch clean through, watched it fall. The leaves slapped the roof once, then skidded off and hit the grass below. He paused long enough to feel the ladder shift under him, adjusted his stance, then climbed down a rung and moved around the trunk to get a better angle on the next limb.
That was when he saw Blake.
Blake came in from the side yard, walking easy, hands loose at his sides. His mouth was moving. Caine didn’t hear a word of it. He kept the saw running, lifted it overhead, chewed through another branch. Wood chips sprayed against his jeans. Blake stopped a few feet away, looking up at him, still talking.
Caine didn’t look down.
The chainsaw screamed. The branch fell. Blake waved one arm, then both, wide and impatient.
Caine sucked his teeth. He let the saw idle for a second, feeling the vibration settle into his forearms, then killed it. The sudden quiet landed heavy, like pressure popping in his ears. He reached up and pulled one AirPod out, music bleeding thin and tinny.
“What?” he said.
Blake’s hands dropped. He smiled like Caine had been the rude one. “Hey, bro, you ain’t gotta be so hostile with me. We both here for the same thing, right?”
Caine climbed down the rest of the way and stepped off the ladder. He didn’t bother turning fully toward Blake. He set the chainsaw on the ground and wiped his hand on his jeans, leaving a dark smear of sap and sweat.
“Hurry up, man,” he said. “I’m trying to get this shit done so I can go home.”
Blake nodded like he was considering something thoughtful. His eyes flicked over the ladder, the branches piled on the grass, the sweat darkening Caine’s shirt. The look lingered a beat too long.
“It’s crazy you keep workin’ here,” Blake said. “Even though you the big football star. I woulda got ’em to give me an easier gig.”
Caine snorted under his breath. “It ain’t exactly an option.”
Blake’s smile sharpened, just enough to show teeth. “Right, right. Probation and all.” He tilted his head. “What was it you did again? Somethin’ violent?”
Caine finally turned and looked at him. Took in the loose stance, the twitch in his jaw, the way his eyes kept sliding past Caine like he was cataloging.
“You ever been locked up?” he asked.
Blake shrugged. “Couple overnights in county. That’s it.”
“That’s why you don’t know,” Caine said, voice flat, “what happens to people being curious like you.”
Blake pointed at him, half joking, half not. “Your baby mama said some shit like that. You know that hot little Latina?”
The words landed wrong.
Caine stepped forward. Just one step, but it closed the space fast enough that Blake’s smile flickered. “Watch your fucking mouth.”
Blake held his ground but lifted his hands a little. “I’m just sayin’, if I had a hot piece of ass like that at home, I wouldn’t be out here fuckin’ co-eds.”
“You letting that dope cloud your judgment,” Caine said. His voice stayed low. “Don’t fucking play with me, Blake. I ain’t who you think I am.”
Blake’s hands went higher, palms out. “Alright, alright.” He squinted at him. “So what, you get preferential treatment for fuckin’ the boss?”
Caine laughed then. Short. Sharp.
“That’s what you think?” he said. “That I’m fuckin’ Laney?” He shook his head, slow. “Have you met this woman? We talking about the same person?” He waved a hand like he was brushing off smoke. “Especially when me and Rylee be fucking. C’mon, man. Stop with that porno shit.”
Blake’s eyebrows lifted. “You and Rylee?”
Caine nodded. “You could ask her. Ask her about her hats.”
Blake let out a chuckle and stepped back, the tension easing from his shoulders like he’d decided it wasn’t worth it. “My bad, man. I ain’t know.”
Caine gestured toward the chainsaw at his feet. “You done fishing?”
Blake nodded toward the shed. “I’ll be over there with the old man if you need some help.”
Caine didn’t answer. He turned away, slid the AirPod back into his ear, and bent to grab the saw. The engine roared back to life, drowning Blake out completely as Caine climbed the ladder and went back to cutting.
~~~
Sara stood in front of the door longer than she needed to.
The hallway outside was quiet, like any sound would echo too loudly if it happened. Somewhere down the hall, a TV murmured through a wall, the sound thin and distant. She shifted her weight, keys cold in her palm, the metal biting just enough to keep her present.
She glanced back over her shoulder at Nicole before she could stop herself.
“Alright,” she said, one hand on the doorknob, the other still curled around the keys. “Before I let you in, you gotta promise not to laugh at the fact I don’t have much furniture yet.”
Nicole looked at her, unimpressed. She had one hip popped, her purse already sliding off her shoulder. “What does ‘not much’ mean?”
Sara huffed out a breath, lips pressing together. “Not much like… not much. It’s just takinG a while to get here.”
Nicole rolled her eyes, already reaching past her. “Girl, open the door.”
Sara did.
The apartment opened up all at once. High ceilings, clean lines, wide windows that pulled the afternoon light deep into the space. The floors were a warm wood, unscuffed, still smelling faintly of cleaner. Her footsteps sounded different here, lighter. The walls were bare but freshly painted, a soft neutral that made everything feel bigger than it was.
It was quiet. Not empty quiet. Intentional quiet.
Nicole stepped inside first, slow, eyes tracking the space as she turned in a gradual circle. Her mouth tipped open just a little before she caught herself, the appraisal giving way to something closer to surprise.
“Damn,” she said. “This is nice.”
Sara closed the door behind them and leaned her shoulder into it for a second before moving farther in. The solid click of it locking still startled her every time. She flipped on a couple of lamps, light blooming into corners.
Nicole glanced at the living room. A couch. A coffee table. Nothing else. No TV stand yet. No shelves. No art. It looked like someone had just started breathing in the space and stopped halfway.
“Devin help you pick this out?” Nicole asked, still scanning.
Sara shook her head. “No. Someone in Georgia’s daughter is a real estate agent here. Caine put me in touch with her.” She shrugged as she said it, small and careful. “One of those football things, you know?”
Nicole gave a small nod. “Gotta use whatever you can.”
“Yeah.” Sara exhaled and walked farther into the room. Her fingers brushed the back of the couch as she passed. “I don’t know. It just feels weird.”
Nicole turned toward her. “What does?”
“This.” Sara gestured loosely at the space, the windows, the air between walls. “Living on my own. I’ve never done that before.” She paused, the words catching for half a second. “Not really.”
Nicole watched her face instead of the apartment now.
“At night,” Sara went on, “it’s too quiet. I’m not used to it being silent.” She bent slightly and pointed at a small white machine on the floor near the wall, its cord neatly tucked away. “I had to buy one of those white noise things. Just so I could sleep.”
Nicole laughed, soft but genuine. “That’s how I felt after college. I can only imagine a whole life of it.”
Sara smiled, but it didn’t fully settle. She turned toward the kitchen.
Nicole followed and went straight for the refrigerator. She opened it and stared inside.
Mostly empty. A carton of eggs. A half gallon of milk. Leftover containers stacked.
Nicole stepped aside and pointed in. “Now, you don’t have an excuse for this.”
Sara groaned. “I’ve been working.”
Nicole walked back toward her and looped her arm through Sara’s, easy and familiar. “C’mon. We’re gonna make groceries.”
Sara tilted her head. “I thought you just wanted to relax.”
Nicole smiled. “Can’t relax without wine.”
Sara rolled her eyes, but she didn’t pull away. She grabbed her keys again, let herself be tugged back toward the door, the quiet apartment already feeling a little less heavy behind her as they stepped out together.
~~~
The gym was all noise.
Sneakers squealed in sharp, ugly bursts that cut through the steady thump of the ball. The air held sweat and old disinfectant, that sweet-bleach smell that never really left the polished wood no matter how many times somebody ran a mop over it. A ceiling fan clicked out of rhythm somewhere above them, pushing warm air in lazy circles. On the far wall, a vending machine hummed beside a bulletin board full of curled flyers.
Tommy moved with an economy that didn’t look like effort until you watched long enough. He didn’t chatter. He didn’t clap his hands and talk about energy. He just stayed in the pocket of the play, eyes taking in spacing, bodies, the next pass before it happened.
He caught the ball on the wing with a defender a step late. The leather slapped into his palms, damp from other hands. He dribbled twice, low, each bounce crisp. The defense shifted, expecting a drive, expecting him to barrel into contact and force something.
Instead, he stepped back behind the line and went up smooth.
His form was tight and practiced, elbow in, wrist snapping down. The ball arced, kissed the backboard, and dropped through the net with a clean little whisper.
“J.J. Reddick over there!” somebody hollered from the other team, half laughing even as he turned to run back.
Tommy didn’t react. He was already jogging, breath steady, shoulders loose, letting the praise pass through the air like it wasn’t meant for him.
They turned and ran to the other end, the floor lines flashing underfoot. A couple men on the sideline leaned in, waiting for the game to end. One of them lifted his shirt to wipe his face, leaving a dark mark of sweat across his stomach. Another bounced on his heels, impatient.
The ball swung around the perimeter. An opposing player called for it, palm up, voice cutting through the noise. When it hit his hands, he slowed the game down on purpose.
“Clear out,” he said, and he waved at his own teammates until they drifted toward the corners, leaving him and Tommy alone at the top.
Tommy took a half step forward, knees bent, arms out. He watched the man’s hips, watched the ball, watched the space between them.
The man held the ball out behind him, using his off arm to keep Tommy from crowding him. He leaned into Tommy’s chest, testing the line. There was a little smile on his mouth, that look some men got when they wanted to be witnessed.
Tommy didn’t give him that.
He started his dribble, quick and showy. Between his legs, then again. A cross back over behind his back that made the sideline men make a sound, a collective ooh that rose and fell like a wave.
Tommy stayed on his hip anyway.
He slid, shoes squeaking, body angled so the man couldn’t turn the corner clean. The man drove hard, shoulder dropping. Tommy went with him, chest to shoulder, a constant pressure.
At the rim, both of them jumped.
The man double clutched, hanging long enough to make Tommy’s timing wrong by a fraction. He went under the rim and flipped the ball up on the other side, using the backboard as shelter. It fell in with a dull swish.
Tommy’s body clattered into him on the follow through.
Their momentum carried them into the painted wall padding. The impact knocked a breath out of Tommy’s throat. The other man’s shoulder hit hard enough to make his face tighten. They slid down together, legs tangled for a beat, sweat smearing on the padded vinyl.
For a second, it was quiet inside Tommy’s head.
He pushed off the wall and the man at the same time. The other one shoved back, more out of instinct than anger, palms to chest. They came up on their feet fast, bodies still close.
Tommy held the man’s eyes.
The opposing player’s grin was still there, but smaller now.
“That’s game!” somebody shouted, voice cracking over the gym.
The men on the sideline shifted forward in a rush, grabbing shirts and water bottles, already moving to claim spots. The teams drifted toward each other, hands meeting in quick daps, brief slaps on shoulders. The opposing player turned away, raising his hand to accept congratulations.
“Took that white boy to school!” another guy said, laughing as he dapped the man up, pride spilling like he’d done the layup himself.
Tommy didn’t answer. His jaw worked once, chewing down whatever wanted to rise, and he walked off the court without hurrying.
His bag sat near the bleachers, tucked against the wall where somebody’s little brother had scuffed the paint with a scooter earlier. His towel was folded on top, still dry. He grabbed it and wiped his face, then his neck, pressing it into the back of his hairline where sweat collected.
The towel came away damp.
His chest still felt the echo of the collision, a bruise blooming under muscle. He rolled his shoulder once, not enough to look tender about it.
Daniel came over from the sideline with that loose grin. He was sweating through his shirt, his hairline shining. He bumped Tommy’s shoulder with the back of his hand.
“Marshall always wanna do that fancy shit,” Daniel said, tipping his head toward the court. “You know that’s how they are.”
Tommy kept wiping at his face. “Yeah.”
He didn’t look back at Marshall, but he saw him anyway in the corner of his eye. Marshall was already talking, hands moving big. The new group had stepped on the floor, spreading out and testing their shoes on the slick wood.
Daniel stayed with him as Tommy slung his towel over his shoulder and adjusted his bag strap. “We goin’ to Mahoney’s,” Daniel said. “You want to come or you gotta get home to the missus?”
Tommy paused just long enough to register the words.
“Who is we?” he asked.
“Me, Mick, Tad and Ryan,” Daniel said, counting on his fingers with exaggerated seriousness, like it was a roll call.
Tommy scoffed, the sound sharp. “You think I want to spend my night with cops?”
Daniel’s smile widened. “You ain’t far off one of us.”
That got Tommy. Not a full laugh, but a snort that broke through his mouth before he could stop it. He shook his head, towel shifting on his shoulder.
They walked toward the exit as the next game started behind them, the ball already cracking off the floor, voices rising again. Marshall took the inbound, blew by someone in two long strides, and dunked it.
~~~
The mall was louder than Mireya expected for a weekday afternoon. Not loud in any single direction, just a constant layered noise that sat in her ears. Sneakers scuffed against tile. A kid cried somewhere near the food court. Music leaked out of two different stores at once, clashing in the open space above their heads. The air smelled like pretzels and perfume samples and whatever cleaner the janitor had just used near the escalators.
Jordan’s arm rested around her waist\. His thumb brushed the skin above the waistband of her jeans every now and then. It was the kind of touch that didn’t ask anything of her, didn’t demand attention. She let herself lean into it just enough to feel steady without committing to anything more.
She held a pretzel in one hand, the salt already sticking to her fingers, and listened while he talked.
“So my sister’s out in L.A. now,” Jordan said, leaning slightly to steer them around a group of teenagers blocking the walkway. “Finance internship. Some private equity firm. It’s so typical.”
Mireya lifted the pretzel to her mouth and took a bite, chewing while she waited for him to keep going. She liked the way he talked when he got rolling, how he filled space without dominating it. How normal and mundane the conversation was.
“Of course some chick from Joliet is gonna go to Northwestern,” he continued, “then end up doing an internship in PE. Like it was all planned out.”
She swallowed and glanced up at him. “What’s typical about it?”
Jordan shrugged, his free hand lifting in a loose, dismissive motion. “Hoity-toity white people shit. You should hear how she talks about how I dress.”
Mireya smiled, eyes flicking down his outfit. The jacket. The shoes. “You do look like you’re dressing to be on a Starz series.”
Jordan tugged at the front of his jacket and shook his head. “I’m fly though.”
She laughed under her breath, biting off another piece of pretzel. The salt scratched pleasantly at her tongue.
He looked her over then, slow, the way he usually did. “We can’t all dress like IG baddies every day.”
Mireya rolled her eyes. “I hardly dress like this every day.”
“If you say so,” he said, laughing.
They walked in silence for a few steps. The kind of silence that didn’t feel awkward, just unoccupied. Mireya focused on the feel of the mall under her feet, the cool air against her arms, the faint tug of Jordan’s arm around her waist. She thought about how easy this was. How contained.
Somewhere ahead, a kiosk worker was calling out deals in a voice already worn thin. A couple brushed past them too close, the man’s shoulder grazing Mireya’s arm. Jordan adjusted without comment, angling his body so she was on the inside of the walkway again.
She finished the pretzel and wiped her fingers on a napkin, folding it and tucking it into her pocket instead of looking for a trash can. She hesitated, then tilted her head up toward him.
“Would you introduce me to your family?”
Jordan’s steps slowed just a fraction. His eyebrows pulled together as he looked down at her. “What brought that question up?”
She shrugged, keeping her tone light. “I’m just wondering.”
He let out a short breath through his nose. “This sounds like one of those TikTok trends where I’m not gonna be able to answer right.”
Mireya laughed and slapped him lightly on the chest. “It’s not. I’m really just wondering if you would.”
Jordan thought about it for a second, eyes forward now. “Yeah. I would. Why not?” He glanced down at her again. “We that serious that I need to be flying the parents down for Mardi Gras?”
She laughed and shook her head. “I don’t think we’re there yet.”
He pulled her a little closer as they kept walking, his arm tightening briefly at her waist. “What about you? You introducing me to your family?”
Mireya snorted before she could stop herself. “The last thing you want to do is meet mi mamá.”
Jordan laughed, loud and unbothered, and they kept walking together down the mall corridor as the noise and movement swallowed them back up.
~~~
The back porch sagged just enough in the middle that Laney could feel it through the chair legs when she shifted her weight. The January air sat cool and heavy against her face, not cold enough to bite but damp enough to seep into her clothes, the sort of chill that settled into joints and stayed there.
Laney pulled her jacket tighter without fully closing it, habit more than need. The porch light was already on even though the sun hadn’t fully dropped yet, casting a dull yellow halo that made the yard look smaller, contained.
She sat with one hoe hooked around the rung of her chair, elbow braced against the armrest, eyes drifting between the yard and Taela beside her. Knox, Braxton, and Hunter had worn a narrow path into the grass from running back and forth, sneakers thudding dull against the packed earth. The ball snapped into gloves with uneven rhythm, followed by shouts that rose and fell without much structure, breath puffing faintly in front of their mouths when they argued. Every so often one of them stopped to warm his hands by rubbing them together, then went right back to it.
Taela sat angled slightly away, one hand resting on the handle of the car seat by her feet. Her son slept hard, mouth slack, chest rising and falling in quick shallow breaths. Every few minutes she rocked the seat without looking down, a practiced motion. A thin blanket was tucked tight around him, edges smoothed flat, one corner tucked under his chin and retucked when it slipped.
Laney clocked all of it without comment. The way Taela never really stopped watching even when she looked relaxed. The way motherhood sat on her now, constant and backgrounded, never fully out of frame.
Taela glanced sideways. “So,” she said, dragging the word out, mouth tipping into a grin. “How’s your little boy toy?”
Laney rolled her eyes hard enough her neck cracked. “Don’t call him that,” she said. “Make it sound like I’m a cougar or somethin’.”
Taela laughed, short and sharp. “You basically are.”
Laney didn’t take the bait. She watched Hunter wind up and throw too hard, the ball sailing past Knox and bouncing off the fence. Knox yelled something unintelligible and chased after it, jacket flapping open as he ran. Laney made a mental note to tell him to zip it up before he caught a cold, then didn’t.
“I’m still just waitin’ for it to blow up in my face,” Laney said, tone even, “and enjoyin’ the ride while I can.”
Taela’s laughter cut off. She looked down then, adjusting the blanket over her son’s legs, tucking it tighter. The yard went quieter for a moment. The boys argued in lower voices over whose fault the missed catch was, the sound carrying softer in the damp air.
After a beat, Taela snorted. “That was a fuckin’ crazy way to put that.”
Laney blinked. It landed a half-second late, then clicked. She reached over and swatted Taela’s shoulder. “Get your mind outta the gutter.”
Taela barked a laugh, leaning away. “I’m just sayin’, that sounded wild.”
They fell into a softer quiet after that. Laney watched Braxton start tossing the ball underhand now, more careful, the game slowing as the chill crept in and energy burned off. She tracked the way Hunter kept checking the porch between throws, making sure she was watching, making sure she was still there.
Then Laney spoke again.
“Claire’s back in town.”
Taela’s head snapped over so fast the car seat rocked harder than intended. She stilled it immediately with her foot. “Claire Whitfield?”
Laney nodded once. “Claire Whitfield.”
Taela stared at her. “Where you see her at?”
“With Tommy,” Laney said. “Here. At the church.”
Taela shook her head, lips curling. “That frigid cunt.”
Laney huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Yeah. That’s one way to describe her.”
Taela leaned back, eyes narrowing as she thought, gaze unfocused now, pointed somewhere past the yard. “You know why she back?”
Laney shook her head. “Ain’t exactly goin’ talk to her and invitin’ her over for a book club meetin’.”
Taela smirked. “Plus side is you know she’s gonna fuck off in a couple months.”
Laney snorted, shaking her head. “I ain’t worried about her. I’m just tryin’ to figure out what Tommy doin’.”
Taela didn’t hesitate. “Being a fuckin’ dick like always.”
Laney lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “Can’t argue that.”
~~~
The table was sticky in that way old tables got when nobody bothered wiping them down anymore. Beer rings layered on top of one another like ghosts, some so old they’d sunk into the grain. A shallow cut ran along the edge where somebody had dragged a blade without meaning to finish the job. A single bulb hung low over the center, buzzing faintly, throwing yellow light that didn’t quite reach the corners of the room.
Trell sat with his elbows wide, hands out in front of him, palms open. Just enough to show he wasn’t hiding anything. His chair leaned back a fraction, balanced on habit more than intention. He could feel the tilt of the floor through the legs of it, the way the house sloped toward the back like it was tired of standing.
“What’s the problem, man?” he said, voice even. “You know I don’t like driving all the way up here through the boonies.”
Stevie leaned back in his chair. Heavyset, chains stacked thick on his chest, the gold catching what little light there was when he shifted. The chair complained under his weight, a dry wooden sound that filled the pause.
“I heard you been selling shit to them niggas cross town,” Stevie said. “Them Delta Mafia niggas.”
The room stayed still after that. It wasn’t silence so much as everyone deciding not to move yet. Ant didn’t change position. His hands stayed where they were, forearms resting on his thighs, eyes forward and flat. Dez stayed near the wall, keys looped through one finger, metal clicking soft against itself when he shifted his weight, eyes already half on the door like this wasn’t his first time waiting for a conversation to tip one way or the other.
Trell didn’t flinch. He tilted his head slightly, like he was considering the phrasing more than the accusation, like he was weighing how much energy it deserved.
“That ain’t got shit to do with you, respectfully,” Trell said. “You ain’t gonna tell me who I make money with no more than I’m gonna tell you who you make money with.”
Stevie’s jaw worked slow. He nodded once, just acknowledging the line had been drawn and wasn’t going anywhere. He leaned forward again, forearms finding the table, chains sliding and settling with a soft clink.
“The problem,” Stevie said, “is that lil’ midget nigga Jimmy ain’t got no respect. He keep trying to fuck on my baby mamas. It’s one thing to have a business problem. It’s another thing to make it personal.”
Trell glanced sideways at Ant. Ant’s face didn’t change.
Trell leaned back in his chair and let out a breath through his nose.
“I don’t know, big bro,” he said. “You should probably take that as a compliment that you knocking up bad bitches.”
The words landed wrong before they finished echoing. Stevie’s hand came up immediately, palm open, stopping the room in place.
“C’mon, man,” he said. “That’s my kids’ mamas you talking about.”
Trell lifted his chin, already adjusting.
“My bad,” he said. “My bad.”
He waved it off like the words had already passed, like there was no sense letting them sit between them longer than necessary.
“Look,” Trell went on, leaning forward again, forearms on the table now, hands closer together. “Come down to the city for Mardi Gras. Bring all your boys. We’ll have a good time, break bread, and put this shit behind us.”
Stevie turned his head, looking at Rob first. Rob sat slouched, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, chewing on the idea more than the words. Stevie looked to Earnest. Earnest scratched at his beard, lips pursed, gaze drifting toward the Saints poster like he was already picturing a different kind of weekend. Then Tiny, who just shrugged, shoulders lifting and dropping once, easy.
Rob spoke first.
“Bitches really be getting nasty out there for them parades?” he asked.
Trell smirked, the tension easing just enough.
“If they ain’t busting that pussy open at parades,” he said, “they definitely busting it open at the afterparties. We’ll make sure it’s on tap.”
Earnest laughed, a short bark that cut through what was left of the stiffness.
“Shit,” he said. “I’m down.”
Stevie let the moment sit another second, eyes moving back to Trell, weighing him. Then he shrugged, heavy shoulders lifting the chains.
“Aight,” he said. “We’ll see.”
Trell stood. Ant stood with him, smooth and quiet, chair legs scraping just once across the uneven floor. Trell reached across the table and dapped up Stevie, then Rob, then Earnest, then Tiny.
Ant followed, same order, same calm.
Dez pushed off the wall and stepped toward the door, shaking his head as he went.
