God Shall Forsake You
The air held that thin gray before sun showed itself. Dew clung to the seams of the turf and beaded on his laces. Caine set his phone down at the sideline with the screen face up and the volume low. The beat thumped under the hum of the field lights that hadn’t clicked off yet. Nobody else was out here. The stadium seats were dark shapes, the goal posts chalked in the half light.
He started with the line drill. Left, right, reset. Back pedal, plant, shuffle across, plant, climb. He let the cadence live in his feet and not his head. Toes quiet. Hips loose. Shoulders square. Every reset pulled the air in and pushed it out clean. The ground still kept the night’s cool, but his shirt gathered sweat at the spine.
Five yards forward, two shuffles, hitch. He mirrored the same work to the other side. The music on his phone rolled through a hook and into a verse and then fell under his breaths. He didn’t count reps. He worked until the movement felt like it belonged to him and then he worked it again.
He set two discs at different depths and ran the drop to each. Three quick, hitch, eyes up, weight under him, then a hard stop and a slide to the next spot. The only sound was his feet and the short slap of rubber when he checked down to an imaginary outlet. He reset the discs and repeated the pattern without looking for a clock.
The targets sat twenty yards out, light steel frames with pockets hung in faded canvas. Somebody from the building had dragged them out for him and left them by the numbers. He walked to them and straightened the nearest strap, then came back to the top of his mark.
Three step. Ball high. Wrist clean. He put it through the low right pocket and watched the fabric jump. Ball back to his hand. Same drop. Mid pocket now. He missed a touch left, the ball catching canvas and sliding out. He didn’t frown. He reset his feet and hit it twice in a row until the pocket gave the right thud.
He moved the targets a yard apart to tighten the window. The sky shifted toward blue and the edges of the bleachers took on shape. He rolled to his right with short steps, shoulders level, ball tight, then squared and fired to the high pocket. The frame shook once, metal complaining under the canvas. He jogged out, tugged the legs back to true, and jogged in.
From the opposite hash he worked the quick game. Catch, set, out to a taped square on the sideline. Catch, set, slant into the middle pocket. He kept his base under him and his front shoulder quiet so the ball left without a hitch. The music changed to another song he liked. He didn’t touch the phone.
He backed to the thirty and ran the full progression on air. Eyes through the first window to the second to the third. Feet matched his eyes. Ball out when it needed to be. He chased balance, not speed. The air held a wet green smell and the first gnats found him and then lost him when he moved again.
He took a knee long enough to roll his ankles and feel for any bite that would slow him later. Cleat points clicked against turf when he stood. He slid into a sprint to the far numbers and back, then ran a ladder of drops down the yard lines. Three and hitch. Five and hitch. Seven. Reset. Seven and a climb. The work stacked without comment.
He brought the targets closer and raised one to make an off-platform throw matter. He drifted left, opened his hips late, and drove the ball through the high pocket. Again from a different landmark. Same throw to the low pocket, shoulder closed, wrist quick. The canvas answered each time.
The skin on his fingers felt rough where the laces had ridden them. He turned the targets a quarter step and set them deeper to steal back a yard the sun had given the field. The song on his phone hit the chorus. He let it run and started over.
He set cones to mimic traffic and worked around them. Slide, plant, two hard steps, square, throw. He pictured nothing beyond the shape of the pocket he made with his feet and the space he held with his shoulders. He took one off his back foot to punish the lazy habit, then ran it again the right way until the bad one felt like the stranger.
He jogged forward, scooped a stray ball with one hand, and flipped it up without looking. The ball settled where it was supposed to settle. He knew he would be asked to be late and on time in the same breath when camp opened. The only answer he had was this. Feet exact. Ball honest. Again.
When the sun finally cleared the lip of the stadium, he toed the phone a little farther back into the shade, gave the targets one last pull into line, and started another cycle at the top. Early morning still held. Statesboro stayed quiet enough that the music and the ball were the only things talking.
~~~
The traffic barely moved. Heat pushed through the windshield and pooled in the car. Ramon let the seat take his weight and closed his eyes for a breath, head tipped back, jaw slack the way it did when he was trying not to grind his molars. His fingers tapped out a pattern on the wheel without him thinking, finding the pocket under the low thump spilling from the radio. The speakers buzzed on bass drops and cleared again. The smell of river water and exhaust drifted in through the cracked window.
Tyree rolled his own window down two inches and leaned out to see the lane ahead. Brake lights stacked in a line that felt endless. He slid back in and stared through the glass. “I don’t know why we suddenly working with these niggas. They ain’t cliqued up. That mean they ain’t loyal to nobody.”
E.J. shifted in the passenger seat. The pistol sat wedged between the seat and the console where his thigh could find it without looking. His fingers touched the handle and then lifted off. He did it again. “I ain’t even gonna lie. You ain’t wrong. They been around but a nigga get out of prison now we fucking with them?”
Ramon cracked an eye at him and then at Tyree in the rearview. He let his hand rest on the top of the wheel. “Duke said he know that nigga Trell daddy or some shit.”
Tyree sucked his teeth. “That don’t explain why we goin’ get shit from his ass.”
Ramon gave a small shrug. He looked at the line of cars, at the steel arch ahead, the sun bleaching everything until it felt hard to touch. “Guess y’all better keep them guns on you.”
A horn blew somewhere behind them. The line lurched and settled. The radio cut to a commercial bark and then slid back into the playlist. Tyree drummed his knee against the back of Ramon’s seat. E.J. checked it with a quiet click and set his palm over the grip. The bridge whined above them. From the open windows came the whiff of hot rubber and somebody’s loud argument in a car over.
They inched forward. Ramon rolled his shoulders and let his head rest again. He kept his eyes open this time, counting the gaps as they opened and closed. No one spoke for a minute. The song on the radio ate the silence.
…
Ramon pulled to the curb outside the house in Marrero and cut the engine. The block sat quiet except for music leaking from a backyard a few houses over. The last time they had stood on this street, the bass had thumped through walls and a dozen voices had been shouting over one another. Now, it was just daylight and cut grass and the broken bottle at the mouth of the driveway. A door opened and the sound carried, then stopped.
Ant, Dez, Trell, and two other men stepped out together.
Trell looked at them and didn’t make a face. “Y’all late.”
Ramon lifted his shoulders. “Traffic.”
Trell let the word hang, then turned without answering and walked along the side of the house. Ant jerked his chin for them to follow. Ramon glanced at Tyree and E.J., then moved.
The backyard was squared off and beat down to earth in places. A shed sat in the back corner. Trell stopped in front of it and turned to face them. He didn’t say anything. Ant and the other two moved to the concrete slab that ran along the shed’s threshold. They slid fingers to the edge, bent their knees, and lifted the front lip together. The concrete shifted and held, heavy enough to make their arms tremble.
Dez crouched and reached into the shadow under the slab. His forearm disappeared to the elbow. He came back with a sealed plastic bag full of capsules that knocked together in a soft rattle. He wiped grit off the bag with his palm and handed it to Trell.
Trell didn’t check the count. He set the weight in his hand a second, then passed it to Ramon. The bag felt dense and cold from the ground. Ramon gripped it once to settle it and let his hand fall to his side.
“Duke sent my money,” Trell said.
Ramon nodded. He didn’t add anything to it. He shifted his stance so the bag hung behind his thigh. Tyree and E.J. already had their feet pointed back toward the driveway.
They turned to go. Ant stepped in front of Ramon and pressed a hand to the middle of his chest, flat and not hard, just there. The touch held him. Ant’s eyes stayed steady. “I know where to look if something goes missing.”
Ramon met his look and nodded once.
Ant pulled his hand back and stepped aside. Ramon moved past him, the bag loose at his leg, Tyree close enough that his shoulder brushed Ramon’s arm. E.J. kept the doorway framed with his eyes as they crossed back through.
They climbed in the car and shut the doors. Ramon set the bag on the floor behind his calves and started the engine. Tires scratched the gravel and then found the asphalt. They slid down the block past a row of mailboxes leaning at angles.
Down the street, Tyree stretched his neck and looked out at the yards. He tucked his chin and spoke without looking at anyone. “You know that nigga Ant would be less scary if he was 6’4” or some shit.”
E.J. laughed, short and surprised. “What?”
Tyree tilted his hand back and forth. “That nigga 5’7”. He just gonna shoot you.”
E.J. shook his head and pressed his knuckles to his mouth. The laugh got away from him anyway. Ramon snorted and coughed out air that wasn’t a full laugh but felt close enough. He made the turn at the corner and the house dropped out of the rearview.
~~~
The boutique’s AC rattled and breathed warm, the kind of breath that only moved heat around. Mireya stood at the center table with a pile that had been destroyed in three minutes by a girl who left without buying anything. She pinched the hems straight and squared corners until the stack looked new again.
Paz worked a return rack a few feet away, sliding hangers into their sizes, tags facing front. The plastic sleeves clicked against the rod each time she nudged one home.
“These people don’t know what a small is,” she said, mostly to the air.
The office door cracked and Trina came out with her keys on a long strap. She clocked Mireya first.
“Girl, I was able to cover for your ass,” she said, not lowering her voice. “But don’t be calling out for two weeks no more. Arelle was on my ass all weekend about that shit.”
Mireya kept her hands moving. “My bad,” she said. “I’ll give you some more notice next time.”
Trina nodded like she had already decided to let it ride. “It’s all good. I don’t like this shit ass job either.” She laughed and let the strap bounce against her thigh as she walked the perimeter to look busy.
Paz cut her eyes over, then drifted closer with an armful of dresses.
“What’s going on with you?” she asked, voice pitched casual. “You been acting weird for a minute.”
Mireya shook her head. She tucked a tag under and pressed the top shirt smooth with her palm. “Nothing’s going on. I’m just getting used to working my new job.”
“How hard can cleaning be?” Paz said. She said it light, teasing, like she wasn’t trying to make it a thing.
Mireya’s hand stalled for half a breath. The stage came back in a flash—the looks on the customers’ faces as she danced for them. She blinked it away and shifted the stack.
“It’s not the work,” she said. “Just the hours.”
Paz made a face that was almost sympathy and almost side-eye. “Ask them to put you on days then,” she said. “So you not dragging in here.”
“I just gotta adjust,” Mireya said. She flipped the top she had smoothed and started the whole stack over, letting the muscle memory take the thinking out. She angled herself so she could see Paz’s nails, fresh and square, the cheap top coat catching the light.
“How’s the apartment with Angela?” she asked, like the question had just come to her.
Paz’s mouth softened. “It’s been fun,” she said, and the word carried the little pride of a new couch on layaway and a shelf they put up slightly crooked. “You gotta come back over now that everything’s set up.”
“Mm,” Mireya said, half smile showing. “Y’all got that smell out of that closet?”
“Girl, no,” Paz said, laughing. “But it’s cute. Angela got these dumb lemon curtains in the kitchen. You’ll see.”
Trina reappeared by the fitting rooms, pushing a curtain aside with two fingers, then letting it fall.
“Y’all see that one girl tore this place up and didn’t buy nothin’?” she called. “Had the nerve to ask for a discount ‘cause a thread was loose.” She snorted and disappeared again, her voice already rising at whoever was on her phone.
The speakers kept up their loop of soft songs that made the store feel expensive even when the AC couldn’t win. Outside, a bus exhaled at the corner and the windows shivered a little, sending the street’s heat smell into the room. The returns rack creaked. Paz clicked her tongue and moved another hanger down the rod.
“You sure you okay?” she asked, lower now. “You barely been here.”
Mireya didn’t look up. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Trina came across the floor again.
“I’m taking ten,” she announced, already headed for the back even though she had been gone most of the hour. “Y’all watch the front.”
The storeroom door shut behind her and her voice went sweet through it, baby talking to a man on FaceTime.
The heat sat on them. Mireya fanned herself with a folded return slip and then tucked it under the register mat. She took the messy stack apart again, shaking out each top so the fabric settled clean. Her phone buzzed where she had hidden it behind the counter. She didn’t reach for it.
Paz set the last return where it belonged and stepped back to look at the rack. She nodded to herself.
“It’s been fun,” she said again, thinking of the apartment, the lemon curtains, the smell of bleach that meant clean on purpose. “You have to come back over now that everything’s set up.”
Mireya let the smile open this time. She nodded. “Just let me know when.”
~~~
The first ball left the machine with a low cough and a rising hum. Laney set her weight back, tapped the barrel twice at the toes of the plate, and let the pitch come. The bat met the ball with a hard pop that ran up the aluminum and into her hands. The net shook high where the ball kissed the black rope and dropped straight down.
She reset without looking anywhere but the plate. Toes even. Hands stacked. The next pitch came hot and she loaded, heel down, stride true, hips driving through. Tuck the back elbow. Finish high. Another clean sound. The ball rode into the top of the net and settled in the pocket of a frayed square.
She breathed through her nose. No thoughts pressed in, nothing outside the tunnel of the cage and the machine and the small white circle coming at her. She tapped the plate again, one side then the other, and lifted the bat to her shoulder. The feed wheel hissed and turned. She rocked, planted, and turned the swing loose. Contact. Net. Reset.
Load. Stride. Drive the hips. Tuck. Through.
The rhythm sat in her wrists and in the line of her shoulders. Sweat gathered at her hairline and threaded down past her ear. A sting lived in the pads of her fingers where the grip tape bit. She slid her palm along the handle and settled again. The machine spit. She answered. The ball snapped off the bat and climbed.
She didn’t chase distance. She didn’t reach. The swing stayed inside the lane she gave it, hands quick, head quiet. Another pitch, and then another. Clockwork. She stepped out one beat, rolled her shoulders, and stepped back in. Tap tap. Set. See it. Go.
Clean again.
She let the bat tip forward and caught it in the same breath, a small correction she didn’t think about. The machine’s motor held a steady drone under the fluorescent lights. Rubber crumbs from the mat stuck to the knees of her jeans when she bent to tighten a lace. The smell of leather and oil hung under the sweet of old sports drink left open somewhere.
Another pitch arrived. She loaded, drove, finished. The ball found the same square at the top of the net and dropped. She eased a hand under the hem of her T-shirt and wiped her face. The cotton came away damp. She pulled her jeans higher on her hips and pulled the bat into her hands once more. Tap. Set.
The next three pitches came in a tight row. She matched them without hurry. One, two, three. Each landed high and true. She breathed, stepped out of the box, and slid the bat into the rack with the others. The machine wound down to a hush that still owned the room. Her pulse steadied in the quiet it left behind.
She pushed the cage door open with her forearm and walked through the long aisle toward the exit. The fans overhead turned slow and did almost nothing. She passed a bucket of scuffed balls, a pair of batting helmets with the foam cracked at the edge, a poster curling at one corner. Her hand found the metal bar of the door and the wet heat of the afternoon leaned in when she opened it.
Outside, the lot held heat in waves over chalked lines. She wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist and felt salt at her lip. Her phone rang from her pocket, the sound thin in the open air. She thumbed it on and lifted it to her ear.
“Yeah, baby? I’m on my way home now. Yes, I’m cookin’ chicken risotto for you, somethin’ else for the boys. Okay, see y’all there. Love you.”
She ended the call and slid the phone back into her pocket. The van waited two spaces down, sun beating on the windshield. She pulled the door and it gave on the first tug. The seat was warm. She set both hands on the wheel, looked once in the rearview at the empty rows, and turned the key. The engine caught and held. She buckled, rolled her shoulders once, and eased the van into reverse.
~~~
The apartment held its breath after the video call ended. The little blue light on the tablet winked out and the bedroom door stayed shut. Mireya lay on the couch with one ankle tucked under the other and the afghan bunched near her ribs. Camila’s soft, steady breathing came through the wall like a tide she didn’t want to disturb.
The knock landed too sharp for the hour. She sat up fast. The room tilted once before settling. She slid her feet to the floor, toes finding the seam in the rug, and moved to the kitchen without turning on a light. The drawer hissed open. She wrapped her hand around the knife handle and let the cool of the metal put her spine back in place. Another knock. Three beats. She eased to the door, out of sight of the peephole, then angled in until her eye met the glass.
Jaslene. Alejandra behind her shoulder. Hayley on the end with too many glossy bags looped over one wrist. Lakeside logos glowed in the hall light.
Mireya rolled her eyes and let the chain catch the door. “Camila’s asleep.”
“We’re gonna be quiet,” Jaslene whispered, lifting a bag the way people lifted offerings. “Promise.”
Hayley nodded, smile already soft. “We got manners.”
Mireya stood there one more breath, the knife still warm in her palm, then slid the chain and opened the door wide. She angled her head toward the bedroom. “Just go sit.”
They flowed in on a hush of perfume and mall air. Alejandra’s bracelets clicked.
Hayley looked around and said, “Your place is nice,” in that bright way she always had when she wanted a room to feel easy.
“Thanks,” Mireya said, closing the door with a thumb on the bolt. She set the knife on the counter and wiped her hand on her shorts before joining them.
That was when she really saw the bags. Not one or two. A small storm. Alejandra put hers on the coffee table with a satisfied little sigh. “It’s for you.”
Mireya frowned. “What?”
Jaslene dropped onto the couch and crossed one leg over the other. “We were going to take you shopping. Something told me you would be stubborn about it. So, we did it for you.”
Hayley set her bags down last, like placing a cake. “We got some good shit, too.”
“I can’t pay y’all back for this,” Mireya said.
“It’s a gift to our new friend,” Jaslene said, easy.
She reached into the nearest bag and pulled out a top that looked the opposite of shy. Thin straps. Short hem. Mireya lifted it by two fingers. “Y’all sure y’all got the right size?”
Alejandra slid into the armchair and tucked one foot under her. “Mexicana, we’ve seen you naked.”
Hayley grinned. “I used to work at VS. I got a good eye for sizing.”
Mireya sat next to Jaslene, the cushion sinking them closer than she expected. She sifted through tissue and tags, the paper whispering as she moved it. Colors she didn’t usually reach for. Soft things. A dress that would need a certain walk. She set it down and glanced at the closed bedroom door, then back to the bags. “Where am I supposed to wear this stuff?”
“Wherever you want.” Jaslene’s arm settled along the back of the couch. Her fingers found the tail of Mireya’s ponytail and began to toy with it without thinking.
“I don’t know if that’s me,” Mireya said, with a small gesture that took in the table and the couch and the whole stack of new.
“Yes, it is,” Alejandra said.
“Life’s too short to not wear pretty things,” Hayley added. “I mean, what else is it for?”
The room didn’t push her to answer. The AC clicked. A car slid by on the street, music low. Mireya looked down into another bag and touched a skirt that felt like water. She pulled her hand back and asked, “Why y’all not working?”
“Because I’m not going to Hammond,” Hayley said.
“Yo tampoco,” Jaslene said, no hesitation.
Mireya snorted. “That’s why I skipped out on tonight, too.”
Alejandra leaned her head back against the chair and made a face. “I don’t know why Stasia doesn’t keep the shit in New Orleans. The money is always so bad in those country places.”
“That’s a boss question,” Jaslene said.
Mireya nodded, the math running itself. She lifted her eyes. “Can I… ask how y’all keep the money consistent enough for—” she tipped her chin at the bags “—doing this kind of shit?”
“You gotta do private dances,” Hayley said. “VIPs.”
Alejandra nodded. “The men? They love seeing everything up close and person.”
“I don’t know about doing all that,” Mireya said. “Like, that’s a lot.”
“That’s why it’s a guarantee,” Jaslene said.
“Hay otras maneras,” Alejandra said, switching lower, a little too casual.
“Ignórala, está borracha,” Jaslene cut in, quick like a hand over a glass.
Hayley blinked. “Y’all forgetting I don’t speak Spanish?”
That broke the line. Mireya laughed, and Alejandra did too, and Jaslene pressed her fingers to her mouth as if to keep the sound from spilling down the hall. Hayley laughed last, shaking her head, eyes bright.
Mireya let herself sink back, crossing her arms over her chest like she was holding heat in. A nail found her teeth. She watched the bags with their neat little ropes and thought about space and how close a stranger would be in a room with the door shut and the music on. She bit the nail and tried to picture the first step, the second, the weight shift, the place to put her hands, where a customer would put his hands.
Jaslene pointed at a dress and started telling Hayley how she’d get the same one if she was shorter. Alejandra drifted into a story about some guy in a bar that she punched for touching her. It washed over her. Mireya stayed quiet, breath shallow, eyes on the bags, the thought opening just enough to feel its edge.
~~~
The TV threw a soft blue across the room and washed the couch in a dim pulse. Netflix kept the movie moving even when the plot went thin. Rylee lay on his chest, legs tucked up, ankle crossed over ankle, the toe of her sock tapping now and then against his thigh. Caine had his feet stretched toward the coffee table. A folded napkin sat on the wood where a cup should go.
Rylee reached forward without lifting fully off him and found her drink. Ice clicked. She took a slow sip and set the cup back, an inch to the left of the napkin. The water left a bright circle that started to bloom.
He leaned forward, which made her head slide. He moved the cup onto the napkin and set it down with three fingers at its rim.
“My bad,” he said.
She looked at him for a beat, amused, then settled her head back where it had been. The movie went on. A chase that didn’t need to be chased. Her breath laid a steady weight on his shirt. He kept his hand easy at her shoulder and watched the light change on the wall.
A few minutes later she reached for the cup again. She drank. She set it back off the napkin again, a little farther away this time.
He leaned and slid it over. The napkin took it back like it had been waiting.
Rylee’s laugh slipped out. “It ain’t that serious, Caine. It’s a raggedy Wal-Mart coffee table.”
He nodded once. “Yeah, you right.”
The quiet settled again. Traffic on the main road outside turned into a soft rush and then disappeared. The AC breathed and then held. The movie’s volume ran low enough that their own breathing sat on top of it.
When she reached for the cup a third time, she did it slow. She set it even farther from the napkin, then sat up, eyes on him. She waited.
He leaned forward and brought it back to center.
“You got OCD or somethin’?” she asked, folding a knee under herself and leaning on the armrest now.
“Nah.” He kept his eyes on the screen and shrugged.
She tipped her chin toward the kitchen. “You got them boxes lined up in there like they ’bout to ship out. You measure that with a ruler or what?”
“I don’t think that’s OCD. That’s just being neat.”
“There’s bein’ neat and there’s what you do.” She pointed past his shoulder. “Look at your little box of notebooks over there. Stacked up perfect.”
He reached down and slid the small box farther behind the couch with the back of his hand. The edge of cardboard rasped against the floor. “Just like shit put together, where it go.”
She stood and carried the cup to the kitchen. Water hit the steel with a quick note when she dropped the ice out and left the cup in the sink. She came back and folded herself against him again, her head finding the same place on his chest like it had its own memory.
“You just like Laney,” she said. “She always cleanin’ shit. Probably how you lasted so long workin’ there. Both of y’all some OCD motherfuckers.”
He laughed under his breath. “You could learn some things about cleaning.”
“I’d rather die than spend more than ten minutes cleanin’ tables, floors, all that shit.” She stretched out and put her toes under his calf for warmth.
He let the thought of a house where ten minutes was the cap pass through his head. He kept his mouth straight and his eyes on the TV. The napkin held the cup’s place neatly on the table, its edges squared to the wood grain.
Rylee traced a line at the hem of his T-shirt, picking lint and flicking it away. “You ain’t even watchin’ this,” she said, not a question.
He smiled without showing teeth. “It’s on.”
“Mmm.” She breathed out, a little sigh that matched the AC’s soft push. She turned her face toward his neck and spoke into his skin. “You gotta admit it’s kinda borin’.”
He didn’t rush to agree or disagree. He lifted the remote and eased the volume down until the soundtrack dropped into the background of the room.
“See?” she said, grinning. “Better already.”
Her eyes went to the kitchen again. The counter boxes sat in a clean row. The dish rack held two pans, a plate, a glass turned mouth down. The light over the sink put a thin shine on the faucet. She looked back at him. “You really got it all set up in here, huh?”
“You acting like being clean is crazy.”
“That is crazy, honey.” She put a finger to his chest and tapped twice. “But you cute so no one gonna say nothin’.”
He let the taps move the fabric and didn’t catch her hand. On the TV the hero finally made a choice that should have happened twenty minutes ago.
Rylee pushed up to sit. “This shit borin’,” she said, head cocked, mouth gone playful. “You wanna go to your room?”
Caine let the remote rest on the couch cushion. His hand fell back to his thigh.
He shrugged a little. “Yeah.”
