courtship

a ‘snowflake’ novel

Nia Forrester

Copyright © 2019 Stiletto Press

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Stiletto Press

Philadelphia PA 19109

www.niaforrester.com

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Book Layout © 2016 BookDesignTemplates.com

courtship/ Nia Forrester -- 1st ed.

For those struggling to begin again.

Ibrahim Carter needs to chart a new course for his life. Having returned home after almost a decade in prison, he is no longer father to a young son nor husband to a deferential wife. Now, his son is a father himself, and his wife, Jada, is a woman changed by her newfound independence.

Struggling to figure out his future, his marriage, and most especially his very identity, Ibrahim finds that to move forward, he must look back …

Over the course of one weekend, he and Jada revisit the first heady days of their young and often immature romance, remembering the courtship that ripened into love, and trying to decide whether the bond they once shared can be revived or is gone for good.

1

Now

Ibrahim opens his eyes around four a.m. as is his habit. He sits up, and next to him, Jada mumbles in her sleep, turning onto her side, facing away from him.

Lowering his feet to the floor, he slips out of the room and into the hallway. He showers, pulls on some clothes and leaves the house. It is still dark outside, and his mind is drawn to his son, about an hour away. Kaleem will already be up and training with his coach. He has a new one, because it is mere months from the Olympic Trials. The previous homegrown approach to workouts has given way to more professional, expensive training. The pressure is on, especially since Kaleem is now a father—and Ibrahim a grandfather—to a six-month-old baby boy. His name is Anwar.

It means, ‘light’, Kaleem explained, his voice filled with pride. Anwar Ibrahim Carter.

And Ibrahim smiled.

Anwar looks like both his parents. His complexion, currently that of a roasted peanut will ripen to a richer, darker hue, and his eyes are the same light-hazel as his mother’s, with the same short, dense, spiky eyelashes like a mink’s coat. Anwar has Asha’s disposition, smiling easily, and content to lie quietly in his crib or play alone, occasionally gurgling to himself, or bursting out into loud, high-pitched shrieks as if testing to make sure he still has a voice in this world. His nose, his lips, his ears are Kaleem’s, and he reminds Ibrahim of what his son looked like as an infant.

Like I spat him out, Kaleem likes to say. And Asha rolls her eyes, but smiles indulgently.

About two months after Anwar was born, Ibrahim spent a weekend with them. In the morning, when Kaleem woke up to run, Asha got up as well, and breastfed their son, sitting on the sofa next to him while Kaleem put his runners on and prepared to leave the house.

Once, walking in on the moment, Ibrahim apologized and retreated to the second bedroom their voices trailing behind him. Kaleem and Asha talk all the time, their apartment always filled with the sounds of their voices, narrating to each other innocuous details about their day and the hours they were apart.

Bruh peeled out of the parking lot at like, ninety, I’m tellin’ you …

… is the meanest teacher in the whole school, and I kind of hope they fire her before I get back … I guess that makes me mean.

I was so high off that run, baby, I almost jumped over the car instead of getting into it …

… Wonder if I’ll always have this little pooch now. I should start running with you again.

Kaleem makes Asha laugh, and when Ibrahim looks at her with his son, he sees a light in Kaleem’s eyes that no one else—except now, Anwar—can ignite.

Ibrahim found himself wishing that he and his wife talked as much. They used to, but not now. Now, there is often silence in their house.

When he first came home, they talked. Well into the night, and for weeks afterwards, they had long, meandering conversations and bouts of spontaneous lovemaking. But that, too, has slowed and almost stopped.

The very first time he touched Jada, after he came home from prison, Ibrahim was hesitant, slow, and embarrassed that his hands trembled. He was afraid of the strength of his need, and that he might hurt her.

Jada was patient, and kept saying that it was okay, that he could go slow, that it was okay … okay … okay.

Her saying that had an effect that was opposite of what she probably intended. He was not reassured. It made him worry that prison had not only stripped them of their easy intimacy, but of her belief that he could please her as a man.

They managed it that night, though the first time had been too quick, and no doubt unsatisfactory for her. He waited until he was ready again, and the second time had been better, but still, not good enough. He wanted to try yet again, but Jada said it was okay … okay … okay. And so he just held her until she fell asleep.

He did not sleep as easily. Or, really, at all, until early the next morning after he was finally able to make her pant and perspire and moan his name the way she used to before his own reckless actions and the State of California had splintered his family, and separated him from his wife.

Making his way down the block to Free Range, the newest café in the neighborhood, Ibrahim notes that the streets are quiet, deserted, and clean. All the gangbangers are gone and in their place are signs on almost every block about city council meetings, and neighborhood parties, farmers’ markets and garage sales. Free Range is open twenty-four hours because the couple who owns it, lives on the upper level and have a rotating cast of characters who staff it around the clock. The couple is young, and friendly, and blonde and perpetually suntanned. The guy wears flip flops all the time no matter his attire, and occasionally he dons skirts, which bear Polynesian prints.

It’s called an ie lavalava, he told Ibrahim when he caught him looking.

And then he launched into a soliloquy about how he didn’t really buy into the whole “gender binary thing” especially when it came to something as meaningless as the garments one put on their body.

That’s cool, Ibrahim told him, though all he was doing was just hoping dude would stop talking.

His name is Martin, and his partner’s name is Thea. That’s what he calls her, his “partner.” Funny, the changes in meaning that word has gone through in Ibrahim’s lifetime. But while he was in prison, it came to mean ‘life partner’ or ‘domestic partner’. Apparently straight people use it now as well.

Though the streets are quiet, and it would be an ideal morning for it, Ibrahim no longer runs as often. He lost the habit when he was in prison for practical reasons, and afterwards, found that he did not enjoy it as much as he used to. When he started, many years ago, it was because it gave him an outlet for the urge he had to move, to get things moving, to get ahead. Now, he has a different impulse—to sit still, to contemplate, to enjoy and appreciate. He is not as hungry as he once was, and that worries him.

Sometimes, he still runs with Kaleem; though not lately now that he has had to train harder. Kaleem can run circles around him, and that makes him proud.

“Mr. Carter!”

He approaches Free Range and finds the front door open, and Thea on her knees wiping the glass with cheesecloth, holding a bottle of organic cleaner.

She stands upright and smiles at him, wiping her hands on the thighs of her jeans and setting aside the cleaning tools to take one of his hands in both of hers. She does a little bow when she greets him, a habit she says she picked up in India, where she once lived on an ashram.

Although he is aware that she’s a cliché, Ibrahim likes her. She has that kind of blonde hair that always looks frizzy and dry, and out of control. She doesn’t do much with it, except pull it back with a scarf once in a while. Stray strands are always wafting out of nowhere into her greenish eyes, and she swats them away impatiently.

She reminds him of someone. He can’t remember who.

“Lemme guess,” she says now. “Spinach omelet with egg whites only.”

“You got it.” Ibrahim nods. “I’ll help out while you’re doing that and put these up.” He indicates the folded umbrellas for the outdoor seating, still folded, and stacked in a corner.

“Yeah, thanks. That’d be cool. It’s going to be a real scorcher today, apparently.”

While Thea goes in to make his breakfast, he unfolds the umbrellas one by one and chooses a place to sit. When seated, he takes the time to look around and sees that the neighborhood is still quiet, the soft light beginning to sharpen around the edges.

He has left his phone at home. Having a cell phone with him all the time is something he still hasn't become accustomed to.

You can’t do that, Ibrahim! Jada said to him once, when she returned from work and found his smartphone abandoned on the entryway table.

He discovered her sitting on the sofa, the device clutched tightly in both her hands. She was still wearing her scrubs from work, eyes rimmed in red.

I didn’t know what to think! she continued, her eyes still a little wild.

You should think I forgot my phone, he told her, calmly.

And then she dropped the phone to the carpeted floor at her feet, put her face in her hands and began to cry with an energy that seemed disproportionate to the circumstances.

It was like that at first, after he came out. Like she wasn’t sure she knew him anymore, and didn’t know what to expect. It stung that she thought there was any scenario, any circumstance that would have him walking out on her without a word. But the gulf between them is undeniable. They are new people now, and have not yet completely re-learned each other.

When Jada works a long shift, as she did last night, his wakefulness unsettles her, making it difficult for her to fall and stay asleep. That is why Ibrahim leaves the house. She sleeps better, he thinks, when he is not there. And yet, paradoxically, his absence also makes her uneasy.

“Here we go!”

Soon, Thea returns, bearing a tray, but on it are three plates. One with Ibrahim’s omelet, another with scrambled egg whites and avocado, and another with whole grain toast. There is also a decorative teapot, and two teacups.

“Do you mind if I join you?” Thea asks.

“Of course not. Please.” Ibrahim gives a brief nod.

Thea sits in the chair opposite him. She has pulled her hair back more securely and is now wearing sunglasses atop her head. She pours them tea.

Ibrahim smiles at her and then shuts his eyes to say a brief, silent blessing over their meal. When he opens them, Thea is staring at him.

“Were you praying?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“To whom?” Thea’s head falls to one side.

Ibrahim’s eyebrows involuntarily lift.

“I mean … what religion are you?” she amends.

“I believe in the existence of the Divine, the Most Holy.”

Thea smiles. “That’s not really an answer though, is it?”

Ibrahim shrugs. “I don’t have a religion,” he tells her.

“And I don’t believe in God,” Thea says conversationally.

“No?”

“No.” Thea picks up her fork. “The world is just a random, violent place. And we have to take from it whatever joy we can find.”

Staring at her for a moment, Ibrahim feels a sudden sadness.

“You’re too young to have such a grim outlook,” he says.

“You don’t think it’s random and violent?” Thea asks. “The world?”

“Sometimes violent. But never random.”

“If you really believe that, Mr. Carter, then you must have been a lucky, lucky man.”

“Ibrahim,” he says. “Please. Call me Ibrahim.”

Thea takes a bite of her eggs and shuts her eyes for a moment to savor the taste.

“Where’s your … partner?” Ibrahim asks, stumbling over the new terminology.

“Martin?” Thea says. “He’s with Michelle tonight. I mean, that’s where he was last night. Probably be back soon.”

“Michelle,” Ibrahim repeats.

Thea shrugs. “We’re poly. Michelle is his girlfriend.”

To mask his surprise, Ibrahim lifts the teapot and pours himself a cup.

“You’ve probably seen her,” Thea continues. “Brownish-blonde hair cut short. Kinda masculine-of-center?”

Masculine-of-center. Another term to become acquainted with. He will look it up later to be sure, but it sounds self-explanatory. There were less polite terms when he was coming up, which Ibrahim later trained himself not to use, because they are too finite and too definite. They deny people the complexity of their identity and their humanity.

Ibrahim thinks he has seen Michelle. She dresses in overalls, long and short, and an assortment of boots. She doesn’t shave her legs, but one side of her hair is completely buzzed down to the scalp.

“She works here sometimes,” Thea continues. “Will probably work today, when she comes back with Martin. If you’re interested in meeting her.”

The way she’s babbling about this Michelle sounds hyper-casual, like she is trying to speak into existence, an acceptance of Martin’s other girlfriend.

Young ‘uns today, Ibrahim thinks. The things they lie to themselves about.

He happens to believe human beings are territorial in nature, like wolves, like lions. And the effort to intellectualize themselves into sharing that which they may want to be theirs alone seems more strenuous than he could imagine.

When he was incarcerated, there were endless painful nights, wondering where Jada might be, and whether somehow, someway, another man had reasoned, seduced, or tricked his way into her heart and into her bed. It was easier not to have too much contact with his wife while he was locked up, because then he wouldn’t have to fear hearing the gradual fading of affection in her voice. He had seen it happen to other men inside and watched their despair and powerlessness as romantic and family bonds dissolved right before their eyes.

Ibrahim hadn’t allowed himself to hope that Jada had remained his while he was away. He simply told himself that it had to be so. And if not, when he got out, he would make it so—woo her back from a new lover and reclaim her if he had to.

But Jada had remained constant. And, if his instincts were correct once they finally made love that first time after his return home, she had remained celibate as well. He couldn’t imagine having to share her.

“How’s the tea?” Thea seems to have sensed his momentary withdrawal.

“Excellent,” he says, taking another sip in confirmation.

“Good. There’s an interesting story behind it …”

There are always interesting stories these days.

A fine cotton shirt woven by nuns in Southern Italy.

A dark-roast coffee so smooth, so unique that it saved an entire impoverished Cota-Rican village.

Or a guide-dog trained by happy and fulfilled maximum security prisoners.

This is, as far as Ibrahim can tell, an entirely new social phenomenon. People must now justify their comforts. To have anything, you must prove that you have taken nothing from the Universe, only given something back of equal or greater value.

It is a philosophy he appreciates, but the way it is displayed and discussed with such self-satisfaction, is tedious.

By the time Thea has finished her “interesting story”, Ibrahim has finished his omelet. He reaches for his wallet.

“No, no,” Thea says with a shake of the head. “I appreciated the company.”

The shadow of Martin passes between them, as does her not-quite-convincing nonchalance about him being with someone else.

“I baked bread.” She stands and reaches for their tray. “I’ll bring you a loaf. Still warm. You can bring it home to … your wife?”

Ibrahim nods. “Yes. She’ll be waking up soon.”

Thea nods and picks up the tray. Ibrahim stands to help her, but she shakes her head again.

“I’ve got it,” she says, sounding almost testy. “Let me get you that bread.”

As she walks away, Ibrahim has the distinct feeling that he’s let her down.

He takes a twenty out of his wallet. Whether she likes it or not, he’s going to pay for his meal. And since twenty dollars would be an overpayment for a spinach omelet and a cup of tea, even in a hipster joint like this, he intends to consider it payment for the bread as well.

When Thea returns with the bread in a bag, her eyes immediately fall to the twenty in Ibrahim’s hand. Her shoulders drop almost imperceptibly, as does her smile. With the money in hand, he has altered their time together from neighborly to transactional.

“Here.” She hands him the bread and takes the money without looking at it again. “Fresh out of the oven.”

For the first few seconds as he walks away, he senses her watching him leave, but when he looks over his shoulder she is already inside. She was hoping for something, he knows now.

Maybe she didn’t even know what. Maybe just a brief connection with someone other than the man she lives with, who tells her through his nights with another woman, that she is not quite enough.

~~~

The block is coming alive by the time Ibrahim is halfway home. Dog-walkers, early shift-workers and the like are out and about, along with a few runners. When he gets back to the house, he’ll call Kaleem, hear how his workout went this morning, have some idle conversation for a while.

He is still struggling to make up for lost time with his son, after being out of contact for almost the entire time he was in San Quentin. Although they seem to have moved past it, there are times when it is painfully obvious just how long he was not around. There are friends, experiences, and references that Kaleem has to explain to him and get him up-to-speed on. It happens, not that frequently, but more often than Ibrahim likes. Kaleem has to tell him who a name he mentions is, or say that yes, actually he has been to that place, seen that movie, or heard a particular fact that Ibrahim is himself only just learning.

That his son is a man, and not the boy he left behind when he went in still occasionally comes as a complete surprise. Like when Ibrahim hears his deep rumble of a voice on the other end of the phone.

You hit the pavement today, old head?

That’s the other surprise, the ease and comfort of Kaleem’s tone sometimes, the way he talks to him like they’re homeboys. Friends. The respect remains, but now there is a collegiality that sometimes takes Ibrahim aback. He doesn’t quite know whether to be happy about it, or feel that he has lost something, missed a developmental step in parenthood.

He mentioned that feeling to Jada once and she shrugged.

I’m just happy he speaks to you at all, Ibrahim, she said, ruefully. There was a time when I wasn’t at all sure he would.

He hears her stirring in the bedroom as he opens and then shuts the front door behind him. He’s not sure whether it was his absence that woke her, or his return so he goes to the bedroom. He finds his wife lying atop the sheets, her smooth, dark brown legs fully exposed along with one bare butt-cheek. She is on her side, one arm extended beneath the pillow, her hair wrapped up tight in a purple satin headscarf.

As he enters, she turns a little and surveys him.

“Where’d you go?” she croaks.

“Free Range.” Ibrahim sheds his shirt, toes off his sneakers.

“Why?”

“You were tossing and turning. Wanted to give you a little space.”

“For that, you could’ve just gone out into the living room.”

Grunting, he shrugs, then sits on the edge of the bed preparing to remove his pants. It’s still early, and she doesn’t look like she’s planning to get up anytime soon so may as well lie down with her. It’s rare that they get focused togetherness these days.

“You sure that’s where you were?”

Ibrahim turns to look at her.

“Because …” She stops and bites her lower lip to stop herself from continuing.

“Because what?” he asks gently.

“Because you’ve been doing that a lot lately. Leaving me in bed asleep and leaving the house. Just going out without warning, and …” Her voice trails off.

“What’re you askin’ me, baby?” he says, making sure his gaze holds hers.

He waits, and she says nothing.

She says nothing, but Ibrahim can feel her contemplating whether to speak her doubts out loud.

Or maybe she’s wondering whether she really does have doubts. But there are very few reasons a man leaves his woman in bed to go elsewhere. And most of those reasons don’t bode well for a marriage.

2

Now

“Nothing,” Jada says, shaking her head. “I’m not asking you anything. I just … You never seem to want to, I don’t know, be here.”

Ibrahim is looking at her, reading her expression. He’s the only person in her life who has ever been able to do that, and then come up with precisely the right answers about what she is thinking, feeling, considering. With him, she is exposed.

“Where else would I want to be?” he asks quietly.

“I don’t know.” She sits up. “When the baby came and you went to Kaleem’s, it was like you didn’t want to come back. I called you and you seemed so comfortable there.”

She stops herself because she’s sounding petulant now, childish. Like she has been storing up grievances. But it’s been more than a year since he’s been home, and she is beginning to despair of them ever being to each other what they once were.

“I just wanted to spend as much time as I could with my grandson. It didn’t have anything to do with you. And you couldn’t come because you had work.”

“I know.”

Work. She didn’t even like to think about work, because it was one prominent but unspoken bone of contention between them. She was still the only one in the household with a job.

It was hard, harder than either of them had ever imagined, for Ibrahim to get a job of his own. He was tall, he was handsome, and he was articulate. That always counted for something to get him past an initial interview and on a few occasions, even to the final stage of the process.

There would be a few days of optimism, and certainty that things were about to turn around. Then came the disclosure of his criminal record, or the “routine” background checks. And after that, there was often silence. Previously enthusiastic prospective employers ghosted him or explained in a terse phone call that they “decided to go another way.” Some of the jobs were so menial, it was embarrassing that he even needed to consider them, and it was much more humiliating when he was passed over.

Having another adult in the household since he had come home made things only marginally more expensive—mostly in food costs—and Jada worked more hours to make up the difference. The extra hours translated to missed dinners, late evenings and early bedtimes when she was home. Ibrahim picked up the slack, cooking, doing the laundry, and repairing things around the house until there was nothing left to repair. But Jada could feel his mortification. He didn’t want to be a house-husband. He was not that kind of man. In his eyes, that kind of man wasn’t a man at all.

“It felt like you wanted to … These days it feels like you want to get away from me.”

Ibrahim’s face softens. He slides a hand across the space between them and grasps her by the ankle.

“I already spent more time away from you than I wanted to spend in this lifetime.”

Moving closer, he rests a hand on her calf, then coming closer still, on her inner thigh.

Jada holds her breath, anticipating and wanting more.

They don’t have sex often enough, and the last few times, it felt like they were checking a box. While he pleasures her body, it feels like most of her husband’s mind is a million miles away. He gives her only those parts of himself that are necessary to perform the mechanics of the sex act.

Here is where I touch her to make her moan …

Here is where I kiss, lick, enter her …

But now, he is looking at her, and seeing her. He turns, and kneeling, reaches forward to peel her underwear off from the waist, never losing eye contact.

Part of Jada wants to stop him, because sex means they might not speak. And afterward, she may even fall asleep again, because she is still so damned tired, and this is her only weekend off this month. She almost always sleeps after Ibrahim makes love to her. If they do now, she will be physically sated, and completely wrung out.

Is that what he wants? To placate her? To distract her?

Lovemaking with Ibrahim does that. It is almost impossible to think anything but the most rudimentary thoughts.

The first time after he got out was that evening. They filled the day with other activities first. He had been released very early, and Jada went to pick him up alone because Kaleem was still at school. When she asked what he wanted to do, he said he wanted to go to a park, any park.

And he wanted to see the ocean. So that was what they had done.

After the park, they ate at a place that one of Jada’s co-workers had mentioned, overlooking San Francisco Bay. It had a lavish buffet brunch with seafood cooked just about every way a person might think of, eggs made to order and a bounty of tropical and exotic fruit. She had always wanted to go but was too self-conscious to do so alone. Ibrahim ate with his attention divided between her and the view.

They didn’t speak very much.

Later, after an entire day of sightseeing like tourists, they sat through a dinner, as awkward as breakfast had been, at a restaurant that boasted ‘Best Steaks in Oakland!’ because Ibrahim said he was craving one. He, who had barely eaten red meat before he went in, said all he wanted was a big, juicy, medium-rare ribeye. At the steakhouse, nervous as teenagers on a first date, they had trouble eating everything on their plates. Hanging over the meal was the knowledge that they had exhausted every other location they could think of and would soon be going home where the most fragile and pressure-filled part of their reunion would take place.

Back at the house, Ibrahim walked through the rooms slowly, taking in all the changes, commenting occasionally on how nice she had made everything. Then he went to the bathroom where he took a very long shower, curls of steam escaping beneath the shut door.

Jada fidgeted while he was in there, then paced, then finally undressed and waited for him in the bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed in only a silk robe, trying to control her trembling.

When Ibrahim emerged, it was only with a towel wrapped around his waist. Her eyes absorbed every detail of his new, yet familiar physique, and when she lifted her eyes upward, she saw his throat bobbing repeatedly as he swallowed.

She patted the bed next to her and he sat.

Wanted to wash the stink of prison off me, he said.

His voice was hoarse and deep. It resounded off the walls of the bedroom. There hadn’t been a man there in so long.

Jada nodded in response, finding that she could not speak. The words, whatever they would have been, were stuck in her throat. She touched his leg, and he tensed a little, then slowly leaned in to kiss her. He tasted like toothpaste, and Jada had to refamiliarize herself with his tongue and the way it moved inside her mouth.

He took his time until they found their stride, and the kiss began to feel so good, Jada almost didn’t notice when he slid the robe off her shoulders and pushed her back onto the bed.

He moved above her, removing the towel so she felt him hard against her stomach and gasped, reaching down to hold him in her hand. He jerked at that, and gently shoved her hand away.

I want to be inside you, he said against her neck.

He was slow, and tentative, the way he had been on their wedding night more than two decades earlier. Like he couldn’t trust himself not to be rough. Once he entered her, he was frustrated and embarrassed when he came almost immediately.

But Jada had been relieved.

She had heard stories from other women whose men had been locked up. There was a support group at her church, which had more than two dozen members—Partners of Incarcerated Men it was called. No one objected to the limited nature of the name, and thus, of the group. What of incarcerated women and their partners, after all?

Despite that, there was no shortage of members. They met on Thursday evenings in the church anteroom and shared their struggles and triumphs. It had been a lifeline for Jada when Ibrahim was inside. She rarely missed a meeting.

Since pastor made it clear that the group was a judgment-free zone, many of the concerns the women shared were secular, or sexual. Some confessed to sleeping with other men while their partners were locked up. Some just for the physical release, but others were in full-blown relationships, setting aside any thought of how they would handle it when their mate came home. Others indulged in risky, casual hookups, rationalizing that if the liaisons were temporary and occasional, they weren’t really cheating.

And then there were the women whose men had already come home, who spoke of knowing, just knowing by the way their men had sex with them, that they had probably “had relations” while they were in prison. The women used lots of veiled language and references to explain this, but the implication was clear—sexually speaking, men often returned from prison different than they went in, and in ways that women couldn’t always anticipate, and might hesitate to broach with the men themselves.

So, Jada had harbored a little secret worry, wondering whether the Ibrahim who came out, might be someone she didn’t recognize.

But he had been just about the same. Just a little hesitant. And the way he reacted to being inside her was adequate reassurance that there was nothing she needed to know about what he might have done to satisfy a sexual urge while he was locked up. Afterward, she felt guilty for even thinking it. Ibrahim as she knew him was disciplined and had a will of steel. Mindful that he was a married man, he would have chosen celibacy in a heartbeat.

Now, he is no longer the tentative and cautious lover he was when he first came home. He tosses aside her underwear and pulls her even closer. Jada’s knees are slightly bent. Ibrahim rests her legs over his shoulders and lowers his head between them.

At first contact, she pulls air between clenched teeth and lets her head fall back, pressing it into the bed. She is surrendering all thoughts of the conversation they need to, but still have not had.

Ibrahim has always owned her body. From the very first time he touched it, it belonged to him. And it belongs to him still, even as sometimes, other parts of her seem poised to drift away and leave him behind.

That thought, of leaving Ibrahim behind, causes her to gasp again but this time from the unexpectedness of that idea, rather than from the pleasure his tongue is giving her. But she can ignore it all she wants, it is still there, the growing emotional gulf between them. It is an active fissure that will take some active effort to fix.

She comes with a sudden burst of breath, beneath which is a sharp cry.

Ibrahim rests his cheek on her now damp thigh, waiting for a few moments until her labored breathing slows. Then he moves up, kissing the inside of her leg, her hip, her stomach, her breasts, until they are face to face.

He looks almost unchanged since he went to prison, except now there are subtle threads of gray in his beard. His body is still firm. In fact, it is firmer, stronger, leaner. His arms are still as thick as ham hocks, his back, buttocks, legs, enviably fit.

Women look at him all the time, and some search for his gaze, daring him to look back. When that happens, Jada feels something searing hot in her chest, and she is reminded of when they were much younger, and even girls walking down the street and glancing his way felt like active threats.

Even now that they are both on the other side of forty-five, the idea of Ibrahim with anyone other than her can still make her heart feel like it might go up in a blaze and turn to ash.

“Baby,” Ibrahim says as he enters her.

There is nothing else. Just that: baby.

Jada instinctively puts her arms up and around him.

When he is inside her, she feels impossibly, thoroughly, completely full. Ibrahim waits, as he always does. She gives a gentle upward tilt of her hips, and only then, he moves. Slowly. He pushes himself in to the hilt, pulls back a fraction, then more, and more until she is making a strange noise in the back of her throat and begging him not to pull back too far, or God forbid, pull out entirely.

“Ibrahim,” she protests, when it feels like he might be about to do just that.

“Yes,” he says, answering but not heeding.

He pulls out and back. He slides upward and against her clitoris, pressed between their bodies, slick and smooth.

“Oh God …” Jada moans and clutches his ass, digging her nails into it, hoping to urge him to enter her once again.

He plays with her for a few minutes, occasionally pulling back just enough so that she anticipates a thrust that does not come for a while. And when it finally does, she is so wet, that her body relents effortlessly.

Then they are rocking against each other, moving with the adept rhythm of two people who know each other’s bodies almost as well as they know their own. Jada’s climaxes arrive, two of them in quick succession, cresting and then very gradually subsiding. Ibrahim’s movements are sparing until she settles.

The next round is for him, but still, he takes her along. Jada’s body, already tingling and sensitive, irrationally, impossibly, responds yet again. And when Ibrahim grunts out his release, she is also panting, gulping and barely able to catch her breath.

His weight is resting on her, only partly braced on his elbows. She likes how that feels. He long ago learned that when he tries to pull away, or roll over, she will hold him in place, so he no longer does it. Now, he waits until she is ready to let him go.

“Okay?” Ibrahim asks after a moment when their breaths have slowed.

“I don’t know,” she says, lips against his shoulder. Her voice is a croak. “I don’t know.”

~~~

On the Saturdays when she isn’t working, she and Ibrahim run errands together. Grocery shopping, mostly. When the time comes to hand the cashier the debit card, Jada often makes herself busy or pretends to be distracted so that Ibrahim is the one who must pull the card out of his wallet and hand it to the checkout person. It’s become a habit, though she can’t recall when it began.

This morning, she preoccupies herself with the magazines, pretending to be engrossed in Vanity Fair when the cashier announces their tally. And Ibrahim does what he always does, and takes out the card to pay. But as they make their way out of the store, each of them carrying two bags he turns to look at her.

“You don’t have to do that, y’know,” he says.

“Do what?”

“It doesn’t matter who gives them the money. You and I both know who put it all in the account.”

“Ibrahim …”

“When you do that? Take all those … counter-measures to prevent me from feeling small? It does the exact opposite of what you want it to.”

“I’m not taking …”

He looks at her and the message in his eyes is clear: we’ve never lied to each other, let’s not start now.

Swallowing hard, Jada nods.

In the car, headed back to the house, neither of them speaks. They remain silent once they get there and are unpacking the groceries.

When they’re done, Ibrahim leans against the kitchen counter and looks her over. He is wearing just a simple white shirt, dark jeans, and runners. In his case, age really is nothing but a number. She can still see the young man he was when they first met.

“Let’s go out,” he says. “Go have lunch somewhere.”

The suggestion is a surprise, especially since the tiff they just had was about money, or kind of about money.

But Jada nods anyway.

Outside, when she heads toward the car, Ibrahim briefly touches her hand.

“We’ll walk,” he says.

She hesitates, only because it is warm, and if they walk a long way, she’ll have to wash and twist her hair again, a several hours’ long enterprise because her hair is so long, and so thick.

She is forty-six, so it occasionally enters Jada’s mind that she might be due to think about shorter hair, but Ibrahim loves it long.

“It isn’t far,” he says, reading her hesitation.

They walk next to each other, their arms occasionally brushing, but they don’t hold hands. Jada wants to reach out and grasp his, but doesn’t, because she isn’t sure what this excursion is about.

The neighborhood, as they walk through it looks different to her. She knew it was changing, of course, but she most often sees those differences from the inside of her moving car. And when she isn’t in the car, she is getting out of it, only to head toward a very specific location—grocery store, bank, post office.

Those fly-bys don’t give her the opportunity to truly see what she is seeing now. That there are trendier cars. Fewer young men in undershirts and sagging jeans. Fewer teenage girls posing at the corners, waiting for one of those young men to show them a little attention.

Now there are people jogging, walking dogs, planting flowers. There are some holdouts, older Black and Latin couples whose children have long moved away, mixed in among the younger set, new homeowners—mostly white—who are undaunted by the label “transitioning neighborhood” and have chosen this place to set down their roots.

When she and Ibrahim bought their house here, the neighborhood wasn’t exactly a “bad” one, but it wasn’t good either. She wasn’t sure about it as a place to live, but he was.

These are our folks, he said with confidence. We understand them. We’ll be okay here.

It was probably more accurate to say that they were his folks. He was California born and bred, while her family was from South Carolina. Her parents had been on the West Coast for decades by the time she and Ibrahim met, but still considered themselves newcomers and southerners, and had lived cautiously, carefully in a much more family-friendly neighborhood than the one that Ibrahim chose for his new family. Jada had grown up sheltered like a South Carolinian girl. Ibrahim had opened a door, in more ways than one, to a new life.

They are walking only for ten minutes when they happen upon the sidewalk café. The outdoor seating is shaded with grey umbrellas. The small clapboard building, painted dove-white also has a grey awning. It reads ‘Free Range’.

Jada looks at her husband, a question on her lips that she doesn’t have time to speak aloud before a blonde girl with frizzy hair rushes up to them.

“You’re back!” she says, looking at Ibrahim.

“I am.” He puts a hand at Jada’s waist. “This is my wife, Jada,” he says. “Jada, this is Thea. She owns the place with her partner, Martin.”

“Good to meet you, Mrs. Carter. Mr. Carter—Ibrahim—is one of my best customers. Came in our first week, and I see him at least a couple times a week since.”

Jada smiles uncertainly and takes Thea’s proffered hand.

“Are you two having lunch?” She indicates the open tables.

“Yes. Thank you. But inside, if you have room,” Ibrahim says.

“Of course.”

They follow Thea into the cool interior and are given a seat at the window. The inside is charming, with rustic wood floors, rough-hewn furniture and a glass-front display case with baked goods, and open barrels of grains, and loaves of bread in paper bags, like one might see in an old-style general store.

Thea hands them menus, printed on stock the color of a brown paper bag, and with the same texture. There are only about a dozen selections.

“Thank you,” Jada tells her before she glides away.

She isn’t sure why Ibrahim would bring her here. She knows about Free Range, of course, because it made a splashy entrance to the neighborhood, displacing a corner store owned by a smiling old Mexican couple, the Ortegas. When the Ortegas began planning for their move back to Mexico, as Jada recalled it, they were happy. They had saved enough to build a house in a small village close to where Mrs. Ortega had grown up, and with the sale of the building would have enough to live out their years comfortably without working. But the rumor around the neighborhood, stoked by fear and resentment of any newcomers was that the Ortega family had been forced out by higher taxes.

It wasn’t true, but the spirit of the rumor seemed valid enough, and Free Range became a lightning rod for a short while until some of the neighborhood’s newer residents were slowly seduced by its homey and welcoming façade.

Jada had never been inside before, though she knew Ibrahim occasionally came here. She didn’t know he came often enough for the proprietor to call him by his first name.

“So, this is where you were this morning,” she says, not looking up from the menu. She isn’t seeing or absorbing anything on it.

“This is where I was,” he confirms. “This is where I am most of those mornings, when you wake up and don’t find me next to you.”

At that, Jada lifts her head, worriedly searching his expression.

“What is it you’re trying to tell me, Ibrahim?” she asks.

“That this is where I go,” he says simply. He leans in, and indicates a young man behind the counter, talking to a customer. “That’s Martin. Thea’s partner.”

Jada nods, still not sure where he is heading with all this.

“He’s not here as much as Thea, so I wind up talking to her mostly. Which suits me fine. Because he’s a poser. Rich kid who’s living out some anti-capitalist liberation fantasy while still making a lot of money.”

One corner of Jada’s mouth lifts in a half-smile. Ibrahim, and his discerning mind.

“Thea is more real, I think. But conflicted. See that girl over there?”

He points out a short, stocky young woman with a head shaved almost clean on one side, and a shock of spiky dark hair on the other. “She’s also Martin’s partner. They’re poly.”

“Poly?”

“Polyamorous. Non-monogamous. Thea told me that this morning when I was here, eating my spinach omelet and drinking a cup of tea. And we talked about God, and religion. She doesn’t believe in either. I told her I only believe in the Most Holy, but not in religion.”

“Ibrahim, I don’t …” Jada put down her menu. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say. What is this all about?”

“I got home this morning.” He is speaking slowly. “And you looked at me with doubt. My wife looked at me and didn’t know for a moment that she is my everything. And she wondered whether there might be someone, somewhere … something that made me stray from her.”

Jada blinked back the sudden tears.

“And I can’t have that. Ibrahim shakes his head. “So, I want you to know where I go, what I do when I’m there and who I talk to. Because I want you to understand that there is no part of me, no part of my life that I will ever deny you access to if you ask.”

Ibrahim reaches for her hand, holding one of hers in both of his.

“I can’t lie, baby,” he says, lowering his voice. He sighs. “I’m up against the ropes right now. I don’t know. Maybe we both are. But we’re not down for the count. Not yet.”

3

Then

The strange, sweet yet pungent smoke was weed. Jada knew that much. Not that she had ever consciously smelled it before. But it was one of those weirdly identifiable odors, like the rotting corpse of a dead animal—you knew what it was immediately, without even knowing how you knew.

“You alright?” Dee momentarily turned away from her friend, a guy in a blue football jersey whose name Jada had missed when they were introduced.

“Yeah. I’m fine.” She tried to make her voice sound airy and casual, but honestly, she was having a lousy time.

This is a real ‘hood party, Jada, Dee had warned her. Ain’t no nice prep school boys over there where we gon’ be at.

So, Jada wasn’t about to admit that she thought she was prepared but hadn’t been. She hadn’t given much thought to what a “hood party” entailed. All she knew was that she was restless, and her parents’ temporary inattention about where she and Dee might be going seemed too rare an opportunity to pass up.

The overpowering scent of weed was only part of it. The entire set-up at the party was weird. They were at a house, except no one seemed to live in the house. When they walked through it to get to the backyard where most people were gathered, they passed by the living room which was sparse. There were only two mismatched sofas and a large-screen television, around which a bunch of guys were watching a boxing match, some of them with girls perched on their knees.

Then they went through the kitchen, but that, too, was barely furnished. And when Jada dodged by a few people to get to the bathroom, she noticed two bedrooms with doors ajar. People were inside, sitting or sprawled on bare mattresses on the floor, and the remains of takeout meals were scattered around. There were no personal effects of any kind in view—no pictures on the walls, no items of clothing hanging on doorknobs, nothing to indicate that anyone had an interest in taking care of the place, or making it look even somewhat presentable.

She wondered whether they were all trespassing in an abandoned building, but when she asked Dee, her cousin had laughed at her like it was the dumbest question she had ever heard. Jada didn’t know what was funny.

Once they got to the backyard, Dee’s eyes searched the crowd for a few moments until finally she seemed to resign herself to something and fell into conversation with the football jersey guy. He nodded when Jada was introduced and handed her a red Dixie cup, then left to get himself another. But just as Jada was about to taste the contents of the cup, Dee had snatched it out of her hand and poured the contents into her own.

From the smell of it, it was malt liquor. She didn’t mind Dee taking it, because she had tried it once, and hated it right away. But she took the empty cup back from her cousin anyway, because almost everyone else was holding one and she didn’t really have anything else to do except that—hold the cup, sway to the music, pretend to be having a good time.

“We can leave in a minute,” Dee told her. “I thought … oh shit.”

Then she turned abruptly away again and resumed her conversation with the Raiders jersey guy.

Looking around, trying to find the cause of Dee’s alarm, Jada spotted him right away.

Immanuel Carter had just emerged from the house. Stepping out into the backyard, he surveyed the scene in much the way Dee and Jada had earlier.

Immanuel, or “Manny” as Dee called him, was her cousin’s boyfriend. And although, to hear Dee tell it, he was “a dog, a straight up and down dog” they had one of those relationships that were both committed and not committed at the same time. It was like they were stars in a dramatic play, where the main cast of characters was comprised of just the two of them and other people rotated on- and offstage, never being elevated from their role as temporary bit-players with fleeting appearances.

The trouble usually started when the bit-players forgot themselves and tried to take one of the starring roles. Recently, there had been “some bitch from over by Fruitvale” who tried to take Dee’s spot, and when Manny didn’t correct her quickly enough, Dee retaliated. So now they were broken up, though Jada had no confidence that things would stay that way for very long.

“Don’t look at him!” Dee hissed when Jada’s eyes lingered in Manny’s vicinity.

But Jada wasn’t looking at him.

She was looking at the guy next to him.

His brother, for sure, or some other close relative. Though Immanuel had the kind of devious handsomeness that would always get him lots of female attention, his maybe-brother had a smoldering, pensive and to Jada’s eye, much more interesting look.

Heavy-lidded, intelligent, almost watchful eyes, and an ease of motion that contrasted with Manny’s boastful, bouncy gait. Both were dark in complexion, but unlike Jada’s cool darkness, their skin seemed lit with a golden-brown light, making their cheekbones, chins, and square jaws more noticeable.

While Manny’s expression was open and approachable, the other guy’s was closed and difficult to read. And Manny had shorn his hair close, while his maybe-brother had cornrows.

Jada hated cornrows on guys. Her father always spoke of that style on men with disdain, calling it “field-hand hair.” That feeling of derision had rubbed off on her, because involuntarily, the phrase rang in her head whenever she saw it: field-hand hair.

Young men who wear their hair like that? It speaks to their life prospects, her father said. In other words, they have none.

She felt none of that derision now though.

“Who is that?” Jada said into Dee’s ear. “The guy with Manny.”

“I told you, stop looking over there!” Dee snapped.

Jada forced herself to turn away, but not without one last look at the smooth, silky blackness of Manny’s companion’s heavy eyebrows, the full lips, slightly darker than the rest of his complexion. Something in her stomach fluttered a little when she looked at those lips.

It didn’t take long for Manny to spot Dee and come toward them. He didn’t seem to see anyone but Dee, and didn’t even acknowledge Raiders jersey guy before he said a few words to her and pulled her away to talk.

“Be back in a short, Prophet,” he said over his shoulder.

And Jada was left standing there, alone except for Raiders guy and … Prophet? Was that what Manny had called him?

Sneaking a look in his direction, she realized he was looking at her as well. He held out a hand.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Ibrahim.”

Ibrahim.

She smiled.

His voice was like Manny’s as well. Jada was sure now, that he was his brother. Younger by a few years though, probably about her age.

“I’m Jada,” she said, taking the hand. It was warm, rough.

She was surprised by how calm she sounded when inside, her stomach was roiling with excitement, like something she had been waiting for, without knowing she had been waiting for it, was finally happening. And she wasn’t even sure what that something was.

She held his hand and shook it. And smiled yet again because shaking hands seemed like a strangely formal greeting for someone who, from the moment she saw him, felt very familiar.

~~~

“How’d you wind up at this party?”

They were sitting on the curb outside, between two parallel-parked cars. They were close together because the space between bumpers was less than three feet. Prophet’s legs were stretched out in front of him, and Jada did the same, noticing how much farther his legs went than hers, and the size of his feet.

She felt dwarfed next to him, but pleasantly so, like if he turned and wrapped her in his arms, she would disappear altogether.

“I’m just escaping a paper for AP English,” she said semi-honestly.

Really, she was escaping boredom in general. Whenever she was with Dee, something exciting seemed to happen.

“What’s the paper about?”

“Black radicalism from the early sixties through late seventies,” Jada said.

Prophet nodded. “Because of Huey?” he said.

“Yes. Because of Huey.”

Just a month earlier, in Lower Bottoms, Huey P. Newton had been shot dead on the street, only minutes away from what had once been the headquarters of the Black Panther Party. And although it took less than a week for a young man to be arrested and charged, people were still talking about it. They especially couldn’t seem to get over one tragic detail—that the motive for the killing was supposedly a drug deal gone bad.

The idea, that a lion of the latter day Black civil rights movement had died trying to buy crack cocaine on the very same streets where he once worked to develop nutrition and healthcare programs for poor Black citizens of Oakland had been heartbreaking to hear, and folks were still reeling. Even Jada’s father, as conservative a man as they came, had for two weeks after news of Huey’s murder, sometimes spontaneously stopped in the middle of doing something and shook his head slowly, sadly, and in recurrent disbelief.

“You think he was a ‘radical’?” Prophet asked.

Jada shrugged. “That’s how people talk about him, so …”

“Is that how you plan to talk about him in your English paper?”

“I don’t know,” she said, realizing she hadn’t really given it that much thought.

“I guess that’s how they’d see it though, huh? Young, Black men and women working together for the good of their community. That’s ‘radical’ to them. But then for him to get shot doing a dope deal? They probably feel like now the world makes sense again.”

She didn’t ask who he meant by “they” and “them.”

“I never thought about it that way,” she admitted. “I was going to write about how it’s kind of weird when you think about it. How, like … his destiny was tied to those streets. That he’d die there, in the same place where he spent so much of his life trying to make things better … Anyway … it’s just weird.”

He was watching and listening so intently that she stopped and shook her head, embarrassed at having run on like that.

“Anyhow, that’s what my English paper is about.” She let her gaze drop to the street, still feeling his eyes on her.

“What’re you doin’ here, for real?” he asked again his voice quieter. “At this party.”

“Same as you. Babysitting.”

Prophet laughed. “Who you think I’m babysitting?”

“Manny, probably. Dee told me all about him. About how … unpredictable he is.”

“She’s one to talk.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” She shrugged. “But that’s part of her charm.”

“Manny’s too.”

“Then they’re in there somewhere being charming together, I guess.” She inclined her head in the direction of the loud house, happy that she was no longer in there herself, or milling around with the crowd in the backyard. She liked it precisely where she was.

“And we’re out here.”

“Yeah,” she said, blushing again. “We are.”

His eyes fell to her lips as she spoke, making Jada wonder whether her lipstick was smudged, or might be too bright. She didn’t usually spend a lot of time obsessing about whether guys thought she was pretty or not.

But tonight, she was thinking all kinds of stupid things, like hoping the streetlight didn’t hit her face at a weird angle and make her look ghoulish, and that her hair hadn’t turned dull and lusterless from the humidity.

In maybe an hour or so, Dee would come looking for her, and she might never see Prophet again, unless she “made an impression” and made him want to seek her out or ask Dee about her. And he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would be easily impressed. He seemed like the kind that girls tried to impress.

“You know there’s a pretty good chance she won’t come back, right?”

“Who, Dee?” Jada shook her head. “No, she’ll definitely come back. She wouldn’t leave me.”

“You sound sure.”

“I am. She’s too terrified of my father. And she told him we’d be back by midnight. She wouldn’t leave me or let anything happen to me.”

Prophet grinned full-on at that. His teeth were bright in the dim light.

“You have a curfew?”

Sticking out her chin, determined not to let the fact that she had concerned parents be cause for embarrassment, Jada nodded.

“That’s good.” His smile faded. “’Cause girls like you shouldn’t be out at places like this too late.”

“What’s ‘girls like me’?” she asked.

“Girls who’re in AP English.”

Jada smiled.

“This whole entire city probably needs a curfew,” he added.

Then before she could object, or even knew what he was up to, he was taking off his button-down and handing it to her.

Hesitating only for a moment, Jada took it and pulled it on over her top. It smelled like that new earthy, masculine cologne that girls were going crazy over, and had begun spraying on the sleeves of their sweatshirts so they could get a whiff that reminded them of their boyfriends.

“Lemme …” Ibrahim reached over and helped her button it up high enough that her red top wasn’t visible at all anymore, and then he folded the sleeves to her elbows. When his fingers, brushed against her arms, she remained very still, concentrating on the sensation, memorizing it.

Once the sleeves were rolled up, her eyes met his, and Jada swallowed hard. Suddenly, the meaning of the gesture, him handing her his shirt and then helping her cover hers made sense when coupled with his comment about ‘this party’ and ‘places like this’. As did the significance of his blue plaid button-down over the plain white tee, and his blue-and-white K-Swiss sneakers. The blue football jersey guy. The blue t-shirt Manny was wearing. Blue, everywhere she looked.

“I didn’t kn…”

Ibrahim shrugged. “Why would you?”

“Thank you,” she said, her voice a near-whisper.

“It’s not just Dee,” he said. “I wouldn’t let anything happen to you either.”

4

Then

It wasn’t always like they said on television. They were always trying to make things sound all dramatic. To be affiliated, you didn’t have to shoot a stranger in the head or get beat within an inch of your life. Being associated with a set—as opposed to becoming a member, which was something else entirely—wasn’t easy, but it was easier than something like that should have been.

For Prophet, it had happened just by kicking it with dudes he had known all his life—his friends, friends of his brothers, dudes his father did business with. And as he got older, he performed a  series of seemingly small tasks for them, moving packages from one place to another, sitting around on rooftops and paying attention to movement in the streets—the movement of people it was important to track, the movement of undercover detectives who were never quite as undercover as they thought they were.

And gradually, he began to get paid for that work. Some of the older dudes slid him a few dollars here and there, and then even more dollars so that over time the pay was more than decent. Much too decent to pretend the work itself was innocuous.

But Prophet didn’t ask questions. His discretion and incurious nature were respected, as was his preference to move alone. He moved faster, and more stealthily if he was on his own, and he focused better on his surroundings if not accompanied by some swaggering, shit-talking, big-mouth. When people questioned his long-wolf quality, his brother Manny spoke up for him.

This nigga cool as ice, he’d say. Cool as ice.

And soon everyone else adopted that mantra when describing him.

Prophet? That nigga young, but he cool as ice.

Cool or not, when you did his kind of work, it was important for people to know who you were with. Because it was sometimes the only shield you had. Your colors were your identification and protection. But those things were a double-edged sword. Wrong colors, wrong place, and things could go very, very badly, very, very fast. Those were the stories that most often made the news—red car riddled with bullets; twelve-year-old in a blue Little League uniform shot and left paralyzed—the irrational, mindless shows of force.

Contrary to popular belief though, they weren’t animals. Unless there was an all-out war afoot, and as long as people respected territorial boundaries, common sense prevailed. A pretty girl showing up at a certain kind of party in red would draw attention. But then most people would do what Ibrahim had done—size her up, see who she was rolling with, and conclude, as he had, that maybe she didn’t know. Maybe, she was just that naïve.

And if she had wide-open dark eyes filled with Bambi-like curiosity; if she smiled shyly and let her gaze drop to the ground when you looked at her; if she talked about writing a paper on Huey P. Newton and Black Radicalism for her AP English class? Well, that would be all the confirmation you needed. She didn’t know.

And her greatest misstep was having come to the party with dumb-ass Dee, who did know, but had probably been too self-absorbed, too preoccupied with getting her boyfriend back that she didn’t think about how she was walking her little cousin into a sea of blue, dressed in a top the color of blood.

~~~

“My father is going to kill her.”

“Told you,” Prophet said. “When those two get together, it’s like …”

“Nothing else matters,” Jada finished for him.

Then she got that dreamy look in her eyes that girls always got when they thought something was romantic.

It was past one a.m. and though they had relocated from the space between the parked cars to leaning against the gate in front of the house, where they would be clearly visible if someone were looking for them, there was still no sign of either Dee or Manny.

Prophet didn’t want her to panic, but he thought it was obvious they had gone off together somewhere else entirely and lost track of time.

“If push comes to shove, I could take you home.”

“Would you?” Jada looked hopeful.

He shook his head. “This is where you’re supposed to say, ‘thank you, but I think I’d better wait for my cousin.’”

She looked puzzled. “But you offered.”

“And you don’t know me like that,” he countered.

Jada rolled her eyes.

“I don’t know how you even make it through this world,” he said almost to himself.

But she wasn’t in this world. Not his world anyway. Maybe she was from the one where you could go to parties and meet guys and talk to them for a few hours, and then get in a car with them and drive away, confident that you would get to your intended destination unharmed.

“We’ve been out here talking all night,” she said laughing, like he was the deluded one.

“We’ve been out here talking, so now you know me?”

“A little bit, yes. I know you have two brothers. I know their names …”

“I told you all that. How you know any of it is true?”

Jada ignored him and kept talking.

“And that you hate Cap’n Crunch, but because you hate going to the grocery store even more and it’s your brothers’ favorite you wind up having it every day.”

Prophet grinned, already having forgotten how that topic came up in their hours’ long conversation.

“I know you’re really smart by the way you listen more than talk. I know that when you think something’s stupid or questionable, you bite your lower lip to avoid saying it’s stupid or questionable. And I know by the way your brow knits just the tiniest bit when you say their names that even though you’re the youngest, you feel responsible for your brothers and worry about them.”

The grin fell from Prophet’s face.

“I know you don’t have a mother, even though you didn’t say so, because something in your eyes changes when I mention my mother. But I know that when you had your mother, you loved her very much. Because you ask me questions a mother would ask. I think those questions were once asked of you.”

His eyes were fixed on hers. She didn’t look away and didn’t even miss a beat.

“I think there’s a lot you question about the world, about your world, like the way you questioned the label, ‘Black radicalism.’ I know that you have ideas that you’ve probably never shared with anyone; because you don’t think they’d understand them and you’re not sure you understand those ideas yourself. And I know …” Her voice slowed and softened. “I know you’re the kind of guy who takes the shirt off his back to give it to a girl he isn’t even sure knows enough about anything to see past his colors to know the kind of person he really is.”

Prophet’s heart wasn’t just beating hard now, it felt like it was hammering against his ribcage. It felt like he could hear it, like she could hear it.

His lips parted as he prepared to speak, when out of nowhere, there was Dee, and Manny.

“Jada!” Dee practically shrieked, as though she wasn’t the one who had gone MIA. “Where you been? We have to go … Damn!”

~~~

“You comin’ or what?”

“I can’t. I ain’ got no ride. Why you don’t come over here and get me?”

“Nah. Forget it.”

“Prophet, I said I would come. I just need the ride.”

“You know I don’t have a car, Breonna. Just forget …”

“Borrow your brother’s car. Or …”

“Forget it,” he said yet again. “It’s late anyway.”

“So what? I can still …”

“I’ll catch up with you later.”

He hung up before she could say anything else.

He didn’t really want to see Breonna. What he wanted was to sleep, and to un-see Jada. She said she was seventeen.

About to turn eighteen, she added a little too quickly.

What’s ‘about to’ mean?

In ... At the beginning of next year, she said finally.

Prophet had smiled then. He suspected from the way she said it that “at the beginning” was probably more likely sometime like March or even April. She’d looked down at her red sneakers and scuffed the toe against the asphalt a little, uncomfortable with even the minor untruth.

Seventeen. He was glad he’d asked. If she was older, he would have kissed her while they were sitting there on the curb between those cars. But seventeen though …

When Dee and Manny finally showed up, Dee’s hair was flat in the back and her t-shirt looked like it had been crumpled up into a ball before she put it back on. Manny was chewing on a toothpick sticking out of one corner of his mouth and had that lazy-eyed, just-got-laid look. Prophet guessed he and Dee had been in a car somewhere all the time they were gone. Reaffirming their commitment, or whatever.

Panicked by the late hour, Dee hadn’t even given him and Jada enough time to say ‘goodbye’, ‘cool to meet you’, or anything else. She just dragged her by the arm down the block where her car was probably parked.

Prophet watched them go and when Jada looked back over her shoulder, putting a hand up to the collar of his shirt, which she was still wearing, he’d shrugged to let her know that he didn’t mind if she left with it.

After that, all Manny was interested in was coming home, which was cool with him. But while his brother had gone in and fallen directly asleep, Prophet was hyped-up and restless. He tried television for a while but couldn’t focus. Breonna was his next idea for how to mellow out a little but now he was relieved that she couldn’t make it over to the house.

Pacing back and forth in the living room, he turned the television on again, but didn’t watch it. He knew what he was feeling was frustration, but not sexual frustration, exactly. It was a sense of wanting some hard-to-name thing. He wasn’t sure how long he paced before there was a pounding on the wall, coming from his father’s room.

And then his voice, annoyed, impatient.

Prophet! Take your ass to bed! Or go si’down somewhere! Hell is wrong wit’chu makin’ all that noise?

It was only then that he noticed it was almost three a.m. He stopped pacing, turned off the television and went into his bedroom to try to get some sleep.

It seemed like only minutes had passed, but it had to have been hours before he opened his eyes again. Cool hands had crept up under his sheets and were making their way across his chest. A warm body was arranging itself alongside his. At first he was too groggy to be puzzled, then another hand reached under the waistband of his boxers.

Bolting upright, heart pounding Prophet pulled back to find Breonna looking at him, her expression mildly amused. It was still dark outside.

“Just me,” she said, holding her hands up.

Prophet ran a hand over his face and shook his head a little to clear it.

“What you doin’ here?” he asked, his voice rough from sleep. He looked toward his bedroom window. It was still dark out.

“You called me,” she reminded him.

Glancing at his clock-radio, he made a sound in the back of his throat.

“Almost three hours ago. And you ain’ have a ride.”

“I got one.” Breonna started peeling off her top, a pink t-shirt with a picture of a popular girl-band on the front.

“Bree …”

“What?”

Under the shirt, she was wearing a white cotton bra. The kind female athletes wore.

“You didn’t need to …”

“When my man calls, I come,” she said, reaching for the waistband of his boxers once again.

She said it casually, but Prophet knew she was testing him, prodding at the boundaries of their relationship to see just how far he would let her go.

“You know I’m not your man. So let’s just get that shit straight right off the top.”

She sighed, looked away from him and turned onto her back. “You know what I mean.”

“I’ma get some sleep. You don’t need to …”

She sighed again, but when she spoke, sounded resigned. “I came all the way over here. And you mean to tell me …”

“But why you gotta make it so easy, Breonna?”

“What?” She sat up, her hair swinging and cascading to one side.

“I called you, and you couldn’t come. I didn’t volunteer to come get you even though I could. What’s that tell you?”

Her lower lip trembled a little.

“Don’t make it so fuckin’ easy,” Prophet said again. “Anything worth having don’t come just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

At that, Breonna turned away from him and swung her legs over the edge of his bed. He saw now that she had already removed her jeans, or sweatpants or whatever. One of his brothers, or his father had to have let her in.

Before she could stand, he grabbed her arm.

“Look,” he said. “I didn’t mean …”

“Yes, you did,” she said. But she had relaxed already and wasn’t trying to pull away.

He could still have her, he realized with a kind of sad wonder. Even after what he just said, he could still have her if he wanted to.

“C’mere,” he said, pulling her toward him, lifting the sheets so she could get under them again. “Where was you at all night?”

“Nowhere. My auntie’s,” Breonna said, arranging herself in front of him. “Just … chillin’. Where were you at?”

“A party. Over there by … It was wack, anyway.”

Seasons. That’s the only reason I’d want to move to the East coast, I think. To see the summer turn to fall, and then to winter. I have this picture in my head. Probably some fantasy from books or watching TV or something. Of me playing in the snow like a little kid.

He and Jada had been talking about whether people on either coast romanticized the other—New Yorkers secretly wondering whether Californians had a cooler life and vice versa.

And then she had turned and looked at him, biting in the corner of her lower lip, her pert nose wrinkling as she did. Her eyes were shining, her black, black hair beginning to expand and halo around her head from the moist night air, no longer as straight as it had been just a couple hours before when he first saw her.

I kinda like being from here, she’d said. I don’t think it’s cooler in New York or anywhere else probably. Except for the snow. Is that small-minded and stupid? To not care about living anywhere else?

No, he’d said. That’s not stupid.

He liked that she said ‘small-minded’. It was a word he knew, of course, but had never used. Had never applied to anyone, though the moment she said it, he could think of many contexts where it was relevant, even to him.

Prophet pulled Breonna closer, and wrapped his arms around her middle, her back to his front. She shoved her ass further, nestling it into his groin.

“You sure you don’t want to …?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he said. “Let’s just go to sleep.”

He felt the same hint of sadness he had before. The tiniest display of kindness and Breonna offered herself to him. As if kindness always came at a cost.

Sliding an arm beneath her, and the other over her, Prophet held her in a kind of bear-hug. He even kissed her on the side of her neck. And then he closed his eyes. Breonna wasn’t even there in his mind. Instead, images of Jada danced behind his eyelids.

5

Then

“Wear the yellow one,” Dee said. “That color suits you. Wish I could wear yellow.”

Dee was much fairer in complexion than Jada was, than most of their family were, a fact she never stopped remarking on. Though some people might have believed it gave her some advantages, Dee was not part of that school of thought. She tanned herself almost obsessively, and often, Jada caught her looking at her extended legs, grumbling and complaining at their paleness.

Desiree was the only offspring of Jada’s sole uncle, Jimmy, on her father’s side. He had been first to come West from the Carolinas. While doing factory work, he met and married a young, Mexican woman, Loida. They had a short and tumultuous relationship, and only one child, Desiree.

When Loida left Jada’s Uncle Jimmy after only five years, returning to her home country, thoroughly disenchanted with the American dream, she left her daughter behind as well, to be raised by her overworked father. The result was that Dee, a little too pretty for her own good, wound up raised mostly by the streets.

Jada’s parents allowed her cousin in their home because, well, family was family. And since she was without a mother, “the poor girl” as Jada’s parents often referred to her, wasn’t entirely to blame for much of what she had become. She wasn’t much older than Jada but had decades’ worth more experience and a reputation for making bad choices, most of them involving boys, and on occasion, much older men.

Going to the mall, though, was innocent enough. They never interrogated Dee as much when she wanted Jada to go with her on daytime excursions.

Jada shrugged the yellow top over her head, checking the result in her full-length mirror.

“Why do you love him?” she asked, watching Dee tugging on her tight jeans, jumping up and down to work it over her hips.

“Manny?”

“Who else? Of course Manny. You guys are always fighting.”

“Shut up. We don’t fight all the time.”

Jada opened her eyes wide and shook her head in disbelief.

“Dee, I’ve met him a handful of times and you’re always fighting. Right now, you’re fighting.”

“We’re not fighting. Because I got rid of his ass.”

Jada rolled her eyes. “Okay.”

When Dee and Manny were in the middle of drama, her only-slightly-older-in-years, but much-older-in-developmental-stages cousin seemed to find much more time for her.

“Is he going to be at the mall?”

“I don't know,” Dee said unconvincingly.

“I bet he’s there.”

“If he’s there, that’s his own business,” Dee mumbled.

But if Immanuel was there, then maybe ...

“I think I’ll wear these palazzo pants,” Jada said, yanking them off the hanger in her closet. “They make me look like I actually have hips.”

Dee cackled. “Oh no they don’t either.”

~~~

There was A sideshow at Foothill Square. Sideshows, a uniquely Oakland phenomenon, were organized mostly through word-of-mouth. A bunch of guys brought their cars to open areas like parking lots or intersections that didn’t see a lot of traffic and performed stunts, some of them dangerous to drivers and spectators alike.

About thirty cars were on display this afternoon; shiny, ornate and colorful mostly classic American cars, modified with enormous chrome mufflers, shiny rims with spinners and doors that opened vertically. Owners preened and posed next to their vehicles as though someone might take their picture, waiting for their chance to show its horsepower, or the tricks it could do.

Only once they go to the mall parking lot did Jada realize that Dee never had any intention of them shopping, hanging out and eating in the food court, which was what she pictured when her cousin told her where they were going. Instead they were standing in the heat watching drivers perform doughnuts and other crazy maneuvers, the smell of burned rubber permeating the oppressive summer air.

Though the crowd mostly consisted of guys, lots of girls were there as well, maybe to support their guys, or to meet new guys. A few seemed to have genuine interest in the cars, but Desiree was not one of them. She looked around as she dragged Jada through the crowd, impatient, and apparently not particularly happy to be out of the house at all. Something she had been planning clearly wasn’t coming to fruition.

Then, in a cluster of guys admiring a bright-white Grand Torino, Jada and Dee caught sight of Immanuel at the same time.

Knew it, Jada thought. That’s what this little field trip is about.

She didn’t have time to feel too sour about it though, because right next to him was Prophet. He was examining the car with everyone else, running his hand over the sparkling finish, leaning in when someone popped the hood and peering at the engine.

When he stood upright again, he turned his head suddenly to the left as if he felt her stare.

His eyes flickered a little when he saw her. But Jada couldn’t tell whether it was just from surprise, or with pleasure. He nudged his brother and Immanuel glanced over as well, looking pleased, but also a little resigned when he saw Dee.

As they came closer, Dee made a sound in the back of her throat, like a grunt. She was gearing up for a fight. Still, Jada couldn’t bring herself to care about the scene that was about to be made. All she saw was Prophet.

By the time he was close enough to speak, his face had slipped into an unreadable mask.

“Hey,” he said.

Jada couldn’t tell if he really was as indifferent to her being there as he seemed, or whether he was just a good actor.

“Wha’s up, Dee?” Manny was playing it cool too.

“Nothin’s up,” Dee said, sourly. “You didn’t even have to come over here and talk to me, Immanuel. You could’ve just kept right on steppin’.”

“You know I’d never do that shit,” Manny’s voice had become smooth and syrupy.

Jada’s gaze found Prophet’s and he bit back a smile, like they were sharing a private joke. Taking few steps toward her, he blocked her from the warring couple.

In just a few moments they would be warming up, accusations slipping from between Dee’s lips, denials from Manny’s. There would be a storm, and then the calm reconciliation. And round and round they’d go.

Prophet put his hand on her arm, gently urging Jada farther away from that action and toward the cars.

“This is a much better show,” he said, pointing in the direction of the latest stunt.

A guy dressed in white from head-to-toe was ghost-riding a Buick Regal, climbing out onto the hood and standing on it to pop-and-lock in slow-motion while his car rolled forward, driver-less. Jada pretended to care about the spectacle and tried not to focus on her hyper-awareness of his hand touching her.

“What’re you doin’ out here?” he asked.

“Why do you keep asking me why I’m at places?”

“Why you keep comin’ to places where you shouldn’t be?”

“And why do you think you have any idea where I should be?” she returned, genuinely annoyed now.

They said nothing for a few beats, watching as a black car with flames painted on the sides now rolled into view, bouncing up and down, rims spinning counterclockwise.

“Where’s my shirt?”

Jada turned to look up at him. “I’m keeping it,” she said, sticking out her chin.

Not only had she kept it, she hadn’t washed it. Because it still smelled like him. Smelled like he smelled right now.

“Okay,” he said, shrugging. “Consider it a gift.”

“It’s not a gift if you asked for it back.”

“I want you to have it,” he amended.

Turning her attention toward the show again, Jada took a step back when one of the cars, a new entry into the action, made a wide arc, for a few seconds seeming like it might careen out of control and into the crowd. A few girls shrieked and jumped back.

Prophet took her arm again, gently pulling her a few paces further away.

“I’m sorry you’re so disappointed I showed up today,” she said, feeling stupid for saying it.

But him asking why she was there stung a little and she wasn’t the kind of person who could hide that. She knew she would probably obsess about it later.

“I’m not disappointed.”

“You seem disappointed.”

It felt to Jada like they were like radio operators, sending messages on different frequencies and frustrated that the other person wasn’t receiving them.

“I’m not.”

“Then …”

“I don’t care about watching this,” he said suddenly, indicating the car show. “Do you?”

Jada looked up at him and shook her head.

He led her to sit in a shaded area, under the awning of one of the nearby stores. On the curb once again.

About thirty feet away, Manny and Dee were in the thick of their argument, Dee getting up in his face, gesturing wildly, Manny unmoving, impassive, allowing himself to be cursed out.

“Déjà vu, right?” Prophet said.

Jada nodded. “She really loves him, though.”

“That what love looks like?”

“I think it makes people passionate. And sometimes even stupid.”

“Well, they’re definitely stupid.”

Jada laughed. “You don’t think that’s love?”

They watched as Manny grabbed ahold of the tail of Dee’s shirt, tugged it gently, and she suddenly stopped shouting, stopped gesticulating. For a moment they just stared at each other, then Manny tilted his head to one side, leaned in, kissed Dee’s neck.

Prophet shrugged. “What do I know?”

“Okay, so let’s say that’s not love. What would it look like to you?” she challenged.

“It would look like … someone inspiring you to be your best self.”

“So … not hollering in your face in a shopping mall parking lot?” Jada said.

“Hey, you know your cousin better than I do. Maybe that’s her best self.”

Jada nudged him hard in the ribs. He laughed.

“Dee does love him. She just hasn’t seen too much of how that’s supposed to look.”

“How ‘bout you? Have you seen how it’s supposed to look?”

She nodded.

“I think so. My parents are still pretty sweet to each other. My father brings my mother a cup of tea every night in bed. He massages her feet when they’re sitting on the couch watching television together. And sometimes, when she gets excited about a thing, it could be anything, I see him get excited too. Just because she is.”

“Sounds like the real deal to me,” Prophet said.

The sun disappeared fleetingly behind a cloud, and the light was dimmer for a few minutes. Dim enough that they could look directly at each other without shading their eyes.

Jada reached up, suddenly brave, and traced one of the parts in his cornrows, letting the tip of her finger start at his hairline, following the path all the way to the nape of his neck.

“I really hate these,” she said.

He smiled, and there was a momentary recognition of a shared emotion between them. He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed.

Prophet was very still. Like he didn’t want to move, in case he startled her. When he did move, it was to touch the end of her long braid, resting over her shoulder, then to lift it as if testing its heft. Jada held her breath.

When he dropped it, he did so abruptly, like he had momentarily forgotten his senses and was now in full possession of them once again. He leaned slightly away from her, so her hand no longer touched his nape.

“You really shouldn’t be out here,” he said, shaking his head.

This time, it didn’t bother her because it felt like he meant the opposite.

“How’d you do on that AP English paper?”

“Aced it.”

“For real?” Prophet narrowed his eyes.

“I’m actually a very good student.”

“I believe it.”

“So why don’t you believe I aced it?” Jada asked, feigning offense.

“Okay, so what’d you say in it?”

“What was my thesis you mean? Well. I sort of stole your idea.”

“What idea?”

“About why we call certain movements radical.”

Prophet grinned and nodded. “What’d you say exactly?”

“That maybe calling some African American movements ‘radical’ is a kind of prejudice. Just what you said.”

“Is that what I said?”

“Yeah, you did.”

“But you made it sound much smarter than I did, I bet.”

“I think you’re pretty smart.”

“What makes you think I’m smart, Jada … Hey, what’s your last name anyway?”

“Green. What’s yours?”

“Carter. Like the President.”

“Like the President.”

“Yup. His people probably owned my people back in the day.”

Jada spluttered.

“What?” Prophet laughed. “Am I wrong?”

“Well, there’re lots of Black Carters, so his ‘people’ must have owned a lot of slaves.”

“Word,” he said.

The sideshow was beginning to clear out. They never lasted very long because sooner or later, cops showed up and ordered everyone to get moving; sometimes they issued citations. Dee and Manny were still deep in conversation and had ambled toward Eastmont Mall, looking like they were about to head inside.

Prophet stood and offered Jada his hand, pulling her up so they could follow.

“Y’know what else?” she said.

“What else?” He dropped her hand as soon as she was standing upright.

“I’m usually not all that confident in English. In writing stuff, I mean.”

“You’re in AP. How can you not be confident?”

“I mean, I have to work extra hard at it. I like cry and stuff over my papers and spend all this time on them and never think they’re good enough.”

He smiled. “You cry over your English papers?”

“Sometimes, yeah. But this time? This time I felt good about it. I think you kind of inspired me.”

“You’re welcome,” he said.

Jada smiled. “How ‘bout you?”

“How ‘bout me, what?”

“With school.”

“I’m done.”

“You … graduated early, or …?”

“Nah. I left early.”

“You just dropped out?”

“Tested out.”

“Tested …”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.” She nodded. “So, you are smart.”

“Smart is a relative term, Jada Green, he said ruefully. “Sometimes the life I lead just seems really, really dumb.”

If she believed he wanted her to, she would have asked what he meant by that. But she was pretty sure she already knew the answer.

6

Now

“I feel like marriage is back in fashion.”

The thought is out of her mouth before Jada can censor herself. Looking around the café as they eat, she notices more couples. And when she checks their hands, there are rings on ring-fingers.

“Was it ever out of fashion?” Ibrahim asks.

“You were away for a while. You missed a couple trends,” she jokes.

And to her surprise, he smiles back at her.

After their one heavy moment, they went on to order lunch—a plant-based burger for Ibrahim, a salmon salad for her. The food is fair. Not exceptional and not worthy of the prices. But the atmosphere is pleasant, and Jada can see where Free Range has become a neighborhood hang-out. Families probably come here to feel like they’re getting out of the house but without straying too far from home.

“What else did I miss?” he asks.

The question feels loaded. She studies him for a while, thinking about her answer.

Does he want light, or does he want heavy? She has plenty of heavy.

He missed the many times she cried in the bathroom, pressing a towel to her face, and once going so far as to stuff her mouth with it so Kaleem wouldn’t hear her from the next room.

He missed the early mornings when she waited in the kitchen for their son to return from his runs, literally wringing her hands. Kaleem ran no matter what, having first asked for permission, insisted and then defied her to continue doing them, even though he now had to do them alone.

And Ibrahim had missed the late nights when she curled her body around a pillow that she covered with one of his shirts, trying to imagine that he was still next to her. And the other nights, when her body was humming, throbbing, aching with the need to be touched, and she resorted to the sorry substitute of touching herself.

And he missed—thank God, he missed—the one time she had almost allowed herself to be tempted into emotional and physical intimacy with another man.

“You didn’t miss much,” she says, finally. “It was an uneventful ten years.”

“You lost your parents,” he points out. “That’s not uneventful.”

A pang hits Jada in the center of her chest.

Her parents both went in quick succession, only seven months apart the way couples like them often do. Her father went out in a dramatic fashion, having a massive public heart attack while waiting for his brakes to be done at an auto repair shop; and her mother had gone quietly, peacefully and in her sleep. Jada had been the one to find her.

Ibrahim had been in only three years by the time her mother passed. He called her when he heard. One of only a handful of calls over the years while he was locked up.

Baby, he said, his voice sounding tinny and far away. I’m here, but with you too. Can I feel me? I’m there with you.

That night she cried harder than any of the other previous cries—and there had been many. It wasn’t just because she was orphaned. It was because she couldn’t feel him. She had begun to feel Ibrahim with her less and less.

“I got through it,” she says, woodenly.

“What else did you get through?”

“Ibrahim, we’ve already …”

“I wanna know,” he says. “Feels like we talked about everything but that since I’ve been home. Everything except for what it was like for you.”

“I’ve talked about it,” Jada looks away from him. She plays with her fork, rearranges her knife.

“Just in generalities though. You say things like, ‘I got through it’ or ‘we figured it out’ or ‘it was what it was.’ But you never tell me, really tell me, what it was like.”

“Because what would be the point?” she almost snaps.

“To get it out,” he says. He is leaning closer now.

“I do get it out. With the women in group. With … I get it out.”

“But not with me.”

~~~

There was a time when his wife told him everything.

Early on, even before she was his wife, when it became clear to them both that she would become that, Jada told him everything. Like it would not have occurred to her that she shouldn’t, or that it would be okay for her to have some things for herself. Marital intimacy … no, not just marital, couple intimacy was something they had learned together. It was something neither of them had ever truly had with anyone else.

“Whatever happened to that girl?” she asks now, unexpectedly.

“What girl?”

“The one you were dating before me.”

“I didn’t date anyone before you,” he says.

The topic feels like a ruse, something to set him back on his heels, catch him off-guard. She’s deflecting but he doesn’t know why.

“She was there that day. That day I came to see you at that house. The day I came by … how did you put it at the time … uninvited?”

“I can’t believe you’re still mad about that.”

“We’d only just met, and even though I hadn’t seen you a bunch, we saw each other at that sideshow at Foothill Square and I thought we were getting … I thought something was happening between us. Then you ran me off. And that girl was there. The next thing I knew I was hearing from my cousin that you’d gotten locked up.”

“I didn’t run you off. If you remember, I took you home.”

Jada scoffs. “Because you couldn’t wait to get rid of me.”

“After all this time, that’s what you think. That it was about Breonna.”

“That’s her name,” she says, almost triumphantly. “Yes, I remember now. Breonna.”

The way she pronounces Breonna’s name causes a pang. Ibrahim doesn’t want to talk about her. Not even with Jada. Maybe especially not with Jada.

“Breonna,” he says very slowly and deliberately, “was never any threat to you. Or to us.”

Jada looks like she isn’t so sure.

7

Then

His eldest brother was supposed to pick him up, but Ibrahim wasn’t particularly surprised that Isaac didn’t show. Zac could be flaky on a good day, unpredictable on a bad. But Ibrahim actually kind of liked walking out on his own, looking up at the blue, blue sky and taking a few moments to feel the sun’s direct rays on his face for the first time in eleven-and-a-half months, unmarred by the view of a chain-link fence, topped in razor-wire.

He stood there for a long while, absorbing its warmth, eyes closed, and inhaling long, slow and deep.

Two other dudes were getting out at the same time as him. One of them, an ese, once he hit the pavement outside, let out a whoop and was swept up into the arms of a noisy group of men who ushered him to a waiting, tricked-out orange Cutlass Supreme. Just before he pulled off, the ese gave Ibrahim the slightest lift of the chin in acknowledgment.

Inside, they had been cool. As cool as they could be, considering. They had both hovered on the edges of their respective racial groups rather than getting in too tight with anyone. And they definitely couldn’t get too tight with each other. You didn’t want to beef with the eses, but you couldn’t buddy up to them either.

Damn near the first question you got asked when you went in was ‘who you wit’?’ Who you were with on the outside dictated who you were with inside.

Tempted as he was, Ibrahim knew that ‘no one’ was the wrong answer. Jail was no place to make a declaration of independence. You had to be with someone, otherwise you’d get jumped, or much worse. First day in, he dropped the name of the set his brothers ran with and like magic, he was protected.

He took a charge that wasn’t his because both his brothers had records, and there was a rumor of new legislation that would stack your time if you had two priors. Even without that law, judges were beginning to consider your third strike the one that should take you off the streets for good.

The ese had been in a similar predicament, and like Ibrahim seemed only half-assed committed to the life he’d found himself wrapped up in. On the odd occasion they had exchanged a few words, it was clear that he, like Ibrahim, was more interested in getting out of jail alive and intact than in making a name for himself while inside.

The second releasee was another Black dude, and he had no one to greet him either. Probably from much farther off than Oakland, he looked right and left, as if he didn’t know which way to go.

GDJ, as the Glenn Dyer Jail was not-so-affectionately called, was only a stone’s throw away from the courthouse and close to many transportation options, so Ibrahim didn’t need to play Good Samaritan and offer directions. Besides, Jefferson Square Park was just around the corner, and he could hear its call. Feeling the need to see some trees, and bask in a lot more of that sun, Ibrahim ambled in that direction. Behind him, he could feel that dude was poised to ask him a question, so he walked a little more briskly.

In his pocket was just enough money for a phone call, and maybe a soda and an all-beef hot dog. And not the crappy boiled-to-bland kind he’d gotten inside either. Ibrahim was craving the real thing. Something that had been cooked on a grill, slathered with sauerkraut and spicy mustard. Or maybe a couple tacos, and an empanada. And once his stomach was full, he might find a girl, some weed and spend his first day of freedom getting faded.

But all that was, was habit, a recurrence of the unclean thinking that had helped get him locked up in the first place. It was tempting, though. If he wanted, he could easily call Breonna. She would scoop him and within the hour they would be in his bedroom, buck-naked and doing the nasty.

Ibrahim stopped his thoughts from going down that path and reminded himself of the bundle he had in his back pocket. He had disposed of the bag they’d given him to carry his things out of the jail. And then given away most of the things he’d initially put in the bag as he left his cell. He didn’t need any mementoes of his stint as a guest of the State of California.

All he kept were the letters, folded into a large knot and stuffed in the back pocket of his jeans. There were more than two dozen of them, all of them from Jada Green.

Thinking about her made him smile as he made the turn onto Jefferson Street heading toward the park.

Damned if he knew what a girl like Jada was doing writing to the likes of him. She said in her first letter that she’d heard from Desiree that he got locked up. And that she was “sorry to hear that.” Like him getting locked up was an act of God, or the same as the onset of an unexpected illness, and not the predictable result of an act of law-breaking.

That first letter had been short, and written on plain old notebook paper, that looked like it had been ripped out of a composition book. Because of that, it felt like it might have been impulsive, something she wrote while not really sure that she should. There was a slight perfume scent to it as well, that even if not purposeful, was welcome.

When he first received it, and was sure no one was looking, Ibrahim held the paper up to his face and inhaled. It wasn’t a scent he knew, but now, it was one that he would always associate with her.

When he met Jada at that party in Eastmont she told him she wasn’t even supposed to be there. Later, he would think that Desiree should’ve known better than to take a seventeen-year-old girl to a party like that one. It wasn’t just Jada’s age that made him think that she shouldn’t have been there. Lots of girls at the party were probably her age. It obvious that she just didn’t belong.

At first, Ibrahim noticed Jada across the yard, swaying to the music only because next to her, Desiree was being chatted up. And since Desiree and his brother weren’t completely done, he knew that when Immanuel saw her practically leaning against some dude, they would scrap for sure.

That’s what he was thinking when he noticed the hair. The girl next to Desiree who was moving to the music had skin the color of milk chocolate and a headful of thick, long, jet-black hair. It was straightened, but still full and massive, like neither a straightening comb, nor chemicals could completely tame it. She kept flipping it off her neck like it was making her hot. And when she did, it cascaded like a dark curtain back down her back and over her shoulders.

The evening was warm, though the sun had long gone down, and she was dressed like a lot of girls there, wearing a spaghetti-strap top with tight stone-wash jeans, and Reeboks. But the top and the Reeboks were both red, which could have meant she was affiliated. If she was, it was an act of pure stupidity to leave her house on a Friday night, all Blood-ed up like she was, and to show up at a party like that one.

What you lookin’ at?

Ibrahim had turned to see his brother, unexpectedly next to him. Within moments, Immanuel followed his gaze and noticed Desiree with her admirer now standing even closer.

Without pause, he shoved his way through the crowd and toward them, Ibrahim on his heels, hoping he wouldn’t have to break anything up. Manny was a hothead. He acted first and thought later. Often, he didn’t think at all.

But when he was directly in front of Desiree, all Manny did was give her a pained, almost pitiful look. His brother was a savage, but this girl? She could break him down with a quickness.

Dee, he said, ignoring her companion. Lemme talk to you a minute …

Desiree, who generally loved the drama that came with her and Manny’s on-off-and-on-again relationship, twisted her lips to one side, and uncharacteristically, gave in.

I’ll be back in a short, Prophet, Manny said, glancing his way before following his girl.

Ibrahim knew his brother. He would not be back “in a short.” Whenever he got caught up with Desiree, it was a marathon, never a sprint.

Ibrahim checked Desiree’s admirer’s expression, but homeboy was already looking around for a new conquest and didn’t seem interested in putting up a fuss about the interruption. The muggy evening had mellowed everyone out. No one had the energy to start anything, wading through the humidity as they all were.

When Desiree and Immanuel walked away, her friend in red looked momentarily at a loss, so moving in to occupy the vacancy next to her, Ibrahim extended a hand. She looked at it for a moment, then up at him. She stared directly into his eyes and in hers he saw something. He didn’t know then how to describe it, but much later he would think that what he saw was recognition. Like they’d met before and she was inviting him back after a long absence.

Hi, he said.

The greeting alone was not at all how he usually stepped to chicks. It should have told him right away that something about them, was going to be different.

I’m Ibrahim, he continued, still holding out his hand.

Curiosity lit her eyes. Girls always asked about his name: you a Moos-lim or somethin’?

But this girl didn’t ask anything.

The dude who had been talking to Desiree moved on. Tipping back his beer for a long gulp, he sighed as if conceding defeat and wandered off.

Dee’s girl in the red top with the mass of dark hair and milk chocolate skin took his hand. He almost expected to feel a jolt of electricity.

Hi, she said. Her voice was soft, but calm and self-possessed. I’m Jada.

~~~

There was a Mexican food truck near the edge of the park with a short line, so Ibrahim joined it without pausing to glance at their menu. Anything they had was bound to taste much better than jail food.

The first two days he was locked up, he hadn’t eaten at all. The CO told him it was his business and to suit himself if he wanted to starve. But by the third morning they threatened him and said they weren’t about to put up with any ‘hunger strike bullshit.’

Eat it, a sheriff’s deputy had told him of the bologna sandwich he’d been given. Don’t let me come in there and make you.

That dude, a big dude Ibrahim heard people call “Officer Pete” had been different from the other ones. Rumor had it, he had a boy serving time himself. His manner toward the inmates, especially the young ones like Ibrahim, was a mix of threatening and paternal. He was one of those who gave maybe too much of a shit about the men in his custody.

Anyway, after that threat, Ibrahim ate. But the food was just like it looked—tasteless, fatty and disgusting. Within a matter of weeks, he was practically vegetarian, ignoring the processed meats and only eating chicken, or fish sticks when he removed the oily clumps of breading. And after a while, even the fish sticks became suspect, so he refused those as well. He reluctantly drank the ‘juice’ but since that was more water and colored syrup than the juice of anything from nature, he had water, or milk whenever he could.

Now that he had the luxury of choice, he would never eat false food again.

Ibrahim ordered two empanadas from the food truck and sat on the curb eating them out of their aluminum foil wrappers. With the first, he paid attention to and savored every spice crushed into the meat, trying to identify each one—cilantro, green peppers, onion, chiles—and feeling his taste buds awaken from their long slumber. The second empanada, he enjoyed without analysis, already taking for granted the taste of good food. He washed his meal down with bottled water and then just sat there, watching people go by.

There was a woman with two kids, both looking like they were under the age of five, moving hurriedly in the direction of the jail. Then a couple walked by, arms around each other, pausing to kiss, deeply. Ibrahim watched them for a moment, then looked away, his mind drifting involuntarily toward Jada once again.

He and Jada had never kissed. They had barely even touched. And when they did, it was most often she who initiated it, lightly resting a hand on his forearm to emphasize a point.

At the party, once they’d introduced themselves and Immanuel and Desiree went off to do whatever, Ibrahim didn’t think they’d have much to say to each other. He figured he’d hang around nearby, just to make sure she was okay, since she was Desiree’s people. Maybe he would crack on her a little, flirt a little, just because that’s what you did with pretty girls, even when you knew you didn’t stand a chance.

But she was the one to speak first, surprising him.

Why’d your brother call you Prophet just now? she asked.

How’d you know that’s my brother?

You look a lot alike, she said. Almost like twins. Not quite, but almost.

Nah, Ibrahim said. He’s the good-looking one.

Jada shook her head. No, she said. I don’t think so.

And then her gaze fell to the ground, like she realized how that might have sounded. That dropped gaze intrigued him.

Shy girls didn’t often wind up at parties like that one, at places like that. There was music, dancing, card and dominoes games, food on a grill and a mood that was reminiscent of a family reunion. But it was far from a family-friendly event. The house was a stash house. Everyone there knew it was and knew that most of the guys there were bangers. And the hosts of the party? Two of the neighborhood’s biggest names in the game. Since there was a party, which sometimes attracted police attention there probably wasn’t too much product on the premises that night, but girls like Jada shouldn’t have been anywhere near a party like that one anyway.

How you know Dee? he asked her.

Desiree was precisely the kind of girl who wound up at parties like that one.

She’s my cousin. But you didn’t answer my question. They call you Prophet because …?

Ibrahim is a version of ‘Abraham’. Abraham was …

Oh. Of course. I get it. Cool, Jada said, nodding.

Yeah. I’m not out here prophesying or nothin’ like that. It’s a nickname, a street name. He shrugged.

A street name, she repeated slowly. As though she had never heard the phrase before.

Where you from? he asked.

She told him her neighborhood and suddenly everything about her made sense.

She was from way across town, an enclave that was much more placid than this part of the city. The folks where she was from tended to be older; they were teachers, postal workers and other civil servants. They were the folks who lately had been making themselves visible in protests against NWA and other California-based rappers who they thought were giving the state, and Black people in general a bad name. They were the folks who would just as soon have the rest of the country keep thinking that California was all Hollywood and palm trees.

I asked Desiree to bring me, she added, as though she’d read his mind. She shrugged. She didn’t want to. Now I guess I see why. She only came to get her boyfriend back.

He wasn’t never goin’ nowhere, Ibrahim said.

At that, Jada smiled.

Don’t go tellin’ her that, though, he said quickly.

I wouldn’t.

You sure? he teased. I know how y’all are.

How are we … all?

~~~

When the empanadas were done, Ibrahim realized that he had spent all the money he would have used for transportation on food. Now, he had enough for a call or two, and that was about it. If no one picked up, or the phone took his money, he would be screwed. Working public phones were becoming a thing of the past, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to risk losing his coins, so he decided to head back toward the jail.

If push came to shove, he would use one of those in the lobby of the facility itself or bum a call off the staff at the front desk to hit up his brother’s pager. A simple logistical challenge was sending him back to the place he had just half an hour ago promised himself he would never see again.

He was half a block away when the white Impala screeched to a halt next to him, almost jumping the curb. Instinct had him poised to take a dive behind a nearby shrub, but then Isaac came tumbling out, and tackled him with a bear-hug.

“Goddamn! Look at you! Nigga you cock-diesel!”

Zac smelled like stale liquor. He was unsteady on his feet, perspiring and stunk like last night, but Ibrahim embraced him nonetheless.

Ducking his head to check out who was driving, Ibrahim saw to his relief that their pops wasn’t who was behind the wheel. Instead, it was Nasim, an OG from around the way.

“Where all your shit at?” Zac yanked open the back door for Ibrahim to get in.

“There’s nothin’ from there I need to keep,” he said, reaching back and patting to make sure his bundle of letters was still in his back pocket.

“I hear that.”

Once he was inside the car, Nasim gave Ibrahim a curt nod, but said nothing. He didn’t speak for the entire drive, but Zac made up for that with non-stop chatter, filling Ibrahim in on what he’d missed, and letting him know that they had a house party planned that night to celebrate his return.

“Nah,” he said. “You ain’ have to do all that.”

“What you mean?” Zac’s face creased in displeasure. “My baby brother come up outta the joint and I’m s’posed to act like that ain’t shit? When you took my charge? Hell nah. We ‘bout to get lifted tonight, boy.”

Ibrahim didn’t argue though over the last few months, he had begun to wonder why it was so important to get “lifted” to have a good time. He had gotten high the night before the court date he knew would result in a sentence of incarceration, and not since. Even though getting high in jail was far from an impossibility. Now he felt clearheaded and focused and kind of liked it. Turned out jail had its purposes.

He had been expecting to get sent up for much longer, but the lawyer his father hired had argued successfully that Ibrahim had only been at best in “constructive possession” of the “narcotics in question” none of which had even been retrieved and checked into evidence. In English, that meant they hadn’t found drugs on him, but claimed to have seen where he ditched them. And when they allegedly recovered them, somehow the little vials with blue tops hadn’t been checked in as proof that a crime had been committed.

With broken chain of evidence, it was a very weak case, and the detective’s testimony alone was what sent Ibrahim to jail. And even that was weaker than the court or lawyers expected, because when the cops showed up to arrest one Isaac Carter at the home of one of his “known associates” Ibrahim Carter had surrendered instead.

The lead narcotics squad detective, a Detective Michaels, that took him in had given him a long, hard look but said nothing. He knew it wasn’t Ibrahim he’d seen the toss the stash earlier that day. He was on the block often enough, working that neighborhood long enough, that he could recognize Zac on sight. He knew with almost complete certainty that it had been him who tossed the stash during a foot pursuit.

You sure ‘bout this, padnah? he’d asked Ibrahim as he escorted him to booking.

Ibrahim hadn’t bothered to respond.

This was what you did for family. His record was clean, the case was flimsy, and with good representation, he had a more than decent chance at three to five. Zac would have gone away for much longer.

But Ibrahim didn’t get five years. He didn’t even get three. He got only one. And that was only because Detective Michaels had given identification testimony that was little more than lukewarm.

The defendant, he said on the stand, in answer to the standard identification question, bears a strong resemblance to the man I pursued.

Bears a strong resemblance? Ibrahim’s lawyer had asked, looking like it was an early Christmas.

Yes. That’s what I’m prepared to testify.

The prosecutor knew better than to press the point on cross-examination, and the judge, who was more than hip to this game, having presided over maybe hundreds of possession-with-intent cases, all but rolled her eyes. She knew, like just about everyone in that courtroom knew, that something was afoot with the detective’s testimony.

And Michaels knew that the person facing charges should have been Isaac but didn’t want to perjure himself. He also knew it would have been impossible to get any conviction if, even as Ibrahim claimed he was the guilty party, the police department accused someone else.

Ibrahim thought he saw the man subtly shake his head in disbelief as he left the stand. He might work the streets, but he didn’t fully understand its code. Or maybe he understood it fine, but still thought it foolish for an eighteen-year-old with a clean record and a degenerate for a brother to send himself to prison for a crime he didn’t commit.

At the house when Isaac leapt out of the car and headed inside, loudly announcing Ibrahim’s arrival like the approach of a young king, he lingered behind a moment to thank Nasim for the ride.

“Ain’ no thang,” Nasim said, speaking his first words to Ibrahim since he picked him up.

Ibrahim nodded his thanks again and had just opened the door when the older man spoke again.

“Where you just been at,” he said. “Don’t embrace that as your certain future, cuz. It don’t have to be. You can leave it where it is. In the past.”

Ibrahim didn’t know what to say. Because Nasim wasn’t exactly out of the game his damn self. He had just, by Grace, survived it longer than most.

Words like those sounded like he was encouraging Ibrahim to seek a new path, something he had been thinking about while he was inside. Something he only allowed himself to hope for when he read Jada Green’s girlish script, describing a life that sounded and felt bright, clean and brand-new. Each letter from her made the spark of possibility shine brighter.

She wrote about basketball practice, making honor roll, and arguing with her mother about getting highlights in her hair. She agonized over a lie she told to a friend, about gossip she helped spread about someone who was not a friend, and the dress she would hopefully wear to senior prom. She told him, naively, that she hoped he was sleeping well, eating well, and that he was safe.

I know prison isn’t safe, she wrote, with all the faux-sophistication that only sheltered eighteen-year-old girls have. I mean, I’m not that stupid to think it is. But I hope you are, Prophet. That’s what I pray for every night. That you’re safe.

That letter, those words, he read over and over, and over again. Of all the letters she’d written him, and of all the words in that letter, those were his favorite.

He had tried not to feel anything about it, or about her. Because despite all the possibilities her letters stoked for him, she herself felt like an impossibility. The kind of life he would have to have to deserve a girl like her felt very much out of reach.

And between the opening of his cell this morning, the ride back home to his neighborhood, and now the news of the party this evening, he was already feeling the hope of a new life begin to dissipate like wisps of smoke.

But here was Nasim, saying this thing about leaving jail in his past.

It felt like a sign.

8

Then

“I’m starting to think he’s blowing me off,” Lisa said.

Starting to think? Jada forced herself not to say the words aloud. He’s already blown you off.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have done … all that, so soon,” her friend continued, playing with one of her long box braids, wrapping and unwrapping it around her forefinger.

‘All that’ referred to Lisa having gone down on her boyfriend, Earl, behind the cafeteria. Except, calling Earl Lisa’s boyfriend was probably a little bit of a stretch. He was one of the most popular guys in the senior class, tall and athletic, with naturally curly hair that—in Jada’s opinion—distracted most girls from the fact that he wasn’t really that good-looking.

Lisa claimed he looked like Al B. Sure, but apart from having a complexion one shade lighter than a sandy beach and a headful of curls, Earl looked nothing like the popular R&B crooner. And besides, Jada had come to think of all those pretty boys as being as insubstantial as a sheet of tissue.

Even Kyle got on her nerves now.

They had been going together since seventh grade and he had been her boyfriend in the way one has boyfriends in the seventh grade—lots of furtive making out and tentative groping. The most they had done until tenth grade was sliding hands down each other’s pants. Jada still remembered her breathless excitement when his fingers first touched her ‘there’, and the little gasps she issued almost against her will.

After that, she counted down the days till eleventh grade which was when she decided they would finally “do it.” And they had, near the end of that school year. It was a bloody, fumbling farcical experience that at first, Jada was sure she would never want to repeat. But of course, she and Kyle later tried again, and it was much, much better.

And only two-and-a-half weeks after that, at a party she went to with her cousin, Desiree, she met Prophet.

Poor Kyle, though he hadn’t even been at the party, didn’t stand a chance. Jada immediately began to regret doing it with him, not because the act itself hadn’t lived up to her expectations or anything (because eventually, it definitely had) but because the moment she saw Prophet, it was like something inside her bloomed. And just like that, the intimacy with Kyle felt premature, like she had miscalculated by giving herself to him, when her rightful partner was just around the corner. It was a stupid feeling, of course, and she had been trying to talk herself out of it ever since, but feelings, however stupid were almost impossible to deny.

The very next day after the party, she had called Kyle up and they went to the park, just to sit and read and talk like they sometimes did. They bought popsicles from a truck that was always there, catering to the parents and small children who played in the grass, and then Jada broke the news.

I don’t think I’m ready for something this serious so soon, she told him, while she peeled the wrapper from her treat. I mean, soon we’re going to be thinking about college, and …

She let her voice trail off then braved a look in his direction.

Kyle nodded, pursed his lips and squinted a little.

I’ve been thinking the same thing, he said.

But she could tell from his voice that he hadn’t been, and that he was saving face.

I mean, I think we should still hang out and everything, she said, momentarily panicked at the thought of prom.

Kyle shrugged. I guess we could, he said noncommittally. But what would be the point of that?

Since then—ages ago now—he had been standoffish with her, stopping short of not speaking at all, which would have been awkward since they had all the same friends. Jada knew she had hurt him, but it was his pride more than his feelings that were bruised.

Still, he had probably been imagining some future where they maintained a long-distance relationship while in college then returned to get married and buy a cute little house like their parents had and started a family.

Kyle was a “good boy” as her mother called him. From a “good family” that sometimes showed up at the same church Jada and her parents went to. They weren’t avid churchgoers, who joined committees and choir such, but they were solid enough. Jada noticed how pleased her parents and his had looked whenever she and Kyle made their way over to each other after service, standing as close together as was socially permissible, trying not to seem like they were ‘together-together’ though they clearly were.

But now, Kyle was in her past.

As was Lisa in Earl’s life, though she had yet to catch on.

“He better not have told anybody,” Lisa said, her tone fretful. “You know. About … what I did.”

Of course he had.

“I’m sure he didn’t,” Jada said, squeezing her friend’s upper arm to reassure her. “Earl’s not an asshole like that.”

Except he kind of was.

Or maybe not an asshole, but just young. Like most of the guys at their school. They couldn’t help it.

“Well, I’m about to cancel him anyway,” Lisa said. “Because if he’s the kind of guy who wouldn’t know that after something that serious happened between us, he should be extra nice to me?” She made a pfft sound. “Then he might not be the one.”

“You might be right,” Jada said, relieved.

Lisa was not the friend who wanted to hear brutal truths.

Back in 6th grade when some boy Lisa liked made a play for Jada and she told her about it, Lisa hadn’t spoken to her for three weeks. The best one could do with Lisa was hope she led herself to the right answer so that all you had to do was reinforce it.

Just about every one of their friends—including Lisa though she wasn’t ready to admit it—knew that Earl was sniffing around a white girl with chestnut hair and blue eyes named Laurel, who only dated Black guys. Laurel’s dating habits intimidated the white guys, earned curiosity from the Black guys, the venom of Black girls, and mad props from her gaggle of less adventurous white girlfriends.

Laurel told everyone she was named that “after the Canyon” because her father was in the film business. Kyle had whispered to Jada once that the only films that got made in Laurel Canyon were porno. So, that was what Lisa was up against—her ‘boyfriend’ was trying to get with a girl who, however unjustly, came with the promise of a lot more than a blowjob behind the cafeteria.

“So what’s up with you?” Lisa asked, stretching out and propping herself backward against outstretched arms.

She had finally exhausted all conversation about herself—her favorite topic—and was giving Jada a cursory show of interest.

They were in Jada’s bedroom and supposed to be doing homework. Sometimes, after basketball practice, Lisa came home with her, and they got to hang out until Lisa’s parents showed up to get her around six o’clock. Homework usually got taken care of in less than an hour and the rest of the time was spent like right now, gossiping about their love lives, and others’ love lives, reading magazines and if Jada’s parents weren’t home, watching music videos in the living room.

“You not trying to get with nobody?” Lisa asked. “It’s been a minute since you and Kyle broke up.”

“Nah,” Jada said. “I don’t like anybody at school right now.”

And for what had to have been the millionth time, Jada forced herself to swallow the urge to tell Lisa about Prophet. If there was anyone from school she would tell, it was Lisa, who was impudent and rebellious, and would love the idea of writing to some guy in jail.

In jail.

It sounded so awful. Who would do that? Write to some guy who was locked up, who they barely knew? Definitely no one in Jada’s world. Except her cousin, Desiree. But even she didn’t know about the letters.

She had been the one to tell Jada in the first place that Prophet was locked up, mentioning in passing that he “took a charge” for his older brother and was in Glenn Dyer. It was the most Jada had heard about him in weeks, so she had listened closely, making note of the name of the jail.

Later she had gone to the public library and called from one of the public pay phones, asking for the general information number for the facility and then calling it right then and there. She wrote down the information they had given her about how to write to an inmate and slipped the paper inside her algebra textbook. That night, she had written Prophet the very first letter.

I heard what happened to you, she said. And I was thinking about what I would want, if I were the one where you are. I think I would want to hear a little about what’s happening in the outside world.

Normal things. Not like stuff you could easily see on the news. So I’m going to write to you about those kinds of things. And you don’t have to answer. Unless you want to.

Reading it back to herself, it sounded clumsy, but Jada couldn’t think of a better way to say it. She didn’t want to ask whether she could write to him, because what if he said ‘no’? Given the way things had gone the last time she’d seen him, it wasn’t out of the question that he would. And she didn’t want to sound like she expected him to write back just because she wrote.

So, she let the clumsy words stand as they were, and the next day mailed the letter from the post office near her school. Her heart raced just from seeing the postal worker stamp it and set it in the bin next to her.

It took almost two weeks for Prophet to respond. And thankfully, he had been smarter than she, and only listed the return address as GDJ. She hadn’t considered what would happen if her parents saw a postmark and return address from a jail. Her mother didn’t work so she was always the one to pick up the mail when it came. The letter from Prophet had been lost among a small pile of brochures from colleges and professional certification programs Jada was considering, so it hadn’t attracted notice.

Wow, Prophet wrote in a clean, crisp script. You’re about the last person I would have expected to hear from. But you’re also the only person I heard from since I been here. Except for my brothers and father who come see me. Getting letters would be cool. Hearing about the outside world would be cool, too.

But not just about the outside world. Maybe sometimes you could tell me a little bit more about you.

The thrill Jada got from knowing that he was curious about her was almost as profound as if he had made a bonafide declaration of love. Part of her didn’t even get why it was so exciting to have him say he wanted to hear about her.

Just like she hadn’t gotten why, that night they first met, the hairs on her arms had literally stood on end when he came close.

Once they started talking, the party seemed too loud to have the kind of conversation they had been having. Prophet led her outside to find somewhere to sit and wait for Desiree to be done with his brother. It was crazy how willingly she had followed.

Jada had at first gone to lean against someone’s car when he held her forearm and laughed.

Nah, he said. Don’t do that. ‘Round here, folks get beat down for less.

And she had laughed as well though she knew he wasn’t entirely joking.

So instead they sat on the curb. And there they stayed for almost three hours. Talking.

“Dang, that’s depressing,” Lisa said now, pulling her back to the present. “You’re not crushin’ on nobody?”

“Nope,” Jada said cheerfully. “Not crushing on a soul.”

And it wasn’t exactly a lie. Not exactly. Because what she felt for Prophet, she already knew, was far, far more than a crush.

“Dang,” Lisa said again.

9

Then

The thing about their house was that it was always so damn loud. Jail was loud, too, but not like this. In jail, the sounds were almost always of aggression or assertion. Staff yelling orders at inmates, inmates yelling curses at each other, and the occasional unmistakable sound of a scuffle, and of flesh on flesh—sex, violence, or some combination of both.

Even in the middle of the night, it was loud. Dudes having nightmares or hallucinations, or crying out for their mothers, for wives, children; or for a God they believed had forsaken them. If things grew quiet, it was a menacing quiet which meant that something very bad was about to happen, or already had.

The last time it got quiet while Ibrahim was at GDJ, it was because some dude had offed himself in his cell, managing to fashion a noose and hang himself during the night from one corner of his bunk. Word was, his cellie woke up to find him purple-faced, tongue protruding, eyes fixed and staring at nothing. He’d screamed for staff to come right away but it was too late. Ibrahim didn’t recall hearing the screaming, because there was always screaming, but he heard the rustle and rush as the COs descended to try to attend to the by then, long-dead man.

Everyone spoke in hushed whispers on the block for the rest of the day. It wasn’t just the death that had gotten to them—just about everyone there had seen plenty of that—it was the determination. The way they heard it, the dead guy’s feet had been touching the ground, his knees buckled but still touching the ground, because the bunks weren’t that high. And for his cellie not to have known what was happening, he must have gone quietly.

All anyone could talk about was how he had to have really wanted to die to pull that off, resisting the instinct to simply stand up, or reach up and loosen the self-inflicted obstruction to his next breath, to make a sound, any sound. Rumor had it, there weren’t even the expected scratch marks on dude’s neck, which usually happened when in a last gasp of remorse, suicides reached up, trying belatedly to loosen their noose.

That mothafucka musta said, ‘get me the hell up outta here’, one of the loud-mouth dudes announced. Can’t say I don’t understand how he feel.

And he kept talking, just harping on the same point till another inmate told him to shut the fuck up. Maybe because though they didn’t say it, there were many more of them who only wished they had the balls to pull off a final exit from their own wretched lives.

Ibrahim wasn’t among them, though. He only wished for the day he would get out or jail, and execute a plan to make sure he never went back in. Ever.

Within a day after the suicide, it was loud on the block again and Ibrahim came to understand the incessant noise as their way of reminding themselves that though they were caged like animals, they were still alive, still here, and still, maybe mattered to someone.

Now that he was home, he thought about how his family’s house was loud in a different way. His brothers and father yelled to each other from different rooms, communicating in the crass way that had gradually developed after Ibrahim’s mother died five years earlier. Ibrahim was about to turn fifteen when she passed, of complications from sickle cell.

Before her passing she had struggled with the illness her entire life, her complications becoming more acute, more painful after each pregnancy. By the time she died in the hospital—her organs simply giving in after a severe flare-up—she had grown thin and weak, and moved like a woman twenty years older.

Her name was Eve, which felt right to Ibrahim since she had been to him, the first woman in his world. When she was alive, his father had been a different man, his brothers had been different; he had been different. Then, they had all tried to accommodate quiet, order, and femininity in their home. And because she was so fragile, they had learned from her that all women should be treated as something precious and fleeting.

Over time though, once she was gone, they had all reverted practically to the way of savages.

He only saw it now because he couldn’t stop thinking about Jada, and taking out her letters and re-reading them, though he hadn’t even been home for a full day. Jada’s way of communicating was quiet, soft, and feminine, like his mother’s had been.

Ibrahim remembered Jada’s voice in his head as he read her words, the way she spoke slowly, like she was wrapping her lips around each syllable. He imagined her reading the letters as she wrote them, and the way she had tilted her head backward and lifted the thick mass of dark hair off her neck with the flick of a wrist.

She had been the object of all his fantasies while he was away. But he wasn’t sure how wise it would be to make her part of his reality now that he was out.

Ibrahim issued a loud belch and felt a shard of heat rip through his chest.

The empanadas that had tasted so good going down were sitting in the bottom of his gut now, like a lump of clay—heavy and hot, sending flames up toward his throat. He should have known he would get heartburn from all the spices, after so many months of bland, tasteless food.

Lying across his bed, he thumped the center of his chest with the side of a fist, willing the burning sensation away.

“What’s wrong?”

He looked up.

His father was standing at the doorway of his bedroom.

Levi Carter was a big man. Beefy and broad, with skin that was almost coal black. People called him a variety of nicknames that were both homage to, and ridicule of his dark skin. If it was the latter, they certainly didn’t say it to his face.

“Heartburn. Had some Mexican food while I was waitin’.”

His father grinned and nodded. “Gotta pace yourself,” he said. “Go easy on that stuff. Don’t have too much right out the gate.”

Then he stood there, and Ibrahim lay there.

They had never had much to say to each other.

Just before his mother died, Ibrahim had still been young enough to cling more to her than to his semi-absent father who had been largely incapable of dealing with his wife’s decline. Or he was just unable to deal in general, Ibrahim, didn’t know.

And now she was long gone, Levi sometimes still seemed stumped about what to do with, or about his quiet, inscrutable youngest son. Ibrahim was equally stumped by his father who had a day job as a supervisor with Bay Area Rapid Transit. His side hustle, which was never discussed openly in their house, was buying and renting out properties as stash houses to dope boys who paid more than the monthly mortgage each week and paid in cash.

Given that, it wasn’t surprising that Isaac and Immanuel had gotten in on the game, nor that they would induce Ibrahim to do the same. Their father, probably realizing how hypocritical it would have been for him to object, turned a blind eye, and only stepped in to intercede when—as had happened to all of them now—they were picked up by the police.

There had been a moment—a brief one, but a moment nevertheless—when Ibrahim considered asking his father why he did what he did. But he thought he knew. Medical bills. That had likely been what got him started on this path; the extra dough needed to pay for his wife’s expensive treatment, only some of which was covered by insurance.

And of course, once there was lots of money coming in, it was difficult to stop, even when circumstances changed. The job at BART was now little more than a fig leaf, something his father probably kept so he could tell himself he wasn’t really a co-conspirator in the drug trade.

“So, what you got planned today?” Levi asked. “Now that you’re a free man.”

It was a sad effort at camaraderie.

Ibrahim’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Haircut, shower. Clean clothes.”

His father gave a short laugh and shook his head. “That’s a good start.”

He turned away from the door and left Ibrahim alone once again.

If only his old man had said something to him like Nasim had said. Something like, this is your chance to do something different, Prophet. Or, I made some mistakes, but don’t think you need to make the same ones.

He had been hoping his father would rise to the occasion. But he never had. Even on the last day of his wife’s life, when Ibrahim and his brothers were at the hospital all day, Levi had arrived too late.

It was true that she had been the one to tell him there was no need to miss his shift. But anyone with an ounce of emotional intelligence should have known that she didn’t mean it. Still, Levi had gone to work. And when they beeped him later, it was to send him a simple message: she passed.

He rushed back to the hospital then, but it didn’t matter. That was Levi for you: always a day late, always a dollar short.

~~~

“G’on get you some fresh kicks, young ‘un.”

Ibrahim looked up from the barber chair.

His hair had grown long inside, the cornrows extending well below his shoulder blades. He had just gotten them cut and his hair was almost entirely shaved off. Other cats were into that gheri curl mess, or huge ‘fros, but he wasn’t feeling all that. He wanted to shed everything of jail, and the months preceding it. To look and feel like someone entirely new.

Manny had just pressed a knot of cash into his palm, and he took it, sliding it into the front pocket of his jeans.

“You think I need some fresh kicks?”

Ibrahim looked down at his feet, at his scuffed Nike Cortez. He’d worn them in court the day he got taken in to serve his sentence, and so that was what he had worn out this morning.

“Yeah. Out here lookin’ like a damn hobo,” Manny said.

Ibrahim laughed. “You g’on take me?”

“Nah. I got someplace to be.”

Immanuel dapped him up then slid on out of the barbershop. Ibrahim watched the back of his brother’s head as he left.

Manny hadn’t asked him anything about jail. While he was there, he had only once asked him if anyone was “messin’ with” him but not since he had gotten out. Both his brothers had experienced it themselves so it was doubtful he would tell them anything they didn’t already know. And the day he went in, they told him everything they knew.

Mind your business.

Mind your mouth.

Stick close to the set.

Each week, one or another of them had come to visit. But still, Ibrahim hated how routine it felt. Like jail was just another rite of passage, a thing that everyone went through sooner or later, like getting a woody in the morning starting when you were around thirteen.

Ever since he could remember, his brothers had looked out for him. He didn’t scrap a lot growing up, and had been kind of quiet, kind of a momma’s boy. Never weak, but the kind of quiet that made other kids think they could test him. Ibrahim’s instinct had always been to fall back unless the conflict was unavoidable. But Isaac and Immanuel taught him that if someone tried to test you, even if it was for no reason, then yeah, conflict was unavoidable.

Sometimes you had to fight just to let people know you could. And sometimes you had to let one or both of your brothers get a couple licks in just to let everyone know that if they came for you, you would come back for them later, and you wouldn’t come alone.

Ibrahim had learned those lessons the same way he had lessons in school—with his head, but not his heart. He didn’t have the anger and fire in his gut that you needed for a life in the streets.

He remembered too well what it was like to climb up next to his mother in bed while she was ill. How it felt when she pulled him against her side, as she flipped through magazines, asking him whether he thought this dress, or that hairstyle would look pretty on her. Whether he would take her to some of the far-flung places on those glossy pages when he grew up.

And he remembered when later, the discomfort was so great that she couldn’t hold the magazines herself, and would instead ask him to read her something, anything to get her mind off the pain. He was powerless over her pain, but he did small things, like learning to modulate his tone so that it was quieter, like he was reading a bedtime story. And sometimes, because he read to her in that tone, she would relax and eventually fall asleep.

Because he remembered these things, he wondered whether his mother’s softness had in some ways made him a little soft, too.

He didn’t want to rule East Oakland or run drugs until he bled out one night in the street over someone else’s beef. He wanted to fashion another, different life for himself; and because he knew his father and brothers loved him, he couldn’t for the life of him see why they didn’t realize this about him and help him get that life.

When he was done at the barbershop, he walked over a few stores down in the same strip mall and bought himself a pack of plain white t-shirts. And down a few stores more, got all-white K-Swiss Gstaads. Then he sat in a Burger King and ordered himself some lunch, trying not to think about the garbage there might be in the meat, and the fries. He was going to get this clean eating thing right, he just needed to figure out how.

While he ate, Ibrahim sat near the plate glass window of the fast food restaurant, meeting and catching the eye of several girls who walked by. He grinned at them, his gaze following their swishing butts as they walked. It would be a lie to pretend he didn’t miss sex. But abstaining now that he was out was an act of will, an act of choice. An exercise of his growing mental strength.

He looked away from the girls and reached into his back pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, unfolding it to read.

Do you ever feel like you’re living in a dream? Jada had written. Like the life you have now is the dream, but not in a good way? Like maybe your real life, the one you’re meant to have, is out there waiting for you, but you don’t know how to find it?

10

Then

“Come where?”

Desiree’s hand paused midair as she was about to apply her last layer of translucent powder. Her lips were a light, blush-pink, making the most of her fair, peach-like complexion.

“I want to come to the party with you.”

“And have Uncle and Auntie kick my ass? No thank you very much. I been down that road, remember?”

“It’s not like I’m about to tell them, Dee. They’re in San Francisco for the whole entire night. Probably won’t even come back until around noon tomorrow.”

“And that’s about when this party’ll be over,” Dee laughed. “You ain’t ready for this kinda party, Jada. I’m tellin’ you.”

She was more than ready, she was eager.

Prophet was home.

She knew only because she overheard her cousin on the phone with his brother making plans for tonight. The news took her by surprise because she had been writing to him, and even though he didn’t write back as often as she wrote, his release date was something she would have expected him to share.

“So you’re just gon’ leave me here all night by myself?” she tried.

Dee turned to look at her. “What? You ain’ a baby. Just lock up real tight and watch something on television.”

“Dee. I want to come.”

Sighing, her cousin came to sit next to her on the edge of the bed. “It’s … Manny’s brother … You remember Prophet, right? From that time? Well he just got out of county and when somebody get out it’s a whole different kinda thing. I mean, sometimes it can get off the chain a little bit.”

“If it’s a party, I expect it to be off the chain. I want to come.” This time Jada added a whine to her voice for effect.

She hadn’t told Desiree—or anyone—that she had been writing to Prophet. It would’ve caused too much family drama. He wasn’t the kind of guy a girl like her—straight-A student, active in athletics, and with a so-called bright future—was supposed to be interested in.

That was only confirmed when he told her ‘Prophet’ was his street name. If he even had a ‘street he probably hustled with his brother, Desiree’s boyfriend. Jada remembered thinking that he seemed as different from Manny as night from day; and that it was hard to imagine him standing on a corner, leaning into cars or supplying little plastic vials to desperate people with eyes like zombies.

“If I want to stay over with Manny, though …” Dee was beginning to consider logistics, so that was progress.

“I’ll get a ride home,” Jada said easily.

Dee laughed. “With who? You think I’d put my cousin in a car to ride off with any one of those fools at that party? I mean, why you even want to come anyway?”

“Because I’m bored,” Jada lied. “There’s never anything to do over here.”

She knew Dee would relate to that. That was her own complaint when she was on this side of town: ain’t nothin’ to get into!

“A’ight. But you need to have taxi money. So I can put you in one when you’re ready to go.”

“I have money,” Jada said, thinking of her birthday cash, stashed in the back of her underwear drawer.

Sighing, Dee pursed her lips and then nodded as if making a decision that ran counter to her better judgment.

“Okay. Let’s get you ready then.”

~~~

Jada was almost shaking by the time she and Desiree crossed the threshold into the house, a small Spanish-style bungalow in a neighborhood she had never been to before. Outside, low-riders and souped-up cars lined the curb, some of them playing music from sound systems loud enough to compete with what was coming from inside the house.

People spilled out of the front door and into the yard, drinking and bouncing to music, yelling at each other so they could converse over the din.

She wasn’t sure why she was trembling, whether from the anticipation of seeing Prophet, or nervousness at being in a place where she was so completely out of her element. It was excitement laced with worry, that feeling you get when you’re doing something that’s thrilling but also a little dangerous, when you know the thrill is there largely because of the danger.

But maybe it was about time she did something a little dangerous. In a few short months, she wouldn’t be in high school anymore, and up to this point, she had done everything pretty much by the book. But this whole scene felt like something out of a rap video, the kind that her parents often decried as “glorifying the ghetto” before asking her to switch the channel from Yo! MTV Raps to something more “edifying.”

Jada probably wouldn’t describe the show as edifying either, but it was educational. It gave her a window into a world she had been purposely shielded from. Except, it didn’t feel like shielding sometimes, so much as lying. If you lived where she lived and went to the school she went to, you might think rap was an anomaly, a temporary blemish on the magnificent history of Black music. But just from watching just one show on MTV, she learned that rap, which she wasn’t sure she liked to be honest, wasn’t just sound, it was culture.

Yo! MTV Raps explained the guys she saw occasionally; so different from the young men at her school who wore tailored chinos and well-fitting jeans. Instead, these guys wore baggy plaid shirts, oversized white tees, and even baggier jeans, with monochromatic Nike sneakers, and fitted baseball caps that obviously had nothing to do with their love of the game. It explained why it sometimes seemed like there were at least two Black Americas. One where Black people easily and shamelessly referred to each other as “niggas” without intending or taking offense, and the other where people like her parents had begun to gratefully adopt the Reverend Jesse Jackson’s revived nomenclature by calling themselves Afro- or African Americans.

She watched Yo! MTV Raps because dumb as it sounded, she knew Prophet was from one America, while she was from the other, and the show was the only semi-authentic view of his world.

“Baby girl! Dee!”

Jada and her cousin both looked in the direction of the voice raised above the din of the music. Manny, hand high in the air, holding a forty-ounce, was trying to get Desiree’s attention. He shoved his way through the crowd until he was standing in front of them. Dipping his head, he kissed the side of Dee’s neck.

“Ai, mami chula!” he said, grinning at her, taking in her short skirt and long legs.

“Shup up, Manny!” Dee said, smacking him on the arm. “And what the hell? I ain’ know you invite the whole damn city.”

“What can I tell you? Me and my brothers are big ballers in Oaktown.” He put a hand at Desiree’s waist and pulled her against him, pressing his pelvis into her midsection.

Jada looked away, trying to work out where in the room she might go to grab a drink. Soda. Only a soda. Because she could already see from Dee and Manny’s body language that in no time at all, they would be too absorbed in each other to notice, let alone look out for her.

Just as she was making a three-sixty to orient herself in the room, Jada’s eyes landed on a familiar face. Not just familiar, but the only face she came here to see.

For a fraction of a second, her heart gave something like a hiccup, and when it restarted, was beating much faster.

Prophet.

He was holding a bottled water. Who would have thought there was even such a thing to be had at an event like this?

Wearing a plain white t-shirt and baggy khakis, he looked fresh, clean, and new. The t-shirt, which was so white as to have just come out of the pack, stretched at the sleeves to accommodate his arms. They were much beefier than Jada recalled from the last time she’d seen him; and his chest was muscular and defined beneath the cotton fabric.

He had shaved his hair almost entirely off. When they had seen each other last, he had it in cornrows. His face was clean-shaven now, too. It was a wonder Jada even recognized him.

Between them, partiers bustled by, on their way to get drinks, catch up with a friend, or head outside for fresh air. For a second, Jada stood immobile, then a smile spread across her face that she could not have repressed if her life depended on it. She wished she could play it cool, because despite the letters, the last time she’d seen him, before he got locked up, hadn’t been exactly pleasant.

Whatchu doin’? You don’t need to be comin’ ‘roun’ here.

There had been other people there, too. Witnesses to her humiliation. Two guys, and a girl who was watching them especially closely, and with open curiosity about who Jada might be.

Prophet had looked and sounded like a completely different person.

Go home, he enunciated.

Then, to make sure that was where she went, he borrowed a car and took her himself. He drove in silence, all the way across town while she sat next to him, embarrassed, and swallowing back the impending tears.

Once he got to her neighborhood, he dropped her a few doors down from her house without her asking him to do it. It would never even have occurred to her to ask such a thing.

They’d only exchanged a few words; hers were imploring, his were terse. And when she opened the door and was safely on the curb, he yanked the door shut and sped away. She didn’t even get a chance to ask him why he hadn’t pulled up to her gate but thought she might know the answer.

Despite her smile, now Prophet’s face was mostly immobile. Maybe he was thinking the same thing he had then.

You don’t need to be comin’ ‘roun’ here.

But before Jada could dwell too much on that fear, he was closing the distance between them. When they were face-to-face, he looked down at her. She had forgotten that he was so tall. Eight or nine inches taller than her, maybe more.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi.”

Only then did he smile, and only a little. His skin, the color of burnished copper, glowed like a freshly-minted penny. He had straight teeth, except for that one little crooked one on the bottom row, that stood out like a reassurance that he was in fact real.

He looked her over, taking in her bare shoulders.

“I’ma get you a jacket,” he said. “Then let’s go get something to eat. It’s loud as hell in here, and I’m hungry.”

Jada hesitated, momentarily thrown. He spoke to her as though they had last seen each other only moments before.

Sensing her hesitation, Prophet paused and dipped his head a little so he could look her directly in the eye.

“You comfortable with that?” he asked. “With coming someplace to get something to eat with me?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation.

~~~

THey went to a Church’s Chicken off E. 14th where he ordered two two-piece meals to go, with two bottles of water. He led Jada back to the borrowed car and pulled out of the parking lot into the humid summer evening. They had barely spoken a dozen words since they left the party, but the silence was comfortable.

Jada’s mouth watered at the flavorful aroma of fried chicken filling the car’s interior. Her stomach issued a loud gurgle.

Prophet laughed. “Smells good, right?”

“Yeah. I guess I should’ve eaten before I left home.” Her voice was hoarse and didn’t sound like her own.

“Yup. ‘Cause this stuff’ll probably kill us. Tastes good, but you’d be surprised how hard it is, getting healthy stuff ‘round here. Healthy stuff that tastes good anyway.”

Jada said nothing.

She was still struggling to get her mind around everything. She had been at the party for less than ten minutes and the next thing she knew, he was making excuses to his brother, reassuring Desiree he would look after her, borrowing someone’s car keys and sweeping her away from a celebration that was supposed to be for him.

And if that wasn’t disorienting enough, it was confusing that he wanted to sweep her away at all. She’d only ever seen him on two other occasions besides the night they met.

“Where are we going?” she asked now.

“Why? You fiendin’ for that chicken, huh?” There was a hint of amusement in Prophet’s tone. “Don’t worry, it’s not far.”

He took her to another house. One on a much quieter block than the one they had left, and that seemed almost deserted. Inside the house, a soft light glowed, like a lamp had been placed on a table far from the window.

Leading her around to the back, the bag of food in one hand, the other holding hers, Prophet only released it to indicate a ladder, propped against a wall.

Jada climbed up ahead of him, wondering at how easily she trusted him, how effortlessly she had allowed him to lure her away from her cousin with no immediate or discernible way to get home, or even to call a cab if she needed one. The last time she’d been at a party with him, he had scolded her because she said she would accept a ride home from him.

The rooftop was arranged like a patio, complete with two recliners, two folding chairs and a card table.

When he climbed up behind her, Prophet looked over across the neighborhood and took a deep breath inhaling the night air. From that vantage point, they could see both the tops of the neighboring houses, and downtown Oakland miles away. The night was quiet and still.

“Hella-cool, right?”

Jada nodded.

“I missed seeing the sky,” he continued. “Seeing the stars.”

Scanning the vista from this vantage point she could see now that the rooftop patio wasn’t an original idea. Other houses with flat roofs had furniture on them as well.

“Up here, sometimes, you can even see the bridge.” He pointed out a string of lights in the distance.

Prophet was standing so close that his chest, brushed against her shoulder when he pointed. Jada fought the urge to lean back against him, to take his arm and pull it around her. Then to turn, tip her head back, and kiss him.

She focused on remaining very still, and felt him lean in a little, heard him inhale. She had washed her hair the day before, so she knew it smelled like lavender. She hoped he liked the scent.

“Whose house is this?” she asked. Her voice hitched when she spoke.

“My family’s. My father’s,” he said.

“So, the other house …”

“Also family’s. Well. A spot we sort of … rent out.”

Prophet moved away then, and went to open their food, crumpling the bags and setting out the boxes and bottles of water.

“Don’t you drink anything but water?” she teased, remembering the water bottle at the party.

He shrugged. “Nope. Not anymore. Not if I can help it.”

“Really?” Jada took one of the seats positioned adjacent the table. “Nothing?”

He shook his head. “It’s only been one day, but nah. When I was inside, I decided I’d kick all the other stuff. It’s all mostly sugar anyway.”

“Where’ll you get your calcium? Your Vitamin C?”

Prophet laughed, probably because she sounded so alarmed. “From food. Live food. Oranges. Spinach.”

“You decided all this while …”

“While I was locked up, yeah. You wouldn’t believe the shit they feed people in there. Stuff I wouldn’t give my dog.”

“Do you have a dog?”

He laughed again. “No. But if I did.”

“Oh. Right.” Jada shook her head, feeling foolish. It was just that she wanted to know everything about him there was to know.

There was a brief lull while they opened the chicken boxes and reached for their food. Jada tried to use her fork for a moment, but the plastic was cheap and too bendable to tackle crispy fried chicken.

Finally, she gave up and followed Prophet’s example, picking up the meat with her hands. She bit into the first piece and her mouth was flooded with flavor, a line of grease dribbling down her chin. The crunchy breading had a little kick to it, and the tip of her tongue tingled.

“God, we really are going to kill ourselves eating this stuff,” she said reaching for a napkin. “And it definitely isn’t going to help your healthy eating plan.”

“Sure isn’t. But I haven’t figured out how to do it yet,” Prophet said from around a mouthful. “‘Cause ‘round here, seems like if you don’t eat garbage, you don’t eat at all.”

“You’ll find places.”

“I got a book when I was, you know, in county. Kept borrowing it so I could read the whole thing. Elijah Muhammad wrote it. Called, ‘How to Eat to Live’. Dropped mad knowledge. But yeah, turns out all the garbage they feed us in the ghetto, that’s by design, not by accident. Cheap, false food. Like the cheap, fake toys in discount stores on the boulevard, masquerading to look like the real thing but with toxic paint that poisons poor kids.”

Hearing his voice in person, instead of imagining it gave Jada a chill. She had remembered its tone and cadence so well, he didn’t sound unfamiliar at all.

And maybe it was because of all the letters and what she shared, but if there had been any restraints between them, all of that had fallen away. He spoke faster, more freely than she remembered him speaking to her ever before.

Their knees were touching the little table, pressing against it and holding it in place between them. They were close enough to touch, and she wanted to, maybe to convince herself he was real, and that she really was here, alone with him. She’d pictured it many times, being alone with Prophet. The one time they had been totally alone, it was because he was driving her home, warning her never to come to his neighborhood again.

“Your letters,” he said suddenly, putting down his chicken. “Thank you. You don’t know how much … I mean, I really appreciated that.”

Jada shrugged. “It’s no big deal. Anyway, you were literally a captive audience.”

“No.” He reached out and held her wrist briefly, his forefinger stroking it. “Don’t act like it wasn’t nothin’. It was a lot. Getting a letter from you almost every week. Made the time pass faster. Made me feel like ain’ everybody forget me, y’know?”

“I would never forget you,” she said, her tone more vehement than she intended.

Prophet grinned, releasing her wrist and picking up his chicken again.

“You need to stop sayin’ shit like that.” He shook his head.

“Why?”

“I might take you serious. And then where would that leave us?”

Jada looked down at her food. “And you need to stop saying stuff like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re just playing with me. Like you don’t take me seriously.”

The smile on his face melted away and he stared at her.

“I’m not playing with you,” he said. “And believe me, this right here? It’s real serious. But I just … I don’t know.”

11

Then

“What don’t you know?” She exhaled a long breath.

“If this is right,” Ibrahim said, motioning between them.

“Fine.”

She bit into her chicken, put it down again and looked off into the distance, over his shoulder and away from him. Her eyes were glistening a little.

“I mean, for you, Jada,” he said. “I don’t know if this is right for you.”

“What does that even mean?” she demanded. “I’m not a little kid. And I mean, after we ran into each other at the sideshow, I thought …”

She stopped, and looked down, reaching for her chicken leg again, but now only half-heartedly.

“Anyway.” She let the unfinished thought hang there.

Whatever she thought, Ibrahim was sure he had been thinking it, too.

It was over a year ago now, but maybe when he’d gone to the Foothill sideshow with his brother in the first place it was because part of him had known that Desiree might make an appearance. And if Dee was there, maybe she would bring along her cousin.

That day, watching Jada walking alongside Dee, in black palazzo pants and a close-fitting cropped yellow tank top, he almost allowed himself to smile. Her hair was in a single long, thick braid that rested on her shoulder. The hair caught his eye because whenever he thought of her before, he imagined her hair as being out, like it was the night they met. It made him realize that despite himself, he had been thinking of her, remembering everything about her, and the conversation they had.

The exposed area of her stomach that day at Foothill was as smooth and cool-dark as her face. He wondered what she might look like in shorts. And without shorts. Or without a top. Then he had to remind himself that he had no business messing with a girl like her, no matter how often he had been thinking about her.

The night they first met, she said she went to Crestlawn Academy, a private parochial school, one of those that they bussed smart Black kids to. Ibrahim could have been part of that program, but his father forbade it, saying it was just a way for white people to use Black kids to feel better about themselves. Rather than arrest the decay in Black communities, they would share some of their bounty, but only with a select few.

Divide and conquer, his father said. That’s how they do. My kid ain’t gon’ be one of those few. Takin’ his little bit of what every damn Black kid in Oakland should be getting.

That was about as close as Ibrahim’s father ever came to social consciousness. But the older he got, the more he believed that had been a rationalization because his father was afraid of having one of his sons grow up under conditions he could not control and did not understand. Or maybe he was just plain ol’ frightened that after all that fancy schooling, one day Ibrahim would come home more of a stranger than he already was.

Apparently, Jada’s parents had a different philosophy, and none of his father’s fears. So she was at Crestlawn, and she and her classmates were the melting pot that America pretended it wanted the entire country to be.

Ibrahim’s own school had been more than seventy-five percent Black, twenty-something percent Mexican and the rest a smattering of white and Asian kids. The school was almost more dangerous than the neighborhood where it sat. With its locked compound, it was a concentrated space where the same grievances that existed out on the streets among adults could fester over the length of a school day, among young people who had fewer emotional restraints, and little appreciation for consequences.

When he turned sixteen, Ibrahim took the CHSPE, the California High School Proficiency Exam, and qualified for an early-exit from high school. It wasn’t like getting a GED which was what both his older brothers had done. The CHSPE meant he could still go to college without the stigma of being a dropout, a secret dream of his that he’d been grinding for the last couple of years till interrupted by the need to do Isaac’s time.

He didn’t leave high school because he didn’t like going to class, he left because of the drama. School had been a place where people got stabbed, and if you attracted the wrong kind of notice, ‘people’ could be you.

To Jada, high school was where you played sports, and spent the year inveigling your parents to pay for a senior trip to Barbados. Maybe because of where she went to school, Jada had a broader worldview than any other girl he knew. She talked about the news. The news. At a party where who might next get dropped or arrested was the most common subject of conversation (second only to who had actually gotten dropped or arrested) a girl talking about current events in the world was like seeing an albino elephant wandering across the backyard.

Jada talked about how crazy it was that just weeks earlier Huey Newton had gotten shot down in the very streets where he had built the Black Panther Party.

I feel like … maybe people can’t escape their destiny, she said, chewing the corner of her lower lip, brows knitted. Know what I mean? Maybe he was always destined to die in these streets like so many Black men before him. And everything he did up to that point—all his activism, all of what he did to change Oakland and the world—that was just delaying the inevitable.

Conversations about fate and fatality, Ibrahim couldn’t have imagined having with anyone else he knew. But that was probably what living in a safe home and neighborhood and going to a safe school did. It gave Jada space and time to think abstract, existential thoughts. Instead of worrying about whether she, or someone she cared about, would make it home at night.

“I liked talking to you that day,” Ibrahim said now, reaching forward to tip her chin upward. “At the sideshow? You weren’t wrong. I liked our conversation. And at the party before that, too.”

“Yet, that week after the sideshow when I stopped by to hang out with you …”

Whatchu doin’ over here? he’d demanded, hurrying her away from the front gate of the house. Who told you where I was at?

It had been a shock, that was all, having her roll up to the stash house, still in her sweatpants from basketball practice, wearing her maroon Crestlawn t-shirt with the gold lettering. Her face had a post-exercise glow, her hair in the same thick braid, but this time a ponytail high atop her head, swinging from side to side as he held her by the arm and pulled her away.

The other guys had looked on, curious and intrigued, knowing just from how she was dressed that Jada was not one of “their” girls. Ibrahim didn’t even want them to get a good look at her. And Breonna had been there as well, watching it all go down.

Dee tell you where to find me? he’d demanded.

No. She doesn’t know I’m here. I … I just took a chance. I remembered at the party when you said this was a place you hang out most days. So I thought …

You don’t need to be comin’ ‘roun’ here, he said. Go home.

Her eyes had grown watery with unshed tears and she bit in her lower lip, her front teeth visibly pressing into it so hard it was almost white.

Ibrahim shook his head. How’d you even get here?

BART, she said, her voice wobbling. And the bus. I thought …

Wait here, he told her. Here. A’ight? Don’t move. I’ll be right back.

He’d had to go back inside the house, get rid the shit he was holding, and borrow a ride. When he returned, it was with keys in hand.

I’ll take you home, he said, leading her to the nearby parked car.

He opened the door for her, held it open so she could get in and then got in on the driver’s side. Sitting next to her and staring straight ahead, he asked for her address. They didn’t speak again until he pulled up about thirty minutes later, a few doors down from her house.

You should get out here, he said quietly, still not looking at her.

Prophet, I’m …

I gotta get back, he feigned impatience. This ain’t my whip.

He saw from the corner of his eye as Jada’s shoulders sagged in defeat, and she opened the door. When she had gotten out and shut it behind her, she was only three steps away from the car before he gunned the engine and screeched away.

“That wasn’t a place where you just stop by, Jada,” Ibrahim said now. “You know that.”

“Okay, maybe. But I knew you wouldn’t let anything happen to me,” she said matter-of-factly.

“How could you know that, though?” he asked, eyes narrowed. Her naivete was exasperating, her trust in him confounding.

“Because you said so.”

She looked at him and Ibrahim scratched his jaw, shaking his head.

“Okay, so that’s true, alright? But some things aren’t in my control, though. It was just … some places you ain’t s’posed to be at. Even the party tonight …”

“I know you didn’t write me back a lot …”

She spoke over what he was about to say, obviously not wanting to hear it. Ibrahim was getting the impression Jada Green had a little more stubbornness in her than he would have thought. There was much more to her than sweetness and light, and he was digging it.

“I know you didn’t write me back a lot, but I feel like maybe we got to know each other a little better while you were away,” she continued. “Don’t you?”

“Away,” he said, shaking his head again. “I was in jail. Why don’t we just go ahead and say it? I was in jail. And as far as you and me getting to know each other, do you even know why I was there? Why I was locked up?”

She shook her head.

“In all those letters, you never asked me. Do you care?”

She started to shake her head then instead shrugged.

“Well, you should care. Possession with intent,” he said, holding her gaze. “To distribute. A narcotics charge.”

She said nothing but held his gaze.

“I’m just sayin’. Maybe we know each other a little better now because of the letters, but you didn’t know me at all back then. When you just showed up at the spot that time, you had no idea who I was, or what I might have …”

“I had some idea. I knew you weren’t a rapist, or homicidal maniac or anything. I know you aren’t that now, Prophet.”

“Ibrahim,” he said. “That’s my name. Only certain people call me Prophet. And I don’t … That’s not what I want you to call me.”

“Okay.”

He reached for her hand again. “Prophet is the dude who went in,” he explained, curling his fingers around hers. “I’m hopin’ he’s not the one who came out.”

“Is the guy who came out someone it’s fine for me to be around?” she challenged. “Like, would it be safe for me to come see him in his … ‘hood?”

She said the last word with a hint of mockery. Like the word itself represented some fictional concept.

He grinned and shook his head. “We might not know each other real well, but one thing I do know about you? You got a smart mouth sometimes.”

Jada stuck her chin out a little and Ibrahim saw that stubborn streak surface again.

“I do wanna be around you,” he said, staring directly into her eyes. “I wanna be around you as much as I can. But nah, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come see me over by that house. And not even over here. Not unless I bring you myself.”

“So, where would I see you?”

“Where would you want to go?”

“I don’t know,” Jada shrugged. “The beach. I go to the library a lot after practice … wherever you want.”

“Wherever I want, huh?” he asked.

She nodded. She didn’t even seem to know what she was saying. Or how a man might interpret it.

“Yes,” she said. “Just tell me where.”

~~~

Ibrahim listened to the grunting and moaning through the thin walls, punctuated by Desiree’s occasional high-pitched whelps. He had only dropped Jada off at home an hour earlier, this time at her gate, waiting until she went in and waved from the front door. When she told him her parents were away for the night, he felt a flash of impatience with Desiree who he knew good and well probably wouldn’t make it back to stay with Jada in the empty house, but would end up precisely where she was right now.

Beneath his irritation, he was hella-horny. Hearing his brother next door putting in some work wasn’t helping, either.

For the first time in over a year, he could have pussy on demand. There had been rumors in GDJ, of female COs who pushed up. They gave an inmate a look and if he returned it, later arranged to be alone with them someplace so they could get each other off. Rumor had it those arrangements never turned out to be quite the benefit they might have seemed in the beginning. Possessiveness plus power in a woman sometimes added up to a whole lot of drama.

So Ibrahim had avoided eye-contact with all the female guards, even those who seemed to seek it out. It wasn’t worth the inevitable bullshit.

Just being close to Jada in the car, smelling her sweet, girlish perfume, then sitting across from her and watching as she licked chicken grease from her fingers had been plenty to get his engine revving.

When they were headed to her house, he stopped and bought her ice cream. He got some for himself as well, but while he took his in a cup, Jada wanted a waffle cone. From the corner of his eye while he drove, Ibrahim watched her lick her ice cream and tried to control his imagination.

But now, to have that memory and then listen to Immanuel digging out his girl less than twenty feet away? That was cruel and unusual punishment.

Before Jada showed up tonight, a few of his old chicks had been checking him out. They circled him coyly, smiled from across the room and a couple made their approach even before he considered whether he would do it himself. And now, it didn’t matter that it was after two in the morning, he could call any one of them up right now to enlist their help to lessen the pressure that was building in his groin.

Running through the names mentally, he lingered on thoughts of Breonna, as he almost always did. Breonna was what they called a “mutt.” Racially mixed in so many different ways—Black, Mexican, white—that even she couldn’t say with complete certainty what her heritage was. She was the kind of girl who got a lot of attention because guys were basically lazy. She had the superficial, stereotypical markers of attractiveness, fair-skinned, long hair and no obvious defects, physical or otherwise.

Ibrahim liked her because she was fun. He could sit on the stoop with Breonna and talk shit all day long, sipping from a forty, passing a blunt and clowning her like he might a dude. Unlike most girls, she wouldn’t even get upset. She laughed along and even did some clowning of her own.

And she made sex fun, too. She never acted like she was allowing him to get some, she wanted to give it to him. A couple weeks after he first started messing with her, back when they were both fifteen, Ibrahim had seriously considered making her his girl. They had been hanging out for a while, at the arcade, chilling in the mall and at parties all around town. She didn’t press or pressure him or ask where he had been when they weren’t together so he thought maybe she was the type of chick where it might be cool to chill with just her for a while.

Then Isaac pulled on his coattail and let him know that when she was fourteen, some dudes over by Fitchburg ran a train on her.

Seven niggas, dawg, Zac said with chilling emphasis. Seven.

The implication was clear. Breonna was a girl you boned when you needed that kind of release. A girl you might kick back with sometimes. But she was not the girl you made your girl.

And because he was young and insensitive, Ibrahim asked her about the rumor. Worse yet, he had asked her about it when they were in his room and naked, just about to get busy no less.

For a moment, Breonna blanched, then she shrugged her thin shoulders. I ain’ have no business bein’ over there in the first place, she said, her eyes dancing away from his.

Ibrahim was angry. Not because she might have believed it was her fault, but because at the time, he believed it was her fault as well.

Later, when he was no more than a year or so older and saw firsthand a couple situations like that unfold, he remembered the look on the girls’ faces. Each time, they scanned the room, desperately searching for that one dude. Just one, who would help her find an escape route from something that had spiraled well beyond what she wanted or imagined would happen.

Ibrahim, to his later shame, had never been that escape route. He had only absented himself from the proceedings, finding it unimaginable that he would dip his nib in the same honeypot his dawg had just vacated moments earlier. But sometimes he had been there just long enough to see the look in the girl’s eyes go from hope to resignation; and to watch as she reached for someone, pointing, maybe saying something like, him first, deciding that maybe it was better to take what little control of an uncontrollable situation she could, than try to fight them all off.

He was no hero. And probably had just as little honor as the guys who stayed behind to take their turn.

After hearing what Isaac told him, and getting Breonna’s confirmation, it was out of the question that she would ever be more to him than she was now. She was cool and all, a girl he kicked it with, and who came when he called. She would never be more to him than she was now, not just because she’d been ‘ruined’ but because he knew that after what happened to her, Breonna wouldn’t be able to help herself—it might take a minute but she would turn into the kind of girl, and later the kind of woman who laid waste to everything good in her life. Just because she could no longer believe that anything good was also real, or true.

But Ibrahim wasn’t thinking about any of that now when he got up from bed and crept into the hall. He moved past Immanuel’s door, where things had finally gone quiet, lifted the receiver off the wall phone and dialed Breonna’s number from memory.

Part of him hoped she wasn’t home. Because after spending the evening with Jada—an evening that felt purer than any he had ever spent with a girl—he almost believed that his time locked up had instantly transformed him into someone new. And abstinence was beginning to feel like his superpower, until he heard all the action in the next room.

The phone only rang twice before Breonna answered.

12

Then

“I was wondering if you were busy. If you might want to hang out today.”

The voice on the other end of the line, returning her ‘hello’, was immediately recognizable, and Jada had clamped a hand over her mouth to prevent herself from emitting a squeal or something stupid like that.

“Hang out?” she managed, after a deep swallow.

“Yeah. Maybe at the beach or something. You said you might want to go to the beach, right?”

She couldn’t be sure, but was there a slight tremor in Ibrahim’s voice? But no, that couldn’t be right. Maybe it was just the connection, because she couldn’t imagine that he would be nervous calling her of all people. And even his choice of words sounded uncharacteristically formal for him, like he was reading from a script scribbled by someone else on the palm of his hand.

“Sure,” she said right away, then closed her eyes, mortified by how eager she sounded, even to herself. Speaking more slowly and deliberately, she added, “I mean, I have basketball practice but after that, yeah, I could … I would love to.”

“Where’s your practice?” he asked. “And what time? Maybe I could pick you up from there.”

If he picked her up from practice, the other mothers would notice. Calls would be made.

Dinah, I missed you over there by the school today when Jada got out of practice. Was that your nephew who picked her up? Handsome young man, in a fancy car?

“Or I could meet you,” Jada said. “I’d want to come home to shower and change anyway, pick up a bag and stuff.”

“Oh. Yeah. That’d be cool, too. Where should I meet you at?”

Jada felt her face grow warm.

She didn’t want to lie to him, nor to make him think she was ashamed to be seen with him. She wished she was bold enough to admit how giddy it made her that he was asking her out on a date, something she didn’t imagine he did very much of.

Even after the night of his welcome-home party, when she had given him her phone number, she was afraid to hope she would hear from him. Almost two weeks had passed, and she had been planning and scheming a trip to his neighborhood with Desiree where she hoped they would run into each other.

Maybe the subterfuge was silly when she could have just asked her cousin outright to take her over there, but she still wasn’t sure what this was, and what she was to him. And never mind silly, it was also risky since he made it clear he didn’t think his neighborhood was a place she should be hanging out.

His call was a welcome surprise but her parents would want to know more about him if he showed up at her house. They would ask intrusive questions about what he did, where he went to school, and how his parents were employed. Jada worried, of all things, that Ibrahim would probably tell them the truth. He just seemed like that kind of guy—forthright and honest unless there was a compelling reason not to be. He might not think that the possibility of her parents’ disapproval was a compelling enough reason to lie.

“I could take the train,” she offered. “Meet you kind of halfway somewhere?”

“Halfway to Crown Beach?” he asked.

“No, I meant halfway between us. Like in town somewhere.”

“Yeah. We could do that.” He suggested a place, near a BART station and she quickly agreed.

Already, in the pit of her stomach, she felt a tiny ripple of anticipation. At the minor rebellion of planning to meet a boy her parents didn’t know; and at the fact that the ‘boy’ in question wasn’t a boy at all, but Ibrahim, who felt like very much a man.

They set a time, and then without further chitchat, he said he would see her later.

“Who was that on the phone?”

Just as Jada hung up, her mother walked by on her way to the kitchen, still twisting her long hair up into a bun. She had gotten her hair from her mother, who even at her age hadn’t cut it.

Jada rarely saw it down, and even then, only by accident first thing in the morning. Her mother was so traditional that to spot her with her hair loose was almost akin to seeing her in her underwear (which was unthinkable), and something reserved for moments behind closed doors with her husband.

On Saturdays, because Jada needed the fuel for the long, grueling hours of basketball practice, her mother got up to make her a large breakfast. And afterwards, they went browsing the stores in the mall if Jada didn’t have plans with Lisa and Chloe.

This weekend, she and her friends had no plans, and her mother would pick her up unless she told her otherwise. Jada decided to risk the truth, or at least some part of it.

“It was a guy I met,” she said. “At a party.”

“Oh?” Her mother stopped, a bemused expression on her face. She fastened the final hairpin, waiting for Jada to continue.

“He’s nice. Asked if I wanted to hang out this afternoon. I think … I was thinking I might.”

Jada watched as her mother considered this. She could practically read her mind.

She’s eighteen now.

She’s almost graduated.

I suppose other girls her age have young men. And I haven’t seen her with that nice boy, Kyle at church lately.

“Do I know him? What’s his name?”

Jada hesitated.

But there may come a time, at least she hoped there would, when Ibrahim might be less of a secret.

“Ibrahim. And no, you don’t know him.”

Her mother brightened a little, probably because the name was biblical.

“And how old is Ibrahim?”

“Nineteen.”

Her mother nodded, approving. Had he been even one year older than that, Jada knew the reaction might have been very different.

“So, I’ll probably come back here after practice and get ready then head out to meet him.”

“Where?” her mother asked.

Jada told her location of the meeting place she and Ibrahim had discussed, and her mother nodded again. She didn’t dare tell her they were leaving there and going all the way to the beach.

First of all, Jada wasn’t much of a swimmer, so that alone would prompt unnecessary worry. And second, beaches conjured up images of revealing clothing, something that might give her mother pause about letting her go “hang out” with someone she didn’t know.

“Remember your curfew,” she said, continuing on to the kitchen. “I don’t want you out too late.”

“I won’t be,” Jada said.

When she was alone again, she heaved a deep sigh, feeling as though she’d cleared a meaningful obstacle. Had her father been her interrogator, she wouldn’t have gotten off as easily. Her mother, having come to parenthood later in life, sometimes seemed unsure of where to erect boundaries. She had been forty-five when Jada was born—a happy surprise to a couple who believed they would never have children, and whose friends already had children well into their twenties.

Her mother and father were sweetly overprotective, and much gentler toward her than Jada saw her friends’ parents behave with them. They never raised their voices, and seemed impressed and delighted by just about everything she did. In fairness, she was also just the kind of child who rarely did things that parents would have cause to object to.

The only difference was that while her father realized the dangers of the world that might prey on her, her mother—who had only ever been a housewife—was most concerned that she not hold Jada back from living a life that was in step with her peers. Just so long as those peers came from good church people, like Lisa and Chloe and Kyle did.

Ibrahim must, to her mother, sound like he was certain to be “in church.”

Ignoring the tiny ping of guilt at taking advantage of her mother’s naïveté, Jada went in to get ready for practice, and decide which among her three swimsuits to wear later that afternoon.

~~~

“Your mother says you have plans this afternoon.”

Jada stiffened in her seat. It was bad enough that her parents had switched things up without telling her, having her father come get her from basketball practice. But now it appeared she may have underestimated her mother entirely.

She seemed completely comfortable with the news that Jada was going on a date with an as-yet-faceless young man named Ibrahim, but apparently, she was cautious enough to share the news with her husband, and then to have him come collect their daughter from basketball, giving him the perfect opportunity to ask his questions.

“Yeah. Just meeting a friend.”

“And this friend, where do you know him from?” her father asked as he maneuvered smoothly into the stream of traffic outside Crestlawn.

The school had been aptly named, located on a small crest of a hill in the Glenview section of the city. The buildings and compound had once been part of a monastery and nearby convent. The former monastery was now the administration offices and gym, and the building that had been the convent was where all the classrooms were.

Between them was a large field that had been converted for track, and football and other outdoor sports. Every incoming class of freshmen was treated to gory and highly questionable stories of dead babies, the product of immoral affairs between priests and nuns, born in secret then murdered to hide the sin that produced them.

Now, the site was home to one of the best schools in the city, and one of the most integrated. Parents from all across Oakland vied to get their children into Crestlawn, seeing it as a good pathway to the Ivy League. Jada wasn’t interested in the Ivy League. She had, since she was about nine, known that she wanted to be a nurse, and would go straight to nursing school in the fall if she kept her grades up.

“A party,” Jada said, her voice croaking. “I met him at a party.”

She was already imagining that her responses would be inadequate, and her father would call off her date with Ibrahim until he could do his due diligence. And if he did that, she had no way to reach Ibrahim except through Dee. If she couldn’t do that in time, he would be waiting for her, she wouldn’t show up and he might never call again.

Please, Daddy, she thought. Please don’t.

“You don’t go to very many parties,” her father observed. “When was this one?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It was a while ago,” Jada said, struggling to sound casual.

“Where?”

“I forget. A friend’s house.”

Her father glanced at her, and she knew he wasn’t buying it. She was failing the test, miserably.

Her father took a deep breath and Jada waited.

“Well, in future, if you’re to see this young man, I’d like him to come to the house to pick you up,” he said. “No more of this meeting him in town business. It’s not the way I’d like things to be done. Not if a young man wants to see my daughter.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Jada said, silently releasing a sigh.

“In fact, I’ll drive you into the city this time.”

She held her breath again. What if he wanted to wait to meet Ibrahim? She resisted the urge to object, knowing that if she did, it would only make her father more curious than he already was.

“Okay,” she said instead. “That’d be great. Thanks, Daddy.”

She was already revising her outfit, wondering whether she could wear the shorts and tank top she had planned.

No, she decided. She couldn’t. Her father would cough up a lung if he saw her leaving the house to meet someone dressed that way. He didn’t know she was going to the beach, and would think she was just dressing immodestly. Her brain began spinning out contingencies. Maybe instead, she would take a large purse, the kind that could comfortably hold her beachwear.

But, as it turned out, the revision of her plans was unnecessary. When she and her father got home, her mother remembered she needed to run to the store. And they only had one car.

Trying not to look relieved, Jada dumped her basketball bag near the front door.

“I’ll be ready to go in an hour, if you still want to drop me off,” she said.

“Drop her off?” her mother said, looking perplexed. “She’s planning to take the train, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Jada shrugged, keeping her expression neutral. “I could, but Daddy said …”

“You’ll take the train,” her mother said with finality. “That way there’ll be no need for your father and I to wait around for you.”

Jada watched as her father studied her.

He was the more perceptive of her parents. He might acquiesce this time, but he wouldn’t forget. Now, he would add to his mental to-do list, that he absolutely must meet this ‘Ibrahim’.

13

Then

Nasim letting Ibrahim hold his car for the day to take Jada to the beach was the second big solid he had done him recently. The first was hooking him up with his new job. The job didn’t seem like a favor when he first heard about it, to be honest. It seemed like a joke.

Nasim’s uncle, Samuel, had a cleaning service, which was basically a fancy way of saying that he had a van full of cleaning supplies and a crappy office on the eastside from which he booked jobs in and around the Bay Area. Every morning at five a.m., and again in the evening around eight, Nasim’s uncle drove the van, and a crew of six to eight cleaners forty-five minutes south on I-880 to the neighborhoods around Stanford University that were beginning to see a new breed of entrepreneurship creep in.

According to Samuel, just about everywhere, a bunch of young scientists were working on making new kinds of computers and technology at all hours of the day and night. What Samuel referred to as “offices” were mostly small, poorly-equipped spaces—some offices, sure, but also bungalows in residential areas that had been converted to workspaces. Occasionally, the scientists were still there when the cleaning crew arrived. They were serious-faced young men (but almost no women) who looked like they had probably always been the smartest, but never the most popular kids in school.

If the spaces were vacated when the crew arrived, they left behind mountains of trash to be hauled away. Not just pizza boxes and Chinese takeout cartons, but bulbs, tubes, wires, and sheets of hard plastic, the kind of refuse that had to be disposed of carefully, and on a daily basis. Standard cleaning services didn’t always take care of that stuff, but Samuel did, so he was making a niche for himself.

Curiosity, and novelty was part of what Ibrahim kept going back, because it sure as hell wasn’t the five-and-a-quarter an hour he made. He liked rising early in the morning and being picked up in front of his father’s house, piling into the van already occupied by The Mexican Girls, as he thought of the collective of his co-workers, and one middle-aged Polish woman.

They all sat on the floor in the back, and once the entire crew had been picked up, Samuel made a pit-stop at a 24-hour diner and bought them each a breakfast sandwich of greasy egg-and-cheese slapped between white toast, and a small bottle of orange juice. Sometimes, if he was in a good mood, Samuel bought Ibrahim two sandwiches, reasoning aloud to the complaining girls and women, that as men, Ibrahim and he needed more calories.

Swaying back and forth in the van as it cruised down the highway, some of them slept. Most mornings, The Mexican Girls gossiped among themselves, mostly in Spanish, which Ibrahim understood a little of. But other times, they tried to draw him into their conversation, especially when it was about the curious behavior of the men in their lives, and they wanted a male opinion.

Nah, he might say when they told him about some boyfriend’s latest transgression. You need to dump his ass. I’m tellin’ you right now, from that mess right there? He ain’t about nothin’.

You want to help me raise my son? the girl might then challenge him. You sayin’ you want to be my papi chulo?

And then they’d all laugh.

Soon, Ibrahim realized that women never really wanted the advice they claimed to want, especially when it came to men. They just loved who they loved, and that was the end of it; no matter what experience and common sense might tell them about their man being the wrong one to love.

Still, he liked the easy banter of those morning drives. And he liked being the designated ‘good guy’ who gave them advice, even though most of the time he wasn’t sure just how good he, or the advice he gave, actually were.

The Polish woman, the eldest of all the cleaners, just smiled and listened, though it wasn’t clear that she even understood much of what was being said, either in Spanish or English. She looked sad occasionally, like she was thinking of another time and place, but never like she wanted to join the conversation.

Whenever Ibrahim looked her way, her blue, blue eyes twinkled, and she smiled at him, like a grandmother might. That look made him miss something he had never had.

Samuel never joined in the conversations but tuned the radio to an oldies station and listened to a rotation of James Brown, the Four Tops and Smokey Robinson. Sometimes he sang along, and if they recognized the music, The Mexican Girls did too, belting the words out loudly and in accented English, making fun of the songs, even as they enjoyed singing them. Most of the girls were close in age to Ibrahim and two of them were very pretty and knew it.

They flirted with him, but all he ever did was smile, and pretend not to notice he was being seduced. He knew better than to mess with Mexican chicks. The eses didn’t play that. Ibrahim could imagine a carload of them showing up at his crib to set him straight. And if they came, they would come heavy.

Breonna had some Mexican in her, he was pretty sure, though he didn’t know which side of her family. Funny, how he had known her pretty much all his life but didn’t know anything about her really. Had never even seen either of her parents, just the one raggedy aunt who was a crackhead that everybody simultaneously felt sorry for and was disgusted by. His father told him Breonna’s aunt used to be beautiful, but it was hard to see it now.

There had been one more time with Breonna since the night of his party. After that second time, he felt guilty about it and decided to stop all that with her. With everyone, probably. He decided to give celibacy another, more earnest try. While he was talking to Jada, he couldn’t see other chicks, and do to them the kinds of things Breonna let him do.

With Bree there were few boundaries. She succumbed her body in whatever way he wanted it, a gauzy, dreamy, distant look in her eyes that Ibrahim used to think meant pleasure. But the last time, he found himself wondering whether their sex had ever given her pleasure, and whether maybe that distant look was her way of absenting herself. He thought he knew what was responsible for that shift in his thinking, even though not too long ago, he would have sworn she liked having sex with him. Liked sex, in general.

The thing that made him guilty about it wasn’t just that he was trying to holler at Jada. That last time he was with Bree, when she got that look on her face, out of nowhere he remembered a cat named Eric who he met in the joint.

He was a funny-looking dude, who though he had the face of a geeky, harmless type, had the body of a weightlifter. When he talked, Eric did this thing where he kept shoving his glasses up on his nose, and grimacing as he did like Steve Urkel on that new sitcom, as if the motion caused him discomfort.

Ibrahim didn’t know what he was in for at first, because that wasn’t the kind of thing you asked. But one night when they were watching television, him, Eric and two other dudes, some actress came onscreen and out of nowhere Eric started giggling uncontrollably, saying how the actress looked like a girl he used to know.

One of the other dudes asked him what was so funny. I know you ain’t gon’ front like you fucked her, he added.

He didn’t have to spell it out. Eric was so funny looking there was no way he could have gotten with a chick who even half-assed resembled the actress on television.

Oh, I fucked her alright, Eric said, nodding emphatically. And then he kept giggling, putting a hand up to hide his yellowish teeth.

Tell us what’s so funny you crazy motherfucker, one of the guys said. What? You couldn’t get it up even for a piece like that? That’s what’s funny?

Eric stopped laughing just as suddenly as he started.

He began by speaking slowly, but as he went on became more animated, like he wasn’t even in control of his words anymore. He described in painstaking detail, down to the shoes she was wearing, the time he had been with the girl who looked like the actress on television.

Except, as he told it, it wasn’t just a hookup. It was a rape. Not even the kind that was on that murky line, where a man could claim there had been a misunderstanding, or miscommunication. It was the violent rape of a woman Eric did not know, who he spotted walking from her office building to her car in a near-deserted, poorly-lit parking lot just across the street.

Everyone in the room listened as Eric recounted the incident almost lovingly, his voice becoming more excitable the more he talked. It wasn’t clear, at least to Ibrahim, whether he even realized that what he was saying was not just criminal, but perverse.

Soon, he was giggling again, not even bothering to cover his yellow teeth as he habitually did. And the worst part—by far the worst part—was that Eric had gotten a visible erection, just by talking about what he had done.

Ibrahim remembered feeling a roiling, acidic sensation in his stomach. Eric wasn’t just telling a story, he was reliving the experience, and enjoying every moment of it. He kept talking, and the room remained hushed until one of the other guys, without a word or warning, got up, calmly walked over to Eric and began pounding his face in with his fists.

The sound of flesh on flesh, and the initial crack like the sound of a breaking chicken bone, was sickening. For sure the guy who jumped Eric had to have broken his hand in the process, but he didn’t stop pounding and no one tried to stop him. Even when the COs came rushing in, it took them almost ten seconds before they intervened.

Maybe they knew why Eric was in the joint.

Eric lost an eye from that beating, but no one cared. Ibrahim sure didn’t. He never found out what happened with Eric’s case, but either way, he thought that what had been meted out that day in the rec room was true justice.

Later, when he remembered the incident, Ibrahim didn’t think about the blood—there had been so much blood that the last few blows slipped across Eric’s ruined face because it was so slick—and he only occasionally dwelled on the self-satisfied way Eric told his story. Mostly, he remembered one small detail. Eric described how the woman, once he overpowered her, had gone into a trancelike stillness, and gotten a distant, detached look in her eyes, like she wasn’t even there.

Like her body was present, but her mind had taken flight.

Later, the thought of that look came back to Ibrahim when he was with Bree. He hadn’t forced her, he knew that. She willingly came to his house, willingly got undressed; sucked his dick even. But throughout it all, she had a look … a dreamlike, vacant look. The same look that he used to interpret as pleasure. And Ibrahim couldn’t help but remember the woman who had been raped.

The chance that there might be even the tiniest commonality between that woman’s surrender and what Breonna allowed him to do to her made him disgusted with himself. He thought, before he forced it away, of what it would be like for Jada to endure something like that—to have someone taking her body while she simply waited them out.

And in that moment, imagining Jada as Bree, Bree as Jada, he felt anger like he had never felt before, and a morass of something thick, dark and impenetrable like grief. He managed to shove the feeling away only by reminding himself that Jada was not Breonna.

But maybe, once, Breonna could have been a girl like Jada.

Until …

Seven niggas, dawg. Seven.

Ibrahim hadn’t touched Breonna since, and knew he never could again. He couldn’t take a chance that what he might do to her, she was simply enduring.

And now, every morning when he was in that van driving south to his crappy job as a cleaner, he daydreamed about Jada’s sweetness and stubbornness. And he thought about how he would willingly kill or be killed to protect her from anything even close to what Breonna had been through.

Having a job, even a low-paying one, drew him toward her in a way he couldn’t explain. The steady certainty of having a place to be every morning, and getting legally compensated for being there, made him feel like he was moving closer to her world, and farther away from that of his father and brothers.

None of them knew about his job. Nasim seemed to sense that he shouldn’t say anything about how he had hooked him up, and Ibrahim knew for sure he shouldn’t either. They would think he was stupid and would say so. And his father would find a way to put an end to it. Either by making empty promises of getting him something better, or by leaning on Nasim to stay out of his family’s business.

As it was, right now his brothers thought he had a girl across town he went to see, and that he wasn’t hustling with them because he needed to keep his nose clean being that he was fresh out the joint. The idea that he was spending his evenings and early mornings hauling trash, vacuuming, sweeping and even cleaning toilets would strike them as outlandish and wholly incomprehensible.

But it made sense to Ibrahim. The mindless, repetitive, low-stakes nature of the cleaning gig gave him space, and time to think. He tucked his CD player into the back of his jeans, listened to mellow-smooth music while he worked, and let his imagination roam. Most of his imaginings were that he was a different kind of person than he was, living a different kind of life than the one he lived.

The job itself wasn’t the point, and the pittance of a wage he earned was definitely not the point. His father wouldn’t understand. And his brothers wouldn’t either, but everything he was doing felt like part of a plan that had yet to reveal itself.

~~~

Ibrahim eased his foot off the gas pedal and looked out the window toward the intersection where he told Jada he would meet her. For a few seconds, when he didn’t spot her, his heart sank. Then he saw the slender arm, raised high above a head, waving, and there she was.

Wearing jeans shorts modestly cut to mid-thigh and a white tank top that could have been part of a swimsuit, she had a duffle slung over her shoulder. On her feet were white Keds, and her hair was in two braids resting on her shoulders.

Once he pulled over, all Ibrahim had time to do was shove open the car door for her instead of stopping, going around and opening it for her properly. But the intersection was a busy one and there were cars already honking at them.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” she said a when she spilled inside, tossing her bag onto the backseat.

She sounded breathless, excited, and smelled like Jean Naté, a scent that only girls much younger than her still wore.

For a second, she looked at him expectantly like she wanted to kiss him in greeting or wanted him to kiss her. Then the moment passed, and Ibrahim pulled away from the curb, a strain in his neck from the effort it took not to turn and stare at her. Her presence filled the entire car, her energy bouncing off the dashboard, and the glass of the tightly shut windows.

“I should warn you, I’m not a good swimmer,” she announced, still a little giddy. “I’m not even sure I should go in the water if it’s too rough.”

Ibrahim laughed, not because it was funny, but because he was feeling a little giddy himself and it wasn’t an emotion he could ever remember having had before about a girl.

“It’s okay. I’m a good swimmer,” he said. “I’ll save you.”

“Really? You’re a good swimmer?”

“Yeah. And surf too.” He glanced at her. “Why you look so surprised?”

And then she was laughing. “I’m not!”

Ibrahim turned to look at her again, this time allowing himself to linger a little longer. Her eyes were bright, she pulled in her lower lip and finally let herself smile.

“Okay, good,” she said. “I’ll get in. Just so long as you promise to save me.”

Or maybe, he thought. You’re the one who’s going to save me.

14

Then

“You just have to go ahead and stand up,” Ibrahim said. “Don’t think about it, just stand up …”

“I can’t! I keep falling off whenever I …”

“So you jus’ gon’ stop tryin’? ‘Cause you fall off?”

“Yes!”

Holding the mast, Jada shoved the windsurfer in Ibrahim’s direction, and turned to start toward the beach.

“Don’t be a quitter, Jada,” he called after her.

At that, she whipped around. “I am not a quitter! That thing almost popped me in the face a couple times. I’m not going home with a black eye and have to explain to my parents why I went to hang out with you and came back injured.”

Ibrahim paused. “Your parents know you’re hangin’ out with me?” he asked.

Now just calf-deep in the water, Jada stopped again and looked at him.

“Yes,” she said.

“What’d you tell them? About me, I mean.”

“That I met a boy at a party and he asked me out.”

“Met a boy. At a party.”

He emphasized the words ‘boy’ and ‘party’ and stared down at the water as he guided the windsurfer toward the shore.

After she sounded so doubtful about his surfing skills, Ibrahim thought it would be a good idea to demonstrate them, and maybe teach her a few things. But windsurfing had gone badly. Turned out Jada had poor balance, something he wouldn’t have expected in a basketball player, and a point guard at that.

Once back on the beach, he walked the equipment to the rental station and returned to the spot a few yards from the water’s edge where they’d set out their towels.

Sinking next to Jada, he watched as she dried her legs and arms, still pouting a little.

“You don’t like to not be good at things, huh?” he observed.

“Does anyone?”

“Sometimes it’s fun learning though,” he suggested.

Jada looked at him again.

Her already deep-brown skin was slightly darker from having been out on the water and exposed to the sun. It had an undertone now, the shade of red clay, especially on her cute button nose and on her cheeks.

“What?” she asked, misinterpreting his stare. “You don’t like to be good at things?”

“Of course. But I like learning new stuff, too.”

“Oh yeah?” She lifted her chin slightly, in a way Ibrahim was already beginning to learn meant she was digging in. “Like what’s the last new thing you learned?”

“I got a few, actually,” he said, reclining on his elbows.

Jada opened her eyes slightly wider, silently prompting him to go on.

“I’m learning not to cuss as much.”

She barked out a surprised laugh and then stopped herself with a hand over her mouth, nodding with faux solemnity.

“Oh. Impressive. And what else you got?”

“Hey. Not cussin’ is no joke,” Ibrahim said. “Especially when you think of where I live at.”

“Not everyone curses where you live, Ibrahim. I refuse to believe that.”

“Most do,” he said nodding, after thinking for a moment.

“Okay, so let’s give you five cool-points for not cursing as much. What else?” She had turned to face him now, pouting forgotten, her legs stretched out in front of her, perpendicular to his torso.

They were nice legs. Nicer than he’d expected even though his expectations had been pretty high. Her thighs were well-toned and slim, only slighter thicker than the calves. She had the lean, limber body of an athlete, firm and almost completely devoid of fat, except where fat was highly desirable.

“I’m learning to eat healthier …”

“Ten points. But I’m going to have to dock you three points for that Church’s Chicken slip-up.”

Ibrahim laughed. “That’s cool. I’ll take the three-point hit. ‘Cause the next lesson’s gotta be worth twenty points minimum. Nah, more like fifty.”

Jada twisted her lips and let her head fall to one side.

“Sure it is. Let’s hear it.”

He had been planning to tell her that he was learning to clean toilets without gagging. That the trick was to douse that sucker with the cleaner while looking away, and then walk off, still without looking. Move to the next commode and do the same, right down the line till you get to the end, then return to the first one where, by then, some of the filth would have dissolved under the force of the chemical cleaner.

He thought the toilet story could be a funny lead-up to telling her about his new gig as a cleaner. And it had to be funny, because he wasn’t sure how a girl like her would respond to hearing that the guy who was feeling her was a custodian. He both wanted to know her reaction and feared it.

Since he feared it, he knew he’d have to tell her, soon. Before the end of the day. Because if she reacted poorly, maybe he wouldn’t see her again. Maybe she wouldn’t want to see him again.

But instead of telling her about his job, something else came out, almost out of nowhere.

“I’m learning,” he said slowly, eyes fixed on hers, “that sometimes you gotta hold back getting what you want in the moment, to make sure you get what you need in the long run.”

At that, Jada’s expression transformed from amused to curious. A tiny smile teased the corners of her lips.

Ibrahim felt a funny little flip in the pit of his stomach, like the one he felt the night they met. Like she was someone he had known for a long time, and a long time ago. Maybe from a time before he had consciousness, and before memory meant anything.

“Now what does that mean?” Jada asked.  “What’re you holding back from wanting in the moment?”

“Kissing you,” he said.

Jada’s smile widened. “Why would you hold back from wanting that?” she asked quietly, slowly, like someone trying to prevent a skittish animal from being spooked.

Ibrahim had only barely worked out what he was going to say, when they were interrupted.

“Hey, papi chulo. Whatchu doin’ here?”

He and Jada looked up simultaneously.

Standing above him, just a few feet away, was a girl with long, straight dark hair, wearing a bright orange bikini, a towel slung over her shoulder.

Probably seeing the confusion in Ibrahim’s eyes, she laughed.

“It’s me! Xiomara,” she said. “You know, from …” She rolled her eyes at him, exasperated.

“Oh! Damn!” Ibrahim leapt up and allowed himself to be hugged. “Didn’t recognize you.”

Xiomara was one of the girls from work who he thought of as The Mexican Girls. One of the pretty ones who, when he saw her every workday, had her hair pulled back and fastened securely into a bun at her nape. Then, her cheekbones, caramel skin and high, broad forehead took center-stage, but now, it was her silky, ebony hair that shone in the sunlight, and the eye-catching contrast between her skin-tone and the orange swimsuit.

“So you out here chillin’?” she asked, glancing down at Jada and giving her a brief, dismissive wave.

“You too, it looks like,” Ibrahim glanced over her shoulder where another girl was waiting a little way off, also carrying a towel.

“We need it,” Xiomara said, making a face. “To be out in the sun. All those early mornings and late nights.”

“Yeah,” Ibrahim said, nodding.

Behind him, still lying on the beach, he could feel Jada’s eyes on him and wanted to end the conversation as soon as possible before she got the wrong idea. Especially since they had been just about to get down to something real.

“I’m not too far away,” Xiomara said with a hint of suggestiveness. “Just over there. So … maybe I see you later?”

Ibrahim made a noncommittal motion with his head, and Xiomara and her friend sauntered away. He was careful not to watch them go, but when he sat next to her again, the smile Jada gave him was thin.

“So, where were we at?” he said.

“With what?”

“You asked me a question,” he reminded her, though he was sure she knew full well what he was talking about. “And I answered it.”

Jada looked past him and off into the distance.

“I’m kind of hungry,” she said. “Are you planning to go back in the water?”

“Only if you want to.”

Studying her face, Ibrahim realized that for the first time ever, he couldn’t fully read it. She played with the loamy sand, letting it stream through her fingers and then scooping up handfuls more.

“I don’t if you don’t,” he added. “Especially since you ain’ into windsurfing.”

Jada looked at him then and offered another insincere smile. Then she was abruptly standing.

“I thought I saw a snack stand. Near the picnic area. Maybe we can grab something there.”

When Ibrahim played the afternoon out in his head, it involved a few hours at the beach, then him and Jada making their way back to Oakland, sun-drowsy and hungry. Once there he would take her to one of those Mexican joints where a whole plate with rice and beans, fried plantains and mole cost less than five dollars. Out here, because there was a captive audience, food was a lot more expensive, and he didn’t have money to be throwing around like that.

“How about we just go back to the city?” Ibrahim suggested.

Jada froze, then turned to look at him, something playing about her mouth.

“You want to go?” she asked. Her tone sounded almost accusatory.

“I mean …” Ibrahim shrugged, confused. “Yeah. I mean …”

“Fine,” Jada said.

She reached down and began gathering her things, starting with her towel which she folded, sloppily, and without a moment’s consideration for whether she might wind up with sand in her duffle bag.

~~~

The thing about acting like a brat with guys was that once you started, you kind of had to see it through.

Jada knew she’d overreacted when that girl came up and started talking to Ibrahim. After all, he didn’t even seem to recognize her at first. It was just that the girl was so pretty, and he may have been trying to control his reaction to her, but Jada knew Ibrahim noticed that as well. The way he had obviously been forcing himself not to look as the girl walked away; that was what got under her skin.

Just moments before that, he was saying he wanted to kiss her, and then the next new shiny thing that showed up, and he forgot all about her?

She knew what Lisa and Chloe would say if they knew about him. That she was out of her league. That she had no idea how to deal with “guys like that.” And it was true, she didn’t.

So here they were, driving back to Oakland after only two hours at the beach. It wasn’t even close to dark and he was going to drop her off. Turning a little more away from him and toward the window, Jada pretended to be looking at the scenery as they drove, squeezing back the sting behind her eyes.

She’d put too much pressure on this afternoon. Building up in her head what a first date with him would be like until absolutely nothing could live up to the anticipation. That was all.

She made of fool of herself falling off that stupid windsurfing contraption, and to make matters worse was acting like a baby right now. Pouting when all he’d done was notice a girl other than her.

But how could he notice a girl other than her?

All she ever thought about was him. She could waste an entire hour brooding about something like the way the veins in his forearms stood out, making him look so manly, when Kyle and all the other guys she knew were still so obviously just boys by comparison. Or, she’d daydream about how rough the pads of his fingers were and think about them touching her, all over her body.

When he said he wanted to kiss her, for just a brief second the afternoon felt like it was going to be perfect after all. But then the way he looked at that girl—who he didn’t even bother introducing her to—made it clear he could probably kiss any number of girls. And probably had.

“Hey.”

Jada almost jumped at his voice. Blinking, to make sure her eyes didn’t look too shiny, she turned to look at him.

Ibrahim had one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console between them. Jada wanted to put her hand over it. She was so freaking easy, it almost made her sick.

He said one single word, and suddenly she was all hopeful again.

“You want some music?” he asked. “Since you’re not talkin’ or nothin’.”

“What’s there to talk about?” she said.

“I dunno. Maybe why you just flipped the script on me back there. One moment we’re cool, and then …”

“I didn’t flip the script. You ran into a friend, and then I said I was hungry and you decided that meant the day was over, so …”

Ibrahim glanced away from the road and at her. In those three seconds, he seemed to take in everything about her, reading the tilt of her head, the expression behind her eyes, the way her hands rested demurely in her lap.

“Xiomara isn’t really a friend,” he said. “I mean, I guess we’re cool though. We work together.”

“Really.” Jada feigned disinterest.

“You want to know what I do?” he asked. “For work, I mean.”

She shrugged.

“I clean offices. With a crew that drives down to Stanford every morning and some nights in a beat-up old Ford van.”

Jada looked at him, surprised. Ibrahim looked back at her, and she knew the surprise was readable on her face.

“The pay’s crappy,” Ibrahim continued, “and the work is boring, and messy and sometimes I gotta haul stuff that smells like it might be toxic. And the driving time alone is like two-and-a-half hours both ways. It’s a shitty job for real.”

Had the moment been more lighthearted, Jada would have teased him about the cuss-word and reminded him that he was supposed to be trying to stop using them. But the moment felt anything but light. It felt like Ibrahim was telling her something much more important than that he had a “shitty job.”

“So, why are you doing it?” she asked, the need to pout abruptly forgotten.

Ibrahim kept his eyes on the road. He took a breath.

“I didn’t know at first,” he said. “I mean, the guy who hooked me up with it? He’s a … he’s a hustler, basically. No way to sugarcoat it. So, if it was about money, I could … let’s just say, I could get paid if that’s what I needed was money.”

“Then what do you need?” Jada asked.

“I guess … purpose. Humility. Maybe … perspective.”

He was nineteen. He was only nineteen, and yet right now he sounded like he had the wisdom of someone a million years old.

Purpose. Humility. Perspective.

What nineteen-year-old talked like that? And more to the point, what nineteen-year-old would talk to her—an immature eighteen-year-old—like that, confident that she would hear him, and understand?

Her heart was beating a little faster now.

She knew he was different. She had even come to believe he was special. But—and this part was really crazy—what if he wasn’t just special? What if he was meant to be hers?

15

Then

“That’s wild. you never had authentic Mexican food before?” Ibrahim said. “How you gon’ live in the Bay Area and not have real Mexican?”

Jada shrugged, shoving aside her now-empty plate and resisting the urge to lean back and loosen the top button of her denim shorts.

“I don’t know. My parents are pretty conventional about food.”

Ibrahim shook his head. “But how is that even …”

“They’re from down South. They still think of third generation Mexicans as ‘foreigners.’ If we had Chinese food at my house, like on a weekend for a change of pace? I think hell would freeze over.”

“Wow.”

“Don’t say ‘wow’!” Jada laughed. “They’re just … set in their ways. Like lots of people. Old-fashioned.”

Ibrahim nodded. “Yeah. A’ight. But that’s just … wow.”

Jada giggled again and looked around the room.

The restaurant they’d gone to wasn’t really a restaurant. At least, it wasn’t an official, licensed establishment but rather a small house in a dicey neighborhood that looked like any other small house on the block. Except inside, it was set up with tables and chairs in what was probably meant to be the living room area, and people were being served and eating their meals like in any other restaurant you might go to.

Jada had once seen a segment about places like this on the local news—underground restaurants that were run and frequented largely by illegal immigrants. It struck her as mysterious and intriguing at the time, that there was a thriving subterranean society and economy.

According to the segment on the news, occasionally, the Health Department got wind of one of these places and shut them down. Or they tried to, but they might just as easily show up to find that the premises had been hastily vacated. Her father had seen the segment as well, and said that it was right that the city shut them down because the underground restaurants were a health hazard, the kitchens weren’t inspected by the city, and if someone got sick, there would be no way to get recourse.

Her father was a practical man. He would find it hard to understand that something could seem rough and unfinished, but actually be priceless and precious.

This place Ibrahim had taken her to was as clean as Jada’s own parents’ home. And it felt almost like a home. When they pushed the wrought iron gate and walked in the front door, a smiling man welcomed them and showed them a table. A girl no more than thirteen-years-old was their server. And a boy of about sixteen was servicing the other diners.

It was exciting just being there, taking in the homey details like the floral curtains in the windows, the woven rugs on the floor and the mismatched tables and chairs. Every table was different, making the space look artsy and eclectic. The actual art hanging on wall looked rough and hastily done, but even that contributed to instead of took away from the overall charm of the place.

Then the food had come out and Jada spent the first thirty seconds just enjoying the spicy aroma of the dishes Ibrahim had chosen for her. And the taste … everything—even the rice which she didn’t like in general—was so flavorful, she heard herself moan in appreciation several times during the meal.

“Thank you for taking me here,” she said now.

“You’re welcome.”

They stared at each other for so long, Jada’s eyes eventually fell to her lap.

He hadn’t dropped her off after the beach like she feared he would. Instead, after he told her about his job, their conversation had taken a turn. She talked about school, and he listened. He told her about his school, and she listened. She resisted the impulse to tell him he could do, or be anything, even though she believed that to be true; because it might have come across as patronizing.

But she wondered. What did he want to do, or be? Lots of people got out of jail with good intentions. But sometimes that’s all they were, intentions. And before long, they wound up exactly where they were before they got sent away in the first place. She knew this because her mother was part of the Women’s Auxiliary at church and sometimes, they tried to help men and women coming out. All the stories Jada had ever heard were grim ones. People dying, getting back into their addiction, or resuming a life of crime after only a few short months, but sometimes a matter of weeks post-release.

“Let’s go get some ice cream somewhere,” Ibrahim said, inclining his head toward the door.

“Why do you keep buying me ice cream like I’m a preschooler?” she laughed.

Ibrahim grinned, baring those white, almost-perfect teeth.

“Who says it’s for you? I got a sweet tooth.”

“Hmm. That’s going to be a problem if you’re serious about that healthy eating kick.”

He nodded faux-thoughtfully. “Yeah. I might have to figure that out, huh?”

“You might.”

“But it’s my only vice though,” he said. “Or … almost my only vice. I don’t do chocolate or candy, or any of that stuff.”

“No sour apple Jolly Ranchers?” Jada pretended disbelief.

“Nope.”

“How about … weed?” she asked, feeling brave.

Ibrahim looked momentarily thrown by the question, then shook his head.

“Used to. Not anymore.”

“You quit?” She didn’t mean to sound skeptical, but it came out that way.

“Yup. I have a probation tail, so …”

“What’s that?” Jada narrowed her eyes.

Ibrahim hesitated, then he seemed to realize she was serious, and smiled.

“Sometimes, after you serve a sentence, they give you probation on the tail-end to make sure you don’t, you know, fall off after you get out.”

“Oh.”

In the silence, Ibrahim cleared his throat and stood, helping her by pulling back her chair. He paid for their food by slipping a few folded bills into the hand of their young server who seemed too shy to look them in the eye. She smiled and thanked them for coming.

As they headed out back to the car, which was parked a block over, Jada turned to look at Ibrahim.

“How’d you know how much to pay? They didn’t give us a bill or anything.”

“Every plate in there costs the same for lunch. At dinnertime and at breakfast they have different prices, but every lunch plate is five bucks.”

“Five bucks? For all that food?”

Ibrahim shrugged. “People who never had much are used to making a lot out of a little,” he said matter-of-factly.

“I wish I could talk my parents into going there. Or to a place like that,” she said, thinking aloud.

She was imagining that, her parents in the little restaurant, when she almost walked into a guy coming from the opposite direction, holding two leashes at the end of which were a couple of angry-looking pit-bulls.

Ibrahim reached out and took her hand to pull her out of the way. When the guy with the dogs had walked by, he tried to let go of her hand, but Jada wouldn’t let him. He glanced at her then, with slightly narrowed eyes, and smiled, shaking his head a little.

At the car, he opened her door first and waited until she was in to shut it for her and then walked around to the other side. Jada wondered whether he always did that for girls, and then chided herself for letting her mind drift once again to the others who had come before her.

Or maybe there were others now?

It seemed unimaginable that there would not be. Ibrahim was handsome, and some girls were not as reticent as she was, about going after guys if they liked them. Lisa, for instance. To hear her tell it, she had basically attacked Earl the first time they did something. And he had just basically gone along for the ride.

Jada didn’t tell her so at the time, but she thought that was a mistake. If a guy wasn’t motivated enough to chase you himself, maybe he didn’t think you were worth having. But now she understood how Lisa probably felt. If Ibrahim got in this car and took her for ice cream and then dropped her off without kissing her first, she felt like she might die. Literally wither up and die from longing for it.

And who knew when they might see each other again? He was so mellow and seemed so laid-back about practically everything that for all she knew he would think seeing her once a month was just fine.

When he got in on the driver’s side, he turned to face her, and his lips parted as he prepared to say something. Jada didn’t know what. She didn’t even care. She leaned over, tilted her head to one side and pressed her lips against his.

Ibrahim froze for a fraction of a second, and she forced herself not to pull back in fear that he might not want it. But that was stupid. He did want it. He had said as much. She was just not used to this, being the one who moved things forward.

She didn’t have to wait long after softening her lips and letting them part slightly. As soon as she did, Ibrahim did the same, his tongue touching the seam of her lips and pushing between them. Jada heard herself make a sound not dissimilar from the one she made at the deliciousness of their meal, and then Ibrahim was tasting her, and she was tasting him.

Putting a hand at the back of his neck, she pressed closer, frustrated at the barrier of the armrest between them. She wanted to climb it, to straddle him and cup his face in both her hands. She wanted his hands on her; under her blouse, beneath her bra and then between her legs. It felt like they were pouring themselves into each other, so they were one body comprised only of lips and tongues.

Jada heard her own breaths, and the increasingly insistent ones Ibrahim was taking, inhaling through his nose and then exhaling a little in the very few moments they allowed their lips to drift apart.

16

Now

When Ibrahim and Jada finish their meal, the café is significantly busier. People are coming in and out, ordering at the counter and leaving with steaming cups of coffee, and bags of pastries. Some are shown to tables or mill about talking to neighbors and friends, exchanging hugs, pleasantries, and news.

At the table next to theirs, a young couple is feeding their toddler, a little boy with curly auburn hair who is shaking his head and stubbornly refusing whatever is offered to him. The parents’ mistake is that they are too attentive, Ibrahim thinks, watching them orient their bodies almost fully toward the child, ignoring their own meals and beseeching him to eat his.

Feeling the strength of his power over his parents, he is exerting it, as babies sometimes will. He can sense their near desperation to make him happy, and he is withholding his approval, because it gives him a sense of control and agency.

Ibrahim thinks of his own son, and his infancy. When Kaleem was born, he was eager to learn fatherhood, studying it like a discipline, terrified of messing it up. Because he had a boy, Ibrahim knew then, as he knows now, that there was little or no room for error. He is proud of the man his son has become, and of the father his son is. But Ibrahim isn’t sure he had much or anything at all to do with it.

Kaleem and Asha keep Anwar nearby always, but they never succumb to the urge to pamper him. They pick him up when he cries, or because he is wet, but more often, they go over to him and speak to him, kneeling in front of his crib so they’re looking at him eye to eye.

What’s up, young warrior? Kaleem might ask, if Anwar makes a sound of distress. You need something?

As though his son is already able to answer verbally. And Anwar usually stops whining and focuses, already secure in the understanding that his father will come if he needs him, and whenever he calls.

Kaleem never uses baby-talk and even Asha tends to show her affection for their son with hugs, kisses and cuddles more than through nonsensical chatter. When she is cleaning their apartment, or cooking, she sometimes has Anwar strapped on her chest or back and explains to him what she’s doing. When he is on her chest, he tilts his head backward and watches keenly, his wide hazel eyes following the movement of his mother’s lips as though he is trying to decipher the meaning of her words.

“We should go see the kids today,” Jada says.

She too has been watching the couple and their toddler, the mother a plump redhead with nervous mannerisms, and the father a slender Black man wearing eyeglasses with thick black frames.

Ibrahim looks at her. “We’d have to call them. See what they’re up to.”

“Of course,” Jada says nodding. “Who even knows if they’re around?”

Kaleem and Asha stay on the move. Even now that the baby is here and Kaleem is training for Tokyo, their weekends are active, spent on hiking trails, at the beach, or visiting different national parks around the state.

Kaleem likes to run at different altitudes, practicing to see how his body will acclimate, and whether it affects his speed. For training, he prefers higher altitudes for improved cardiovascular function, but he says the beach is another favorite site because running on sand forces him to work his quads harder.

“Call ‘em,” Ibrahim suggests. “Wouldn’t mind seeing my grandson.”

“Grandson.” Jada shakes her head. “That is not a word I thought we’d be speaking for a long time. Especially because of Kaleem and his … anyway.” She breaks off and takes a sudden sip of her tea.

“His what?” Ibrahim asks, head falling to one side.

He is always curious to hear more about his son, and what he was like in the years he was away. He missed so much.

“Well, he’s a handsome young man,” Jada says with a twist of the lips. “Let’s just leave it at that. Reminded me of your brother sometimes.”

“Which one?”

“Manny.”

Immanuel. The womanizer.

The one who had broken Jada’s cousin’s heart over and over again, until he finally, and through no fault of his own, broke it irreparably.

Dee was dead now. She had OD’ed while Ibrahim was in prison, dying in a flophouse in Woodland after having picked up a drug habit in the late nineties that she battled on and off ever since. The onset of her addiction came shortly after Immanuel was shot and killed in a drive-by in Elmhurst. Four other young men in his set had died that night in what came to be referred to in the press as a “massacre.” But by then, Oakland had grown both accustomed to, and weary of those kinds of murders.

Ibrahim and Jada had been married for a few years when it happened, and at the time he hadn’t had much contact with his father and brothers, wanting to shield his wife and young son from their lifestyle. When he went to the funeral, he insisted that Jada stay home with the baby, even though she wanted to go. It wasn’t uncommon then for even funerals to turn into bloody, violent affairs, and Ibrahim wasn’t convinced that his brother who had lived a noisy, messy life, would have a peaceful homegoing service.

But the event had been a solemn one. His father and Zac both cried openly. And Dee was there being held up on either side by two of her friends. She looked like a shell of her usual beautiful, vibrant self. Her eyes were bloodshot and dry, and empty, her black dress askew, and her hair, barely presentable. Ibrahim had only seen her occasionally after that day, and only in passing. She had never come back to herself ever again.

When Ibrahim thinks of Immanuel it is with sadness, and with love. Despite whatever else he had done, and been, Manny had been a loving brother and Ibrahim missed him still. And when he thinks of Immanuel, he sometimes thinks also of Dee who, despite all her drama had loved his brother, just as he had loved her. There was no question that they had loved deeply, they just didn’t know how to love each other well.

“Kaleem was like Manny, huh?” Ibrahim gives a short laugh. “That couldn’t have been good.”

“He course-corrected,” Jada says, shrugging. She looks him directly in the eye. “He had a strong foundation for that.”

Ibrahim says nothing, but reaches for his mug, now only half-full of tepid and stale coffee. He sips from it, nevertheless.

“I know you don’t entirely believe me,” his wife says, lowering her voice. “But it’s true. He isn’t who he is in spite of you, Ibrahim. He is who he is because of you.”

“I know I planted some seeds. I believe that. But hard to take credit for the man he is since I wasn’t around when he became one.”

“Well, you should take credit. At least some. And there’s no point now, regretting the choices you … the choices we made.” And when he looked up, Jada nodded. “Yes. We. Because I was part of it, too. Agreeing that he wouldn’t see you while you were away. Don’t tell me you’re second-guessing that … after all this time, and when we’ve made it to the finish line with him.”

“Depends on the day you ask,” Ibrahim says. “Sometimes it seems like I had no other choice. Other times …” He sighs. “Other times I regret it every waking minute. That Kaleem is in some ways a stranger to me. That you are sometimes as well.”

At that, Jada’s eyes open slightly wider. She leans in.

“Me too? You feel like that about me as well, Ibrahim?”

“Well, you’re different since …”

“We both are!”

The vehemence of her response takes him aback, and it must have been apparent on his face, because Jada leans back, and her tone softens.

“You feel like I’m a stranger, Ibrahim? Like … what? You don’t know me anymore?”

“Let’s just be real, baby. Don’t you sometimes feel …?”

“Like you’re a stranger?” Her voice is shrill as she says the last word, as though it’s something unspeakable. “No. Never a stranger. Never that. Have we changed? Yes! But …”

Her voice has grown thicker, and Ibrahim sees in her eyes the beginnings of unshed tears. He reaches for her hand.

“Let’s call Kaleem and Asha,” he says. “Take a ride over to see our young warrior.”

At the moniker that Ibrahim has adopted from his son, Jada rolls her eyes.

“Not you too with that ‘young warrior’ stuff. I told Kaleem I don’t like when he calls him that.”

“He’s just preparing him for the world he’s going to face.”

“I don’t want him to face the world thinking he’s going to be fighting every step of the way,” she says, her expression pensive. “I’m hoping it’ll be different for him.”

“I hope so, too,” Ibrahim says, nodding. “But I fear that it won’t. So, his father’s gotta make sure he’s ready. If he needs to be.”

This philosophy was one he and his wife had discussed when Kaleem was still small. There were values they had to teach him, drill into him until they were second nature.

Self-sufficiency.

Resilience.

Strength.

Integrity.

Cultivating and holding on to those qualities were the toughest battlefields for Black men. Ibrahim knows all too well how tempting it is to bend rules and cut corners when the world is doing you no favors. He had considered it his fatherly duty to make sure his son was ready to fight on all those fronts. He considers it Kaleem’s duty now.

“So, should we go?” Jada asks, pointedly changing the subject. “Drive on down to see our grandbaby?”

Ibrahim nods, acquiescing to her will to move on from what is to her a difficult subject.

“Yup. Call ‘em and let’s ride.”

~~~

Ibrahim takes the wheel, and Jada is happy to have him do it. The drive isn’t a very long one, or rather, it is long though not far away. Kaleem and Asha live in a small, charming bungalow near the university. The housing is subsidized by Kaleem’s sponsors, who also pay for a significant portion of his family’s living expenses. His MBA, which is almost complete, is on hold until after the Olympics.

Asha, also, does not work. Kaleem was insistent after Anwar was born that she take a year with the baby. It reminds Jada of how Ibrahim was. They couldn’t afford for her take a year off, and though it was early in their marriage, it was among the toughest times for them as a young couple as well.

Ibrahim had been withdrawn almost all the time, and short with her. He went for long runs and returned in no better humor than he had left.

What’s the matter with you? Jada remembered screaming at him one evening after a ‘short run’ in the afternoon ended up with him returning after dark. Do want to leave us? Is that it?

She was standing in their small living room, holding a crying Kaleem, getting up from her vigil on the sofa just so she could be sure to confront Ibrahim the second he came in.

Is there someone else? Do you not want this family anymore? she’d demanded.

She would never forget the expression on his face. He seemed to blanch—if someone with his dusky complexion could do such a thing—and then he sank to the seat nearest him.

No, he said, eyes wide. He sounded almost breathless from shock at what she was suggesting. Baby. No. Never. Why would you think …?

Then he stood again, and took his son, carefully, gently from her arms, as if in asking that question she had proven herself mentally unsound and so it was safer for him to hold the baby.

Jada, I would never, he repeated. Of course I want you. Of course I want this family. I would never …

Then what? she implored. Why are you being like this? Why do you keep running off and … leaving us?

She was only just twenty-one that year. A scared new mother, hormonal and overwhelmed. Her parents made it clear that they thought she and Ibrahim had married too soon, and too young, so Jada wasn’t inclined to ask for their help aside from occasional babysitting, and prove them right.

Besides all that, she felt fat and unattractive. Ibrahim’s distance only made that insecurity worse. Even if he had reached out to her for sex, she was too tired from long hours working; and disappointed to have to drop her infant son off with a questionable local daycare provider to go work a low-paying job that didn’t even seem worth it.

I feel like I’m messing this up, Ibrahim confessed. He was bouncing from side to side, instinctively trying to calm Kaleem. Like I’m failing you. I can’t even take care of my family … take care of you.

Jada still recalled how he looked standing there, holding their son. His face was drawn, almost tortured.

I just need you here, she said, going to him. I don’t need a whole bunch of stuff, Ibrahim. I just need you.

And even when she wrapped her arms around him, holding him close with their baby between them, she felt that her reassurance had eased his mind for the moment, but ultimately wasn’t going to be enough.

Looking over at him now, she feels the same way. He said he was against the ropes, and lost, and she told him it was fine, and that he always found a way for them. Always. That was who he was. She had reassured him. But now, like then, she didn’t truly believe her reassurance was enough.

17

Now

“Perfect timing.”

Kaleem is just about to leave the house when Ibrahim and Jada arrive. Ibrahim can’t remember the last time he saw his son in anything other than running gear, and today is no different. Though it is warm out, he is wearing running tights and a long-sleeved thermal shirt. A pedometer is strapped to his upper bicep.

“C’mon, do these five miles with me,” Kaleem says, clapping his father on the shoulder, and they hug briefly.

Ibrahim feels as well as sees his son’s strength. And maybe because Jada made the comparison earlier, he is seeing his brother Immanuel in his son’s features today. There is the same sharply squared-off jaw, the nose with strong ridge, a slight bump in the middle, the thick, perfectly symmetrical lips.

Manny was the handsome one. The one most likely to draw eyes and make girls just about stand at attention when the Carter boys entered a room. Like Kaleem, Manny always had smiles and charm at the ready, seducing his way through life’s rockier patches. Until the night he met the bullets, and the shooter impervious to seduction.

Ibrahim thinks now that he would have liked to see his brother and his adult son get to know each other. That would have been something.

“I called and told you we were coming,” Jada says, giving her son a hug. “How long are you going to be gone?”

“Five miles, so about thirty minutes tops.”

Kaleem towers over his mother by several inches. It fills Ibrahim with pride to see it.

“Ash is back there waitin’ on y’all with the baby,” he continues. “But Pops, you should come with me. Loosen up those old bones.”

“I can still give you a run for your money, young blood. Believe that.”

Kaleem laughed. “C’mon prove it then. Lemme get you some kicks. And I got some shorts you can borrow. If you can, you know, fill ‘em out.”

“Oh, he can fill them out,” Jada says.

Kaleem groans and turns to head back inside, calling for Asha.

Moments later, Ibrahim’s daughter-in-law emerges from the bedroom, wearing a long, flowy, sleeveless dress. Anwar is on her hip. Her face brightens at the sight of them, and hugs and kisses are exchanged. But the star of the show is Ibrahim’s grandson.

It hasn’t been that long since they saw him last, but he’s changed a little more, turning a shade or two darker, and his hair, more massive, curlier, and with a hint of the same auburn shade as his mother’s.

His eyes brighten with curiosity when he sees there are guests and when Jada reaches out to take him, he goes to her willingly, succumbing to her kisses. Only occasionally does he glance at his father, making sure all is well. Ibrahim kisses him on the top of his head and inhales the baby scent that for a moment takes him back a couple of decades to when he was a new father.

“Babe, we gon’ do these couple of miles and then we can go check out that thing you were talkin’ about,” Kaleem tells Asha.

“What thing?” Jada asks. “We’re here to visit with you guys for the afternoon.”

“It’s just a street festival and craft fair,” Asha explains. “We thought we could all go after Kal’s run. Is that okay?”

“Fine with me,” Ibrahim says. “Assuming I can still walk after Kaleem puts me through my paces out there.”

“You’ll be a’ight,” Kaleem says dismissively. “Lemme get you some gear so we can go.”

~~~

Kaleem keeps up a steady stream of conversation while they run. He doesn’t even sound breathless. He talks first about his training regimen, and the two weeks he will be away just before the Olympic Trials, and his ambivalence about having Asha and the baby there.

“Might be motivation, might be distraction,” he says. “I don’t know.”

“Does she want to go?”

“Always. Gets all antsy about it if she misses any of my meets.”

“So, let her be there. If that’s what she wants.”

“Give ‘em whatever they want, huh?” Kaleem laughs. “That’s your marital advice?”

Ibrahim glances over at his son. Kaleem has slowed down a little, and he knows it’s because he is pacing himself to allow Ibrahim to catch his breath, and to keep up. He is fit, but he is not nearly as well-conditioned as his son.

“You don’t need marital advice from me, Kaleem. Seems like you’re doing pretty good on your own. She’s a good girl.”

“Better than I deserve,” Kaleem agrees.

“Why? You messin’ up?” Ibrahim asks, Immanuel and his stepping out on Dee coming to mind.

“What you mean?” Kaleem sounds insulted. “You mean with other women? Nah. Hell nah. I just mean … you know … I want to give her everything, man. Like everything.”

“That’s good,” Ibrahim returns. “To feel that about your wife. That’s how it should be.”

That was how he’d felt about Jada. How he felt now. So much so, he remembered before he proposed wondering whether marrying her was an act of selfishness. She loved him. God knew she did. He could see and feel it, and she never shied away from saying it. But he knew, even then that he might never be able to give her the life she could have with someone else.

And he’d been right. Because he hadn’t given her anything near the life she deserved.

“Y’know what she called me about last week?” Kaleem continues. “I was doing some warm-ups and she calls me, right? Which she never does while I’m at practice. So, I pick up ‘cause I’m thinkin’ it must be some big emergency. Maybe the house is burning down or something. Y’know what it was?”

Ibrahim shakes his head.

He is breaking a serious sweat now, even in the light shirt and shorts Kaleem loaned him, while Kal in his gear looks barely misted in perspiration and doesn’t sound like he’s running at all.

“She wanted to tell me Anwar petted a puppy at the park.” Kaleem laughs. “That was it. Our son petted a puppy, and she took a picture of it, and said she was thinking that that was the first time he’d been that close to a dog, and it was so cute and that maybe she might journal about it so she can remember all of his ‘firsts’. And also she wanted to know, did I think we could get a dog because Anwar would love it. You believe that?”

Kaleem laughed again.

Ibrahim says nothing. He does believe it. Because he had been equally full of wonder when his son was born. He wanted to be there for everything, wanted Kaleem to experience everything and be there to witness it. Even when he got older, he didn’t want to miss a thing. And yet …

They get through the five miles in a little over forty-five minutes and as they are rounding the block, Ibrahim pauses, suddenly recognizing something about the topography. He stops at the end of the street and looks toward the house, then left and right.

Kaleem stops next to him. Now that they are done, his breathing is more labored.

“What’s up?” he asks, noticing Ibrahim’s expression.

“This is Redwood City,” Ibrahim says.

Kaleem looks confused. “Yeah. You know it is.” He speaks slowly. “And?”

“I think …” Ibrahim says. “I think I used to work around here. In this neighborhood. Maybe even near this street.”

“Around here?” Kaleem says, his brow wrinkled. “I never knew that.”

He places emphasis on the word ‘I’ as though he of all people would have, should have known. It is the only remaining way that the lingering resentment Kaleem has at having been separated from his father for so long surfaces. Everything he doesn’t know about Ibrahim, he seems to imagine he would have known, had his father not gone to prison.

Ibrahim nods and then shakes his head in disbelief.

“Can’t believe I never realized this before. It’s been a long …”

“What’d you do around here?” Kaleem still sounds skeptical, a little confused.

Ibrahim doesn’t answer. He is lost for a moment in his memories. Of a skinny Indian kid, and of a meal of kale and spiced potatoes and cauliflower.

After a moment, he shakes his head, chasing the memories away though they make him smile.

“Let’s go in,” he says to his son. “Race you to the front gate.”

Kaleem’s face spreads into a grin. “Ah, you sure you want some o’ this?”

Ibrahim shrugs. “You gon’ beat me, no doubt about that. But it’s really about just how bad.”

“Oh, it’ll be pretty bad,” Kaleem assures him. “You ready?”

“Ready,” Ibrahim confirms, and together, they sprint the last quarter mile, heads up, eyes squinting as they face the bright, August sun.

~~~

The women walk ahead of them at the festival. Anwar has been strapped close to Jada’s chest in a kind of wrap, or sling. It looks a little snug and restrictive to Ibrahim, but Asha insisted that he is used to it, and likes being held close like that. Kaleem shrugged when his parents looked to him for confirmation.

It’s cool, he whispered to his father when the women were out of earshot. When he turns three, he’s all mine.

Asha and Jada stop occasionally to browse the stalls, and Asha buys organic preserves, fruit and two loaves of hard-crusted bread, which she adds to an earth-friendly burlap tote slung over one shoulder. She is wearing a cotton tank now, and an ankle-length skirt that barely swishes the ground.

“I think she really belongs in Oakland,” Kaleem says to his father, keeping his voice low. “Soon as the Olympics are over and I get this degree, we’re moving there.”

“She doesn’t want to move back to New York?” Ibrahim asks. “To be closer to her mother?”

“She’s never been close to her mother,” Kaleem says. “Not even when they lived in the same house. And if we moved east, we’d be too far away from you and Ma.”

Ibrahim is moved by that last sentiment. That his son wants to raise his family close by.

“She wants to have another one,” Kaleem confides. “Like, soon.”

“How soon you talkin’ ‘bout?” Ibrahim asks.

“Now.”

Kaleem laughs, but Ibrahim says nothing.

“I know you probably think that’s stupid, right?” His son sobers up a little. “Before I got a career or anything, to be making more babies. But …”

“I think you have to do what feels right for you and your wife, Kaleem. I have no judgment about what that might be.”

“You bein’ all diplomatic right now, man. I want to know what you really think. You think that’s dumb? To be seriously considering it?”

“Will you be able to support them?” Ibrahim asks. “Your wife and children? If you have more?”

Kaleem shrugs. “So far, so good. I mean, with endorsement deals and stuff, yeah. But that’s passive income mostly, right? And probably temporary. I need to make sure things are straight for the future, too.”

“That’s what school is for.”

“Yeah. Exactly. So … don’t do it? Is that what you sayin’?”

Looking at his son, Ibrahim sees in Kaleem’s eyes that his opinion really does matter. His might even be the deciding opinion.

“I think,” he begins, speaking slowly, “that you have a wife who asks for very little, and who supports all your dreams. Her dream seems to include having a larger family. And I think you’re a smart, capable and enterprising man who will always find a way to take care of his family, no matter how large it is.”

Kaleem stared at him for a moment and finally smiled, shaking his head. “Should’ve known better than to expect a straightforward answer from you, Prophet.”

Ibrahim looks at him in surprise.

He’s almost certainly never told his son he used to be called that. It was a name he left behind when he left his old lifestyle behind. Maybe Jada mentioned it, but even she hasn’t called him that in years.

“Well, I don’t know for sure that’s what you mean, but I’ma just take that as license to be fruitful and multiply,” Kaleem jokes.

He stops at a nearby stall and picks up a shiny, green Granny Smith apple.

“Want one?” he asks.

Ibrahim nods. “I’ll take two,” he says.

18

Then

“Hey. Who’re you?”

Ibrahim jumped at the unexpected sound of a voice nearby, coming from a few feet lower than eye-level. Near the back of the room he had just entered, between two desks and on the floor, a young man sat, legs crossed, the sides of his feet resting on opposite thighs. He wore a t-shirt that gaped at the neck, exposing thin clavicles, sleeves from which protruded equally bony arms. With it, he wore loose black sweatpants and his feet were bare.

He was thin, and his head was almost completely shaved, and he had rich, dark skin, almost as dark as Ibrahim’s. Sitting there on the floor he looked so incongruous that Ibrahim wondered whether he was one of the area’s many homeless mentally ill, and had broken in, to squat for the night.

“I’m with ProClean, the …”

“Oh yes,” the young man said. “The recyclers.”

“Yeah,” Ibrahim said. “The recyclers.”

Samuel had confessed to Ibrahim one night that the reason he had gotten so many jobs in the university area was because he assured some of the prospective clients that he would recycle or safely dispose of their waste. He didn’t. Most of it he arranged to have dumped by one of his boys who hauled it all the way back to Alameda County and dropped it in the most easily accessible landfill, which was one that didn’t even specialize in hazardous waste.

Tonight was unusual. It seldom happened, but occasionally, Samuel would drop them off at a site and people would still be working. Most of the time, there would be a group of three or four, and they would mostly ignore Ibrahim, the Polish woman (whose name he now knew was Klara) or The Mexican Girls and go on arguing about algorithms or whatever. This site, a small bungalow at the end of a street in a semi-residential neighborhood was one of the converted office spaces that were on their schedule. Usually, if it was a small enough place, Samuel would leave only two people to work on it, and swing by later to get them after two or three hours.

Tonight, one of the girls called in sick, so someone had to work alone.

It’s gotta be you, man, Samuel told Ibrahim. Can’t take no chances with the women.

Though that meant he would be doing twice as much cleaning, Ibrahim understood. It would be a foolish tempting of fate to leave any of the others alone at night in an unfamiliar neighborhood, to navigate a building with eight or nine rooms where unexpected threats might be waiting around the corner.

But this skinny, young guy looked like a threat to no one; not even to himself.

Ibrahim relaxed. He was still holding his cleaning supplies, a bucket, a mop, a broom, and dragging behind him the industrial-strength Dyson.

“Just clean around me,” the guy on the floor said, a slightly amused look in his eyes. “I’ll be as still as a statue.”

Then, when Ibrahim seemed to be thinking about that, he sprung up with remarkable agility, and was suddenly crouched, weight on the balls of his feet, and moments after that, fully upright.

He was about as tall as Ibrahim but as thin as a beanpole, but now, standing, he seemed anything but weak. Instead he looked wiry, and strong.

“Yoga,” he indicated the floor where he had been sitting, then extended a hand to Ibrahim. “I’m Raj. You are?”

Unaccustomed to being addressed directly by the clients, let alone having a hand extended to him, Ibrahim hesitated before putting down his bucket and extending his own.

Raj’s handshake was firm and betrayed a strength that was only hinted at in his coiled, sinewy physique.

“Ibrahim.”

“Father of many,” Raj said.

“What?”

“Your name. That’s what it means. Father of many.”

Ibrahim smiled.

People were often fascinated or made curious by his name, but he had never met anyone already schooled in its meaning, perhaps even more than Ibrahim himself was.

“You probably know it’s a derivative of Abraham, the prophet and messenger. But did you know that some translations say his name was originally ‘Abram’, which means something slightly different, ‘exalted father’. But either way, if your name is your destiny, it means that fatherhood is likely to be a key to your fate, and important part of your identity.”

He had a very slight accent; the kind a person picks up from growing up with parents whose accents are much thicker.

Ibrahim studied him with narrowed eyes.

He was beginning to reassess whether Raj might in fact be a vagrant. Some of them could seem remarkably lucid. There was an old man two blocks from his house who quoted MLK and spoke intelligently about segregation and Jim Crow until he got to the part where he claimed to be the reincarnation of assassinated civil rights leader Medgar Evers.

“I’ll let you get to work,” Raj said brightly, when he saw that Ibrahim didn’t intend to respond. “Yoga and meditation might not be happening tonight. May as well get the rest of my own work done.”

He turned and went to sit at one of the nearby desks, picking up a pair of eyeglasses and putting them on, and placing a pencil between his teeth. His shoulders slumped a little as he leaned in, poring over the papers on the desk.

Making his way toward the rear of the house, Ibrahim started on the bathrooms first. Thankfully, in these homes converted to offices, there were generally only two or three.

Before getting to work on the commodes, he put his headphones on and cued up Big Daddy Kane. These days everybody was all about NWA, but tonight Ibrahim was feeling like something more mellow; something to match his mood.

He was hitting a stride. A slow, easy, comfortable one. No doubt this gig was still a crappy one, but it gave him something he didn’t even know he needed: space. Living with his father and brothers was cool, and he liked having family close, but lately when he got off the phone after talking to Jada, it felt like a jarring return to a more chaotic reality to hear Immanuel cussing in the kitchen, or his father yelling at Isaac to get his “shit outta the living room.”

Ibrahim liked how he felt after talking to her. In a world of sharp angles and edges, she was softness and smoothness and the lulling sound of a well-modulated voice. The night after they went to the beach, he had removed the house phone from the wall and found a longer cord so he could pull it into his room for more privacy.

Immanuel raised an eyebrow when he saw that but didn’t ask any questions. Since they had never been too private or too precious about their relationships with females, Ibrahim knew his brother had to be curious. He was probably curious about a lot of the changes he had seen lately.

Which library you go to? Ibrahim had asked Jada when they last spoke.

She mentioned once that after school, she sometimes went to the library to knock out her homework and studying so she could spend time at home watching television and with friends, or her mother. Ibrahim thought it was cute that she would admit to wanting to spend time with her mother.

She told him which branch of the Oakland Public Library system she went to, then paused. Why? Would you come see me there?

Thinkin’ about it.

Well if you did, that … that would be cool, she said eventually.

Ibrahim heard the pleasure in her voice and decided right then that he would find a way to get over to the library, even if he had to borrow Nasim’s ride for the hundredth time.

~~~

He got through the bathrooms, three offices and the breakroom in just under an hour. Finally, he moved to the rear of the bungalow where there were several large computers occupying most of the floor space. The temperature back there was several degrees colder than the rest of the building and Ibrahim could hear the air conditioning units working mightily. Beneath that was a constant droning hum from the machines, audible even over the sound of the music being piped in through his headphones.

Each machine was almost as tall as he was. Their facades were metal and grey hard plastic, and dozens of lights flickered on and off, in green, red and white, speaking a secret language, performing tasks Ibrahim couldn’t even guess at.

“They’re thinking.”

Ibrahim jumped, and turned to face the door.

Raj had raised his voice high enough to be heard above the music, the cooling units, and the machines.

“Do you know much about computers?” he asked.

Ibrahim shook his head. “Not really. Nah.”

“These are called servers,” Raj said. Ibrahim noticed for the first time that he had two apples in his hands. He extended one to Ibrahim. “They ‘serve’ or relay information to other computers.”

Ibrahim put down the broom he was holding and peeled off his latex gloves, wiping his hands on his jeans before taking the apple.

“Right now, these computers just have information that we put in them, and they pass that information around inside this building, and among a few others our company owns,” Raj said matter-of-factly. “So, it’s an internal network at the moment. But soon, we’ll have servers that connect with computers not just part of our network, and just elsewhere in the city, and the country, but the entire world.”

“Sounds like sci-fi.”

Raj nodded. “Except it’s sci-fact. Not fiction. Already, there’s a vast network being built and pretty soon everyone will be able to plug into it, and share information, and ask each other questions. Libraries, post offices, other forms of communication might become obsolete. Maybe we won’t even need telephones any longer.”

Ibrahim nodded, unsure of why dude felt moved to come find the person cleaning his office, just to shoot the breeze about advances in technology.

“I was about to have my evening meal,” Raj said, as though reading Ibrahim’s question in his eyes. “I wondered if you wanted to join me. It always feels a little pathetic to eat alone, don’t you think?”

~~~

“It’s an acquired taste.”

Despite Ibrahim working to hide it, it must have been obvious how uncertain he was about the creamy, garlic-soaked greens that were on the plate Raj slid his way.

“Kale,” Raj explained. “Eat this every day and it will add years to your life. It’s my take on saag, a traditional Indian dish”

Taking a second bite, Ibrahim let it sit on his tongue for a few seconds before swallowing. With the garlic-infused kale, there was a spicy potato and cauliflower dish, that Raj told him was called gobi aloo.

“I’m sorry there’s no meat,” Raj said. “I’m vegetarian.”

“I don’t miss the meat,” Ibrahim said, honestly. “It’s just … the taste takes some getting used to.”

“Of course it does,” Raj said, the way he said everything, as though it was all self-evident. “We’re so used to processed foods that when we have something live, our taste buds go into shock.”

“You eat like this all the time?” Ibrahim asked. He moved his greens around with his fork, still not sure he liked it.

“Yes. Occasionally I have chocolate. And sometimes I take coffee. But yes.”

Take coffee. Like it was a drug.

“You Muslim or what?”

It didn’t escape Ibrahim that it was a question he often got asked, lately not just because of his name but because there were so many foods he now no longer ate. Especially pork and pork byproducts which seemed everywhere once he stopped having them.

Raj shook his head. “You?”

“No. Not Muslim.”

“Buddhist, or Christian, then?”

Ibrahim shook his head. “Not that either. Not really. Although … yeah, I guess I’m Christian if I’m anything. If I had to choose.”

“But why should you have to choose?” Raj asked. “I refuse to.”

He had open, inquisitive and very dark eyes. The kind that seemed to be always analyzing and discerning. Ibrahim detected in them, interest, but not of a kind he understood or could fully interpret. Not sexual, because he knew what that looked like. In jail, reading sexual interest in the eyes of other men had been a vital, learned skill. Unless you were down for that, you wanted to know how to spot it, and how to communicate that you weren’t down otherwise things could very quickly get out of control. Sex interest and intercourse in jail weren’t always mutual or consensual.

Raj shrugged. “First, we acknowledge that there is a power that controls the universe, right?” he said. “So, if we believe that, that there is something so immense, so awe-inspiring, why should we concern ourselves with defining it? Something so unknowable. Why would we want to contain something so vast into a construct as small as … religion?”

Ibrahim narrowed his eyes. “What’re you? Some kind of … sensei or something?”

Raj laughed. “Sensei means ‘teacher’, Ibrahim,” he said teasingly. “And all I am, is a student.”

“Where at?”

“I didn’t mean literally. I meant …”

“I know. But I’m asking. Do you go to school, or just work here?”

“I work here, and go to Stanford, for now. I should be at MIT next year. And after that, who knows? What about you? Are you a student?”

“Nah, man. I clean buildings. That’s it.”

Raj gave him that searching look again.

“Hmm,” he said. “I see more than that.”

“Why?” Ibrahim challenged. “Something wrong with cleaning buildings?”

“Of course not. All work, if it’s honest, is noble. But in you … I see something else. Something maybe just around the corner. Something much different than you are now.”

“You’re starting to creep me out a little, man,” Ibrahim said, shaking his head.

He was being glib, but for real, this Raj dude, here in this building on the only night Ibrahim was working alone, seemed like he’d been planted by a cosmic force, just to yank his chain.

Raj laughed again. “Before you leave,” he said, “I’ll give you the recipes. In case you want to make it for yourself.”

“Thank you,” Ibrahim said, more out of politeness than any genuine belief that he would try his hand at Indian food.

“So,” he asked after a moment. “What do you do here, man?”

“I write code.”

“Code? Like secret language, or …?”

Raj laughed. “Something like that. The language that computers use to communicate, yes.”

“Sounds … not that interesting.”

“Not at all,” Raj said, sitting upright, his eyes animated. “It’s actually the most exciting development in modern technology in decades. In another twenty years, there will be code that translates almost everything, telling computers how to perform most functions that the human brain can perform. Not just computation, which is what they already now, but decision-making, and reasoning. And they will do it faster, more efficiently, more accurately, and free from the bias that exists in the human mind.”

“Like what?”

“Imagine a computer that will tell you that though it looks cloudy outside, you can be confident with almost one-hundred-percent certainty that today it will not rain. That though you see traffic, your current route is actually faster than the shortcut you’re considering …”

“And that’s what’s so exciting? Predicting traffic and the weather?”

“Yes, as well as predicting the likelihood of cancer, or obesity. Anything you can think of. With the right code, you will be able to analyze and produce scenarios for small things, but enormous things as well. Life itself will be more manageable.”

“Well … if you figure out a way to make life more manageable, you’ll be a very, very rich man.”

Raj laughed again. “Oh, I plan to be, Ibrahim. I plan to be.”

19

Then

“Kyle is being real shady right now,” Lisa was saying. “How come y’all sitting here in the same library and he’s all the way over there? Acting like he doesn’t even see you.”

“I don’t care,” Jada said honestly. “We’re broken up. We’ve been broken up for forever. So, whatever.”

“That doesn’t mean he has to be all up under Christine like he is. Rubbing it in your face.”

Jada lifted her head and glanced over at where, three tables away, Kyle was indeed sitting next to Christine McMillan, leaning in, his head close to hers while they examined a textbook.

They looked cute together, Kyle and Christine. Jada wished he would get over everything already. It had been long enough for him to have moved on but bruised male egos didn’t heal quickly.

“I thought y’all would still go to prom together at least,” Lisa said. “Me and Earl’ll probably still go.”

Jada made a noncommittal sound, then took a breath.

“But maybe just in case, you should think of someone else to go with,” Jada said. “You know. Just in case.”

“Just in case what?” Lisa asked.

Jada sighed inwardly. Everyone knew that Earl was messing around with Laurel now. Not just considering it, but full-fledged. She doubted he would spare Lisa a second thought ever again unless Laurel dumped him.

“I don’t know,” Jada began, trying to sound casual. “In case you want to have different op…”

The words she was about to speak stuck in her throat as her eye caught someone standing at the entrance to the main lounge.

In his signature plain white t-shirt and jeans, white K-Swiss on his feet, there was Prophet.

Ibrahim. She would have to train herself not to think of him as Prophet anymore since he said he didn’t want her to call him that.

Lisa looked at her, then followed her gaze just as he began making his way across the room toward her. He looked out-of-context, but more vivid than anything else within Jada’s line of sight. Everything and everyone else had gone fuzzy around the edges.

“Who’s that?” Lisa whispered.

Saying nothing, Jada swallowed hard. And then he was there, standing over their table and looking down at her, his expression inscrutable.

“I said you’d see me soon, right?”

His voice was deep, raspy, sonorous. The kind of voice that made people at neighboring tables, most of them from her school, look up.

He shrugged. “So, here I am.”

Jada smiled, but still couldn’t find her tongue.

“I’ma find something to read,” he said, seeming not to have noticed he had rendered her mute. “Be right back.”

Jada was still staring after him when Lisa nudged her hard in the arm.

“Who is that?” she demanded.

“Ibrahim,” Jada said, her voice low. She was still watching him, as he made his way toward the nearby stacks, stopping to tilt his head to one side and read the spines of books.

“Who?”

“I met him at a party a while ago,” Jada said, leaving out their more recent history. “His name’s Ibrahim.”

“Ibrahim,” Lisa said. “Dang.”

Jada didn’t bother asking whether she was responding to the name or to the man himself. Both were dang-worthy as far as she was concerned.

“So how come he’s here?” Lisa, who never whispered, was whispering now.

“I …” Jada shrugged. “I guess I told him this is where I am after school. If I’m not at practice. And so he came.” She smiled.

~~~

“This guy must really like you.”

“What guy must really like me?” Ibrahim asked.

He, and Jada were leaning against the car, close enough that the hairs on his arms prickled, reacting to hers, a fraction of an inch away.

“The guy who keeps loaning you this car to drive all over town.”

“Nasim. Yeah, I guess he likes me fine. He’s an OG from ‘round the way. Looks out for me sometimes. Though I don’t know why, to tell you the truth.”

“Probably sees something in you.”

“Oh yeah?” Ibrahim turned to look at her. “Something like what?”

“I don’t know. Something.”

“What do you see?” He moved a little closer, enjoying the way her breathing sped up just the tiniest bit when he did.

Jada smiled. “Stuff. I don’t know.”

“Your friends in there saw some stuff too, I think. They looked real surprised to see a guy like me roll up. I’m guessin’ I’m not your usual type.”

“I don’t have a usual type.”

“No boyfriends? Or ex-boyfriends?”

“Actually yes. One. He was at the table near the restrooms. With a blue sweatshirt. With the hood?”

Ibrahim nodded. “Yup. I saw him. Gave me the hairy eyeball the whole time I was in there sitting next to you.”

Jada laughed. “The what?”

“It means he was giving me dirty looks,” Ibrahim said, laughing with her. “I heard someone say that in a movie once and kinda liked how it sounded. Thought I’d find a way to use it one day. And here it is … my big chance.”

Jada was still looking at him her warm, brown eyes amused. Her gaze fell to his mouth and Ibrahim pulled in his lower lip. He had a feeling her mind was drifting to precisely the same place his had been.

They were in the parking lot of the library. He’d offered to drop her off at home, but she turned him down, saying she always left with her friend, Lisa, but that she would walk him out. And they’d been out here for about a half-hour now, just leaning on the car, talking. And doing a whole lot of smiling.

He was waiting for the most opportune moment to kiss her, when there weren’t too many people in Crestlawn uniforms walking by and watching them with curious gazes. He didn’t want subject Jada to gossip because he knew from the way some of them stared that they had him pegged as a gangbanger.

Something about the way he wore his clothes, the conspicuous whiteness of his sneakers, or maybe even the way he moved. Not to mention the look of scandalized excitement in her friend Lisa’s eyes when they were introduced, like Jada had brought home a tiger as a pet.

“His name is Kyle,” Jada said. “And we broke up a while ago. A long while ago.”

“I bet you’re hard to get over though,” Ibrahim said.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Jada’s face became serious, and her eyes met his. “But I’m long over him.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said.

This was it. This was the moment. Ibrahim tilted his head to one side and leaned in. She met him halfway, and through half-shut eyes, he saw the moment her lips parted slightly, waiting for his.

Hers were soft and smooth, and she tasted a little sweet. He pulled back a little.

“You been having ice cream without me?” he asked.

Jada spluttered, pulling back a little and putting a hand to her lips. “What?”

“You taste like it.”

She pulled in her lower lip and tasted it for herself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“Maybe I’m wrong,” Ibrahim said, leaning in again. “Lemme check one more time to make sure …” The last word was said against her lips.

Jada smiled against his and then he felt the tip of her tongue and pressed in closer, sliding his to meet it. Turning completely around, he stood facing her, his arms braced on either side of her head, on roof of the car.

“Jada?”

Ibrahim pulled away, and Jada rested a hand on his waist as she craned to look around him.

It was her friend, Lisa.

“Are we leaving, or …?”

“Yeah. Sure.” She was a little breathless. “I was just … saying goodbye to Ibrahim.”

“Sure I can’t drop you two somewhere?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at Lisa. He could have moved, but he liked how Jada’s hand felt resting there on his waist.

“Thank ...” Lisa began.

“No. It’s fine,” Jada said, cutting her off. “We always take the bus. Lisa, give me a second?”

Ibrahim only knew her friend had left them alone again because Jada put her other hand on his waist, and got up on her toes to speak directly into his ear.

“She’s nosey,” she explained. “She’d only spend the entire ride getting all in your business.”

Ibrahim shrugged. “Don’t bother me none. It’s not like she could make me say anything I don’t want to say.”

“It’s probably not a good idea anyway.” Jada shook her head. “My mother’s home and it would be a whole big thing …” Her voice trailed off.

“Okay,” he said. “Maybe another time.”

Jada nodded. “Another time,” she agreed. “So … you’ll call me?”

“Yeah,” he said, moving aside to make way for her to go find her friend. “Soon.”

But Jada pulled him back toward her, tugging on the hem of his shirt, getting on her toes and kissing him one last time.

~~~

“This ain’t gon’ work for me,” Ibrahim said, shaking his head. “Swing back by the house and drop me off first.”

Next to him, Immanuel shook his head, impatience etched across his features.

“Look, you said you wanted to …”

“I’m not tryna go back inside, man. Drop me off. This looks like it’s ‘bout to be a whole lotta nonsense.”

The moment they rolled up to the party, Ibrahim could tell it would be nothing but drama. Out at the gate, a dude he didn’t know was having a loud argument with a girl in a short, short skirt. When she tried to walk away, he had wrenched her arm, dragging her back toward him while she howled in pain. Even though that seemed to be persuasion enough for her to resume the conversation, this time a little more quietly, Ibrahim was not reassured.

It was a warm evening, and there was an energy on the block he didn’t like. It was that amped-up and frenetic sense of something-about-to-go-down that he could feel like a prickling sensation at the back of his neck. Every part of the city had its own rhythm, and if you were from there, you could feel when the beat was just the tiniest bit … off. It wasn’t anything mystical or magical, just the fine-tuning of senses like a tiger develops from living in a jungle.

“So you want me to drop you off.” Immanuel sounded resigned now. “Even though it’s been a minute since you and me kicked it like we used to.”

Ibrahim shrugged.

“You got somebody, huh?” Immanuel said. “Some chick who keep you on a short leash?”

“I’m keepin’ myself on a short leash,” Ibrahim said, evading the question. “Because I am not tryna do another bid over some dumb shit.”

He eyed the guy with the girl at the gate. His pants sagged a little lower on one side. He was packing. All it would take was a noise complaint, and one patrol car and things would go south quick and in a hurry.

Most of the time, all the cops did was break up the party, yelling and making idle threats they were too lazy to keep. But if they were feeling like a little John Wayne action, they might roust whoever was sporting colors. And if they did, they might search some folks and even if they found nothing, they might feel ambitious, line dudes up on the curb and call in to check for warrants, or records.

Ibrahim’s probation conditions included not “associating with any known felons” and “abstaining from the consumption of alcohol or other substances.” The first condition was a joke since both his brothers had jackets, and only on paper did they live elsewhere. So, he associated with known felons daily.

As for the alcohol and “other substances” he found complying with that part surprisingly easy. But going to too many ‘hood parties was tempting fate. There was probably enough weed being smoked in that house that he’d piss dirty just from being around it all night.

“I ain’ sayin’ you gotta go home but you gots to get me the hell up outta here.” He tried to lighten the mood with an old joke.

Immanuel shook his head.

“Damn,” he said. “C’mon then. I’ma grab a couple forties and we can chill back at the crib.”

When he pulled away from the curb, Ibrahim breathed a little easier. As they drove, at first in silence, his mind drifted toward Jada, the way it had a habit of doing lately, with greater and greater frequency.

It was Friday. He wondered what she was up to, whether she was hanging out with her girls, or got asked out by one of those kids from her school. The one she said was her ex-boyfriend had been a brown-skinned kid with wavy hair who looked like an extra on The Cosby Show as ne of the rotation of pretty boys who showed up as Denise’s latest boyfriend. Jada’s ex looked just about as squeaky clean as most of the sitcom’s characters did.

Seeing Ibrahim sitting with Jada, he had looked over at their table a few times too many. And when Jada laughed out loud at something Ibrahim said, dude had gotten hot, all but ignoring the girl he was sitting with, and shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

When Ibrahim stood to go swap out the book he was browsing for something new, dude had openly sized him up. Probably wondering what Jada was doing with someone like him. Ibrahim tried not to wonder the same thing.

“For real though,” Immanuel said when he pulled up in front of the liquor store. “You ain’t never on the block no more. What you been up to?”

They sat in the car for a few moments, Manny waiting for him to answer, Ibrahim wondering whether he should.

Fuck it, he thought. May as well let it all out.

Immanuel listened without comment as he described the gig Nasim had hooked him up with, staring straight ahead rather than looking Ibrahim in the eye.

“I just … I wanna see if there’s something different out there for me, y’know? And I don’t mean cleaning offices, but I don’t know, just … something different.”

When he was done talking, his brother relaxed into his seat, letting his head fall back so he was looking up at the ceiling of the car.

Exhaling slowly, Immanuel turned and looked at him, nodding slowly. Ibrahim couldn’t fully see his eyes in the partial gloom.

“She …” Manny’s voice broke a little and he cleared his throat. “She woulda been proud,” he said. He didn’t explain who ‘she’ was. But then, he didn’t have to.

Then he got out of the car and went into the liquor store to buy the alcohol. None of which Ibrahim would drink.

20

Then

“You don’t just … just … kiss people in library parking lots and then not call them for a week.”

Almost as soon as the words were out of her mouth, Jada shut her eyes in humiliation at how dumb it sounded. Thankfully she and Ibrahim were having this conversation over the phone and not in person.

She had been working on being patient and trying to wait him out, remembering what Lisa said about calling guys. She said she never did it. Never.

According to her it was good to make them sweat a little. So, Jada waited for a while, fully expecting that a day or two after seeing each other at the library, Ibrahim would call her. She was confident that he would because the kissing, both before and after the interruption, had been perfection.

Ibrahim didn’t get grabby and over-eager with her, he was slow and patient, like the kissing itself was the pinnacle of what he might with, and it was more than enough. Kyle, once they started having sex, always got ahead of himself, and ahead of her, reaching down for her crotch almost moment their lips touched.

Ibrahim kissed not as the prelude to lovemaking, but as lovemaking itself. She wasn’t alone in feeling that. She knew she wasn’t. So she was sure he would call. Except he hadn’t. And each day that went by, something closer to desperation began to overtake her already strained patience.

Finally, when she remembered that Lisa’s track record with guys was far from what anyone could call enviable, and that she was probably better off following her own instincts, she broke down and dialed his number. She even mustered up a little righteous indignation to power her through. That feeling only strengthened when Ibrahim answered the phone with what sounded like weary indifference.

Only, he had no idea she was the one calling, so it was unlikely he was indifferent, probably more like … oblivious. He would have no idea she was on the other end of the line because Jada had never called him before.

Anyway, the words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. How could he be so casual and unconcerned? Meanwhile she had been moping around at home, prowling the living room like a zombie, willing the phone to ring every night between seven and nine, when she told him was the best time to call.

“I’m just … You should have called, that’s all. I mean because …”

“You’re right,” Ibrahim said.

Jada hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. She had been gearing up for a little bit of a fight, so his easy capitulation required a new strategy.

“I know you’re busy and all, so …”

“Not that busy …” Ibrahim began.

She held her breath.

“… that I couldn’t call. I should have.”

“Oh. Well … it’s okay. I just wanted to know that you’re, you know, that everything’s fine.” There was a brief silence. “So … is it?”

“Yeah,” Ibrahim said. “Everything’s cool. Just tired. I’ve been putting in some extra hours, that’s all. Taking a few day-shifts on top of the evenings for extra cash. Didn’t leave too much time for sleep.”

Or to make phone calls to clingy girls who think he belongs to them just because he kissed them a few times, Jada thought, closing her eyes tightly and feeling a resurgence of her previous humiliation.

“But I was planning on calling you tonight for sure,” Ibrahim continued.

“Oh.”

“I’ve been thinkin’ …” he said.

He was about to dump her.

“I want to come over, meet your parents. That way they’ll know who I am and feel comfortable about it when I come take you out.”

“What?” The word came out on a puff of breath.

“It doesn’t feel right. Me meeting you in the city, taking you all the way to the beach, or … kissing you in library parking lots.” There was laughter in his voice. “So, I think I should meet them.”

“Okay,” Jada said, rushing before he reconsidered or changed his mind. “When?”

This time Ibrahim’s laughter was fully audible.

“Before you answer,” he said slowly. “I want you to think about it. And think about, you know, what that means.”

“What do you mean ‘what that means’?”

“Me … meeting your parents,” he said.

Jada bit into her lower lip and took a deep breath.

Her heart felt like it was kicking its way out of her chest.

He was right. It deserved some consideration, because thinking about her father and his high standards, and her mother with her old-fashioned ways, this could go spectacularly wrong.

Or it could be perfect.

She had never wanted to hide Ibrahim to begin with, and that day at the library only confirmed it. Just watching him walk across the study lounge, she felt an irresistible urge to claim him. And when he offered her and Lisa a ride home, it didn’t feel right to refuse, because she knew he might interpret it as her not wanting her friend to know much about him, when really, she hadn’t wanted him to know much about her friend.

Lisa, like just about everyone she knew at Crestlawn, was likely to see him as a curiosity and nothing more. And she might even have asked inappropriate or intrusive questions; the kinds of questions that might have scared him off. As it was, the passage of each day this week made her wonder whether he had been scared off anyway, by Kyle’s judgmental stares or the whispers of all those girls in Crestlawn uniforms, huddled in one corner of the room and staring at him.

But she should have known better. Ibrahim wasn’t likely to be intimidated by anything as trivial as a gaggle of private school kids. And clearly, he wasn’t fazed at the idea of being scrutinized by her parents.

“Once you think about it,” he continued, “let me know what you come up with.”

Resisting the urge to say ‘yes’ right away Jada pursed her lips in case the word escaped anyway, without her consent.

“But … how will I let you know. Since I never know when you’ll call me. Or if you’ll call me.”

“That’s kind of what I was planning on calling you about tonight.”

“What was that?”

“No biggie. Just that I got a pager. So you can reach me whenever. If you beep me, I’ll call you right back. You got a pen?”

“Yeah …” Jada looked around frantically, grabbing a stub of a pencil from next to the phone book, and then a piece of mail.

Ibrahim recited the number for his beeper, and she wrote it down, repeating it back to him.

“If I don’t call you back right away, it’ll only be because I can’t,” he said. “Or, I’m ‘sleep or something.”

“Okay.” Jada bit back an ever-widening smile.

“Cool,” he said.

The line was quiet for so long, she held the phone away from her ear and looked at it, as though that would tell her he was still there.

“Ibrahim?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” His voice sounded thick.

“Are you falling asleep?” she asked.

“Sorry. Yeah. Little bit.”

“Right. You’ve been doing all those extra hours. I’ll let you go.”

“Nah, it’s cool. I can talk for a little while more.”

But she could tell he was saying so with some effort.

“It’s fine. You should rest. For work. And I have your pager number now, so …”

“Yeah. So, call if you need me,” he said over a yawn.

“Okay.”

“Okay. G’night, Jada.” His voice was warm and deep.

“G’night.”

She held the phone for a few moments more after he hung up. She was still smiling when she finally replaced the receiver.

~~~

“I don’t do very well with girls.”

Raj portioned out a mass of greens into which little white cubes were mixed. Then he slid Ibrahim a small bowl of what looked like a red stew, fragrant with spices he could not identify, and finally, another bowl of white rice, except the grains were slenderer than the rice grains Ibrahim was used to with Mexican or Chinese food, and the aroma vaguely floral. Their meals had become full productions lately, with Raj seeming to want to show off now that someone else was sharing the food he cooked.

“You should trust me by now,” Raj laughed, seeing the suspicion on Ibrahim’s face as he eyed the meal.

“I trust you,” Ibrahim said.

“And you’re sure your co-worker doesn’t want to join us?” Raj asked again. “There’s more than enough.”

“Nah, she’s good.”

Ibrahim was working the site with Luisa tonight, one of The Mexican Girls. When Raj had come in and offered them some of his dinner as she and Ibrahim were vacuuming one of the rooms that served as a conference or meeting space, she had quickly refused, and been surprised that Ibrahim did not. All the women, when they arrived onsite for a job tended to be reserved and cautious if people were still around, which Ibrahim supposed made sense since the dangers they faced as women doing near-solitary work at night were not to be underestimated.

But it had become a routine for him, to take a break to eat with Raj whenever he worked the Redwood City house. Often, Raj was working late when the building had otherwise emptied out. And often, Ibrahim found him there when he came in.

From their first interaction, and in the ones that followed, Raj spoke to him as though there was no difference between them, a cleaner, and a guy who went to Stanford and worked on computers. And from what Ibrahim could see, it wasn’t self-conscious or a self-congratulatory nod toward equality, but a genuine inability to see that any meaningful difference between them. So, Ibrahim liked the skinny young man with the inquisitive eyes and hint of an accent.

Tonight, when Ibrahim and Luisa had come in, Raj was not alone, but working with a young woman with blonde flyaway hair, and pale skin. She had a loud, brash demeanor that Ibrahim associated with girls from the East Coast and the nasal, grating voice so many of them seemed to have.

Her hair was in a messy bun with several loose strands floating about her, and she had shoved her eyeglasses up among her tresses. Underneath her unkempt appearance, she might have been pretty, but she wore a boxy, shapeless t-shirt and jeans that were far too large and held up with a tightly cinched black leather belt. It was as though she was deliberately playing down her good looks with poor grooming choices and ugly clothes.

She and Raj were working on what seemed to be a thorny problem, because she raised her voice in frustration often, and sounded like she was bossing him around. Or maybe he was the source of her frustration.

By the time Ibrahim had finished with the bathrooms and come back out into the front, she was gone, and Raj had his head down, concentrating on a sheaf of papers in front of him. In the slump of his shoulders, Ibrahim could read mild embarrassment at someone else having been there to witness the browbeating.

Only once they sat down to eat did Raj say—without any prompting from Ibrahim at all—that the young woman’s name was Molly, and that though they worked together, his interest in her went way beyond the professional.

“I don’t know how to ask her out,” Raj said. “And it doesn’t help that she’s so …”

“Aggressive?” Ibrahim supplied.

Raj gave him a look. “You think she’s aggressive?”

Ibrahim picked up his fork and dug into the greens. “Let’s just say, I wouldn’t be cool with it if my girl came at me like that. Like she came at you.”

Raj sighed. “That’s the problem … I think that’s what makes me like her. She’s so … self-assured, so confident. She doesn’t seem to have the tiniest impulse to … defer.”

It was things like this that made him like Raj. There was no one else he could think of, except maybe Jada who would speak a sentence like that to him and believe he would understand it, not just in its literal meaning, but in the meaning beneath the meaning: she doesn’t have the tiniest impulse to defer.

Ibrahim laughed. “I don’t think the opposite of deferring is cussing you out though.”

At that, Raj nodded. “I know. But in my culture, women are sometimes taught to behave submissively and it makes it difficult to get to know them. To really know them.”

“So you think if she pops off at the mouth and puts you down, you’ll know her better?”

“When you say it like that, it sounds stupid, I admit.”

“Because it is, man. You need to have a woman who respects you.”

“Well, maybe if you had to deal with girls who smile and nod, and hold themselves back, you’d be as frustrated as I am.”

“So, you sayin’ all Indian girls nod and smile?”

“No, of course not. But the ones my mother chooses for me, yes. So, I guess I find a girl like Molly intriguing.”

“Having your mother pick your girl might be the real problem.”

“No doubt about that.” Raj laughed.

Ibrahim shook his head. “You can find someone better than Molly. Like check this out. I have a girl, right?”

Ibrahim stopped, realizing that he had been about to describe Jada. Describe her as his girl.

Raj looked at him expectantly. “You have a girl …” he prompted.

“I mean … she’s not my girl yet … But she’s a girl I’m talkin’ to. And she’s stubborn and knows what she wants and says it. Boy, does she ever say it. But there’s this other thing about her, like she’s … not only willing, but waiting for me to take the lead. Know what I mean?”

“Maybe she wants to submit,” Raj said matter-of-factly.

He shrugged, digging into his meal and taking a mouthful of rice.

“Submit,” Ibrahim repeated. “What you mean? Like, be like you said, submissive?”

Grimacing, Raj squinted. “Not quite. Women can learn to behave submissively, but it isn’t who they really are. That’s what I mean about some women in my culture. Some of them are only playing a role. They aren’t given a choice. It’s demanded of them by our cultural norms. But to truly submit is to give, of your own volition, genuine trust to someone who you believe is deserving of it. And who won’t abuse it. It remains in her power, to give that submission, and to take it away.”

Ibrahim took a bite of his food, almost forgetting to notice and assess the taste. He thought of Jada, how she pushed a little, but only as much as necessary to let him know how far she was willing to go. And then she waited for him to take them the rest of the way.

“Girls like that, who want to submit?” Raj continued. “They’re rare. They likely have a strong father-figure, someone who has taken care of them, and has never let them down. A man they could safely trust, implicitly. They look for that in a partner. They expect it. They’re not afraid of it.”

“Sounds reasonable to me,” Ibrahim said.

He thought of Jada’s nice neighborhood, her nice home and the smooth easiness of her diction. He thought about the way she moved with confidence and comfort, with no expectation that something terrible might be around the corner that might hurt her. Only a protective and loving home cultivated those things.

And then he thought of Bree and her watchful, cautious manner; the anticipation of a slap, a shove or some other unknown calamity always visible in her eyes.

Ibrahim shoveled more food in, eating quickly.

He liked the greens. They had a grassy taste to be sure, but also a little spicy kick as well. And the little white cubes were cheese though he didn’t know what kind.

He would have liked to sit here and savor and dissect every flavor, but he needed to get back to work shortly. Luisa would resent it if he sat around having a hot meal and philosophical conversations while she emptied trash cans and cleaned toilets.

“It’s reasonable,” Raj said. “But it’s also something to be careful of. Because with a girl like that, before you accept her gift of submission, the only right thing to do is make sure you are a man who has earned and is worthy of it.”

21

Then

“They’re excited to meet you,” Jada said.

She was breathing fast, her chest almost visibly rising and falling.

Sitting in the front room, pretending to read a book, she had been looking out the front bay window, waiting for the familiar car to pull up. When it had, she stood so suddenly her book had spilled onto the floor and she skipped over it, practically running out the front door to greet Ibrahim, stepping outside and holding it ajar so they had a moment of privacy before going in.

She looked him over now, handsome in his khakis and Tommy Hilfiger button-down, smelling amazing.

“Excited to meet me?” Ibrahim grinned down at her as she looped her arm through his. “I doubt that.”

“Well, my mother is. My father is … reserving judgment. But I’m excited. I’m definitely excited.”

“I can see,” Ibrahim said.

They paused at the front door, facing each other and while she could feel her heartbeat skittering and skipping in her chest, Ibrahim seemed almost preternaturally calm.

“Ready?” he prompted, as though she were the one going in to meet perfect strangers and not him.

Jada nodded and with her hand on the doorknob poised to turn it, remembered something. Getting up on her toes, she pressed her lips briefly to his. Ibrahim returned that pressure with his own, and when she pulled away, he was smiling.

Just last night she had decided that she would greet him this way from now on and say goodbye this way. To be coy was childish and a waste of time. She would be unashamed of how much she wanted him, and of how important this was to her.

“Here goes.” She took a breath and opened the door.

The front room was empty and neat because Jada had herself straightened up this morning, putting away the stray pieces of mail. She moved the newspapers and tennis shoes, and the umbrellas that littered the entryway. She took her sweatshirt, her raincoat, her stray socks back into her bedroom and out of view.

Her mother watched her do it, a small bemused smile on her lips. She exchanged looks with Jada’s father, but they both said nothing. She knew that they knew then how weighty this meeting was.

The only thing out of place was the book she had been reading, now lying on its face on the rug.

Jada hastened to pick it up and when she did, and set it aside, she saw that Ibrahim was giving her a smile not dissimilar to the one her mother had given her that morning.

“Relax,” he mouthed. “It’s fine.”

Jada nodded, and took another deep breath.

“Let me go get them,” she said.

~~~

Timothy Green, Jada’s father, reminded Ibrahim of a school principal. He had the probing eyes of someone who knew you were lying to them but hadn’t quite figured out about what. When he entered the room and was introduced, Ibrahim saw him size everything up; not only Ibrahim himself, but the way he stood next to Jada, how close he was, how her body seemed to orient ever-so-slightly in his direction.

Ibrahim would later swear that in those first few moments, Timothy Green had seen some version of his daughter’s future that included the young man in his front room; and he hadn’t much liked it. But he was polite, if a little reserved, and gripped Ibrahim’s hand firmly when they shook, eyes never leaving his face.

He looked back at the older man just as attentively, seeing the slight wave in his hair, the hook of his nose with the flared nostrils, and the red undertone of his skin. Indian, or part Indian, Ibrahim guessed. It might have accounted for the jet-blackness of Jada’s hair, the hint of burnt sienna in her skin.

Her mother, whose name was Dinah, had the placid face and serene demeanor of a woman well-loved and taken care of. Her hair, like Jada’s was long and thick and dark. She restrained it at the nape of her neck in a bun that seemed comprised of several braids, wrapped and intertwined with each other. Her blouse and skirt ensemble were plain and topped with a light cardigan. She not only looked like Claire Huxtable, she gave Ibrahim the same benevolent smile that Claire Huxtable always bestowed on the friends of the Cosby kids. He liked her right away, and felt right away that she was leaning in the direction of liking him.

“What movie are you planning to see?” she asked, when the introductions were done.

“Sea of Love,” Jada supplied. “Al Pacino.”

“Ah,” Mrs. Green said, nodding. “He’s very good. Everything he’s in is pretty good.”

“What time does it start?” Mr. Green asked.

Even that innocuous question sounded like a test.

“Four-thirty, sir,” Ibrahim said.

“So you should be back when? About eight?”

Jada laughed. “Daddy, no. We might hang out after that. I’ll be home by curfew.”

Mr. Green said nothing.

“I’ll have her back probably even before that, sir,” Ibrahim said.

Jada told him that her curfew was midnight, but he figured it was better to err on the side of the conservative this first time he came to formally take her out. He had no doubt that whatever hour he got Jada back home, her father would be there, checking the clock.

“You kids have a good time,” Mr. Green finally said. He turned away a little one shoulder pointing in the direction of the kitchen, indicating without words that his inspection was concluded and that they were free to go.

“Thank you, sir. You both have a good afternoon.”

As they were leaving, Jada reached for her pocketbook with one hand, and with the other, she reached for Ibrahim’s hand. He saw her parents take note of the gesture and tightened his hand about hers as they turned to go.

Outside, he let Jada into the car before getting in himself, feeling eyes on him from inside the house, though he didn’t dare turn around to look. He could feel his blood pressure gradually return to normal, and the pace of his heart slowed when finally, he and Jada were pulling away from the curb.

They didn’t speak. About a mile into the drive to the movie theater, Ibrahim reached out to took Jada’s hand in his, just as she had done inside the house. This time though, he interlaced their fingers, and put their joined hands to rest lightly on her thigh.

At the theater, after they stood in line to buy their tickets and were about to file into the screening room, Jada tugged on his hand, leading him to the concession stand. Ibrahim had been hoping she wouldn’t but was prepared for it.

After the movie, he wanted to take her for ice cream, because that had become kind of their thing, and then wander around the mall. Maybe they would have something to eat in the food court. But if she had candy and popcorn, some of the rest of that plan might suffer.

“A movie’s not the same without salty, buttery popcorn,” she said as they joined the queue.

“If you think that’s butter, you’re killing yourself,” he said dryly.

“You mean kidding myself?” Jada laughed.

“No, killing yourself. That crap they’re squirting is definitely not real butter It’s probably just yellow, salted lard or some crap like that.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, I forgot. You’re Mister Healthy Eater nowadays.”

He had been, actually.

With Raj’s help, he had found some work-arounds, ways to eat healthy even with the limited offerings in his neighborhood. Mostly it meant just getting everything fresh—vegetables, meat, fruit—and cooking whatever he wanted himself, rather than getting frozen or prepared foods. For the first time in years, his family’s kitchen was being used for more than a place to light up a spliff or pour milk for endless bowls of cereal.

His brothers and father so far hadn’t liked his most of his attempts at cooking, because he was following recipes for Indian food. But the last few times he cooked, he’d roasted a whole chicken and cooked wild rice and they acted like he’d walked on water.

“Separate bags of popcorn,” Ibrahim told Jada now.

“No,” she added a little whine to her voice that was impossible to resist. “It’s more fun when we share.”

He grinned down at her and shook his head. To look back up at him, she had to let her head fall all the way back, so his eyes fell naturally to the curve of her neck. He wanted to kiss her there and was contemplating doing just that when someone slapped him on the shoulder.

“Prophet! That you, cuz?”

He recognized the voice immediately and turned to face his homeboy, Korbel. Korbel used to be a runner with him, both of them being schooled in the game around the same time. But while he hadn’t moved up, mostly because of his time in GDJ, word on the street was that Korbel had. And quickly.

The only way that rapid ascent happened, Ibrahim knew, was if you proved yourself out in the streets, got into some real shit. The kind that involved crying mothers and girlfriends, and coffins draped with blood-red bandanas.

“I thought you was still inside, cuz!”

Korbel, who was holding a little boy on his shoulders, who was dressed identically to him, leaned in and Ibrahim held him in a tight embrace, making it impossible for Korbel to throw out any of the signs Ibrahim knew were coming.

“Nah. Been out for a minute,” Ibrahim said, shifting his body a little so that Jada was behind, rather than next to him.

“You look good! How I ain’ seen you over there by the spot?”

“Tryna lay low for a short. You know.”

Korbel nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah. I hear that. But you need to c’mon through sometime.”

Ibrahim had been over at the spot. The first night he was out, for the party. And he had tried not to be there since. He didn’t know why Korbel hadn’t been there that night, nor heard about it, but he could guess. If what he suspected was true about Korbel’s promotion, he had probably been off somewhere laying low himself for a while.

Just over his shoulder, Ibrahim sensed that Jada had stepped further away from him as the line advanced.

“Your brother ‘round here somewhere?” Korbel asked.

Everyone was used to seeing him out with Manny, like frick-and-frack they used to be. But no more.

“Nah. Just me,” Ibrahim said, now that he was sure Jada couldn’t hear him.

He knew that even if Korbel later saw him with Jada, he wouldn’t even feel lied to. Girls weren’t that important. Saying he was alone just meant no one else from the set was around.

“When you ready to get back into some things, come find me,” Korbel said. “We big-time now. Mad cabbage out there up for grabs.”

Ibrahim nodded. “I’ll find you,” he lied.

Korbel embraced him again, and Ibrahim watched as he left before turning around just in time to see Jada about to pay for a large popcorn and soda.

“I got it,” he said, stepping in quickly. “This all you want?”

She nodded. “Yeah. But you got the tickets, so I don’t mind …”

“Nah,” Ibrahim said firmly. “I got it.”

He pulled out his wallet and peeled off a twenty, handing it to the cashier.

Only when they’d gotten their snacks and were heading into the movie did Jada ask him.

“Why didn’t you introduce me to your friend?”

Ibrahim paused, holding the door for her so she could enter the screening room ahead of him. His eyes adjusted to the gloom.

“That’s … He’s not somebody you need to know,” Ibrahim said.

“Why?” Jada asked.

“Jada. You know why,” he said.

They walked together to a spot near the middle of the amphitheater, and Ibrahim again paused to let her go first when they found a good row. It was empty, save a couple at the far end. They stopped somewhere in the center and sat.

“Are you ever going to … tell me about all that?” Jada took the popcorn from him and held it in her lap while he got situated next to her with the oversize cup of soda.

“I don’t know,” he said, honestly. “I don’t think so.”

She sighed, and then they were both silent for a little while. Onscreen, a cartoon hot dog was dancing with cartoon Twizzlers.

“Do you … have kids?”

Ibrahim laughed at the unexpectedness of the question. He supposed it wasn’t so strange that she should ask. Lots of his friends did. And she had just seen Korbel with his son.

“No,” he said, looking her in the eye. “I don’t have kids.”

Jada nodded, satisfied. “Okay,” she said.

The lights fell, the screen brightened. And the previews began.

22

Now

“Will you stay?” Asha asks. “Will you and Pop stay the night?”

Jada looks up from changing her grandson. Anwar is barely awake, his chubby hands opening and closing, clutching at nothing. As soon as his diaper is secure and she puts him in his crib, he will drift off, exhausted from the hours of noise, and smells and hubbub at the festival.

“I’m fine with staying if he is. Ask him.”

Asha nods and smiles. “I will.”

Jada knows that if Asha asks, they are likely to stay.

Ibrahim has warmed to their daughter-in-law, though he was skeptical in the beginning. Then Jada reminded him how young they had been when they got married.

And ours was not even a shotgun wedding, either, she had teased.

Although Asha was pregnant when she and Kal made things official, Jada sensed that even if she hadn’t been, it was only a matter of time before he would get married. Kaleem would not have admitted it, or maybe he didn’t even realize it, but in all the years that his father was away, he was almost unknowable, even to her, his mother. And Ibrahim getting out when he did, around the time Kal met Asha seemed ordained, because it was then that her son seemed to truly bloom and allow someone—Jada included—behind the hard shell of his self-sufficiency and laser-like focus.

The running, she always believed, was a proxy for the closeness Kaleem was unable to have with his father. And like his father, it was part of him now, inextricable from everything else that made him who he was.

“Should we let him sleep now?” Jada asks her daughter-in-law as Anwar’s eyes finally flutter and remain shut. “He might be up late tonight if we do.”

Asha shrugs. “It’s fine. Kal gets up and sits with him when he does. They play a little until he falls right back asleep.”

Smiling, Jada imagines the scene, of Kal getting up and holding his son, carrying him around the house, or lying on the sofa, Anwar on his chest.

It is incredible to believe. Here she is, a grandmother and not yet even fifty. But she is grateful to be still young enough to truly enjoy the best parts of Anwar’s babyhood, old enough to no longer wish she had another baby of her own.

“How’re you doing with the training hours and all that?” Jada asks as Asha lifts Anwar and moves him to the center of the bed. She puts him on his back and rests two pillows on either side of him.

“Fine. I’m used to it. The hours and all that aren’t that big a deal anymore. The only part that’s nerve-wracking is imagining everything that could go wrong.”

Jada laughs. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Him pulling a muscle, getting hit by a car … I don’t know.”

Jada loves this about Asha, her tendency to worry about Kaleem. Her worry is so constant it seems to obviate the need for Jada’s. And though it’s obvious that Asha only worries because she cannot quite believe her good fortune—a home, a husband who loves her, a beautiful new baby—Jada loves her for it. She is a caretaker by nature, and only fate would see her married to Kaleem, someone who for most of his life convinced himself he needed no one to take care of him.

Asha keeps house and takes care of what she calls her “boys.” She rarely allows Kaleem to cook, to clean, or do anything at all domestically. And she announces it when she is about to do just about anything that involves spending money. Not quite asking for permission, but still, asking for permission.

Ibrahim had, even when they were dating, taken care of all things financial. Even when Jada knew it was a strain. But he didn’t want her to share any measure of the burden of paying for things. He was only ever angry or frustrated back then when he feared he could not provide. That ethos, she is sure, is the same one that Kal uses to guide his family. From what she’s seen, there is nothing Asha suggests that Kal can bring himself to say no to.

Ibrahim was the same when they were dating, and when they were just married, before Kal was born. It was romantic. She had always been taken care of, so to have Ibrahim step in and say that forever after, he would still take care of her seemed natural. But now she sees that it created a pattern that she had to later unlearn. And it is that unlearning that causes problems with her husband now.

Even now that he is unable to take care of them—or because he is unable—he struggles with the fact that she can.

“Y’all want to go out for dinner? Before you drive back?”

Kal has stuck his head into the bedroom, and Asha shushes him with a finger over her lips, indicating Anwar asleep on the bed.

“They’re staying the night,” Asha tells him.

“Oh. Cool. Pops know that?” Kal asks, his voice lower this time.

“No, but he’ll be fine with it.”

“We can still go out.”

“The baby just went down,” Jada points out.

“We take him everywhere we go, Ma. It’s fine. He does okay in restaurants.”

“Let’s not waste the money,” she says, thinking of Ibrahim’s likely anxiety when, at a restaurant, the check arrives. “I’ll cook.”

Kal shrugs. “A’ight. Bet. Lemme let Pops know.”

When he is gone again, Asha goes to lie on her side on the bed next to Anwar. Jada takes a seat in a rocking chair in one corner of the room, setting aside the blanket that was resting on its arm.

“Did you ever think about having more than just Kal?” Asha asks, reaching out and smoothing Anwar’s curls back from his forehead.

“I did.” Jada allows herself to rock a little in the chair, even though it makes her feel a little more grandmotherly than is consistent with her self-image. “I would have liked three.”

“Why didn’t you? If that’s not too personal.”

Jada waves a hand. “No, it’s fine. Ibrahim was worried. That we wouldn’t be able to give them all the things he wanted to give them as a father.”

At that, Asha’s eyes and face drop a little.

“Do you want more?” Jada asks her.

She nods. “But …” She shrugs. “Kal has the same concerns I guess.”

“He’s his father’s son.”

“I know,” Asha’s voice is thoughtful. She twirls a loc around her finger and stares down at the coverlet. “And I even get where he’s coming from. But I keep telling him, we don’t need to be rich. I could be happy living just like this, for the rest of our lives …”

“But with more babies,” Jada says, “It might not be just like this. It might be harder.”

She can scarcely believe she’s making the same arguments that were used against her all those years ago.

Asha nods. “Yes. With more babies it would be harder. But … at least one more. I would settle for one.”

Jada smiles at her, this girl with the sweet manners and golden eyes isn’t what she imagined for Kaleem. She had put her money on him finding a brash assertive woman who would keep him in line. A mouthy sister. Basically, she thought he would marry a younger version of herself. Isn’t that what every mother secretly imagines? That their son will find a very similar but, in some ways better version of her to make his life with?

But Asha does keep him in line in her own gentle, coaxing way. No, but that isn’t right either. She doesn’t keep him in line. She makes him want to stay in line, want to be better. For her.

“If that’s what you want, Asha,” she says. “What you really want? Then I have no doubt Kaleem will make sure you get it.”

~~~

“Can’t do it,” Kaleem says, just as Jada is about to dice the onions. “I know you said you would cook, but I can’t let you do it.”

“I don’t mind. How often do I get to cook for my son anymore?”

“I know. But I feel like you and Pops should be relaxin’. Take a walk ‘round the neighborhood or something. Me and Ash will take care of making dinner.”

“You and Ash?” Jada rolls her eyes. “You sure she won’t be the one doing all the work?”

“I swear.” Kal laughs. “I know how to cook, too, y’know.”

“I know. I taught you.”

“You taught me some,” he emphasized. “Now I take things to a whole different level.”

“You do, huh? Okay, fine. You cook. And show me some of this whole different level you got going on.” She hands him the knife she was holding.

His hands are large. He is large. He towers over her by almost a foot. Sometimes it is difficult to believe that this tall, strong, handsome man came from her.

Sometimes, though she has long passed the point of active yearning, she still wishes that she had more. Asha’s questions have aroused the memory in her, of what that felt like—watching her son grow, loving him so much it felt like a twist of her heart, and wondering wistfully what a daughter of hers and Ibrahim’s would have looked like.

She is still thinking about that when eventually, Ibrahim is persuaded that they should go get some fresh air while Kal cooks, and Asha naps with Anwar.

They walk down the block heading west, their hands brushing as they walk. Ibrahim suddenly takes hers and she tenses, then relaxes.

Earlier today, when they were walking to the café, she had wished for him to hold her hand and he hadn’t. Now, she almost resents that he has.

“Why didn’t we have more kids?”

Ibrahim misses a step, then he gives a short laugh.

“Does everybody have babies on the brain today?”

“Why? Who else …? Did Asha talk to you, too?”

“Asha? No. Kaleem. He says she wants more. And he wants to as well. I can tell he does.”

“And you. Why didn’t you want them? When I was begging you to grow our family, you were so … rigid. You never even considered it.”

“I did consider it. And it wasn’t the right move for us.”

“Why? Because you were … building a business empire?”

She is surprised by how bitter, how sardonic she sounds. And by how easily the rawness of her emotions then, come back to her now. It is a stupid fight to start, and one that she knows full well has no resolution. Not so many years after the fact, and so many years after either of them can reasonably do anything about it.

“I wish I was building an empire.” Ibrahim drops her hand. “Instead I was just barely making sure I could keep my wife and the kid I did have, fed and clothed and with a roof over their heads.”

“I worked too. We would have made do.”

“Made do?” Ibrahim stops walking now. He turns to look at her. “Since when have you ever known how to do that? Is that how you grew up? Making do? When I met you, you were in private school. You wore forty-dollar penny loafers, you …” He breaks off and runs a hand over his head.

“I … what?” Jada demands. “What, Ibrahim?”

“You wanted for nothing.”

“And then we went out to make a life for ourselves. You and me. And so what if I involved some struggle? I wanted babies. I wanted your babies, Ibrahim!”

“And where would that have left you if you’d had them, huh? If you had not one kid, but two, or even three. When I went away, what would you have done?”

“I would have done with I’m doing now with a grown-ass man in the house.” Even as she is speaking, and before her sentence is done, she knows she shouldn’t but says it anyway. “You’re at least the equivalent in expense of two more kids. So, I would have done what I have to do now. I would have handled it.”

In the moment’s silence, Jada thinks she can feel it. Thinks she can hear it even, like glass breaking against concrete. The shattering of what remains of Ibrahim’s ego, the slender shards of his manhood.

She blinks rapidly to stave off the hot tears she feels behind her eyes. She wishes for a moment that he was the kind of man to hit her.

“Ibrahim …” she begins.

“Go back to the house,” he says. His voice is quiet. “I think I’ll walk on alone.”

~~~

He returns just as they have all almost decided to eat without him. Just as Kal is debating whether to go out in the car and see whether they can find him.

Ibrahim walks in and his eyes are vacant, his smile at Kal and Asha barely a smile at all, but a farcical imitation of one. Lips mechanically turning up at the corners.

“Lost all track of time,” he says, his voice as false as the smile. “What’s for vittles?”

Just from the sound of it, Kal and even Asha seem to know all is not well. First, Jada had come back alone and uncommunicative, and now, almost two hours later, Ibrahim has surfaced but is not himself.

Kal is looking at them both, his eyes flitting from one to the other. Jada knows he is sensitive to any sign of discord between them. When he was a boy, he hardly saw it, so he doesn’t quite know how to handle it when it appears. His parents in disagreement was enough, then, to upend his universe. It still has a similar effect now, because he becomes very busy, almost maniacally trying to make sure everyone is comfortable, fussing with the serving platters, the spoons, the drinks.

You got enough, Pops?

More of this, Ma?

His disquiet makes Asha jumpy as well, and they all limp through the meal with almost no conversation.

Ibrahim eats the chicken and string beans without commenting on it. He is offered and refuses seconds, and when he is done, begs off to take a shower.

“I can get you something to wear,” Kal says, pushing back from the table and following him out of the room.

Jada looks up and Asha gives her a thin smile.

“So quiet,” she says. “I swear I sometimes forget what it’s like to eat a meal without Anwar competing for my attention.”

Jada takes a sip of her water, tries for only a few seconds to mimic normalcy before she finds she cannot.

“Excuse me,” she says, shoving her chair back. “I have to …”

She doesn’t bother to finish the sentence. She just leaves the room.

23

Now

“Ibrahim.”

She speaks his name in the dark. They are lying together on the bed in the guest room, and she can feel that he is still awake.

“Ibrahim, I’m sorry.”

He says nothing.

Rolling toward him to breach the physical distance, Jada collides with his arm and when her eyes adjust, she sees that he is on his back, perhaps staring up at the ceiling. She presses her lips to his bicep, slides a hand down, reaching for him.

A hand clamps over her wrist, stilling her and she begins to cry. Quietly. Not at the rejection, but at the frustration of knowing that her husband is floundering, and she doesn’t know how to fix it. Even when he confessed to her that he was struggling, she made things so much worse by reviving an old argument, now a meaningless one. She isn’t even sure now what she was thinking.

“You’re mourning.”

Her tears cease at the sound of his voice. Hoarse. Full of pain.

“What?” she croaks.

“You’re mourning what we didn’t have. And what we lost,” Ibrahim says, his voice almost breaking on the last word.

Sensing that this is her time to be quiet, her time to listen, Jada gives no response.

“You think I don’t mourn too?” he continues. “I mourn the babies we didn’t have. And the years … all those years. I mourn the life I couldn’t give you then. Not just the life I’m not able to give you now. This isn’t just some … macho thing, Jada. I mourn, too.

“And every day I look at you, that’s all I see. Is my failure to give you those things, and those babies. And everything else you wanted. And deserved.”

“But I never …” This she cannot let go unanswered. “I loved the life you gave me. I love the life we’ve …”

“No, you didn’t. No, you don’t. And what you said tonight only confirms it. But you’re a beautiful woman, Jada. Still a young woman. You could …”

Before he can finish, she slaps him. She slaps him hard. As hard as she wished, earlier he would have slapped her. Her palm stings at the contact, and the sound is loud in the quiet house.

Ibrahim doesn’t even flinch, even when she gasps in shock and realization of what she has done.

“Don’t you ever …” Her voice is an angry whisper. “You are my husband!”

And then she is crying again, this time burying her face in her hands and trying to muffle the sound. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she hopes that Kal and Asha are not lying awake, eyes wide open, listening to the telltale noises of a marriage in trouble.

She rolls even closer, and then atop him. She touches his face and feels the heat on his cheek where she hit him. She kisses him there. He doesn’t respond, and she feels her tears about to begin anew when Ibrahim flips her over onto her back.

With rough hands, he fumbles to undress her. She helps him, peeling away the top Asha loaned her, maneuvering her hips so he can work off her underwear. She doesn’t care that she isn’t ready for him. When he is undressed and between her legs, she is frantic to pull him closer.

She doesn’t know any other way to be with Ibrahim. Even in the middle of this conflict, she finds it hard to imagine she would survive it if they were ever again to be apart.

~~~

It doesn’t surprise her to wake up alone. Kal will have gone to run, and maybe Ibrahim has gone with him.

She aches from the bruising sex the night before. Jada looks down and there are thumbprints visible on her thighs. Even with her dark skin she can see them, a patchwork of anger and desperation, and need.

When she sits up in bed, she is surprised to find that someone has laid out towels and what looks like a change of clothes for her. She didn’t hear anyone enter the bedroom as she slept, but maybe that makes sense since she didn’t hear Ibrahim leave either.

After washing up, she goes out to the living room and then to the kitchen where she finds Kal and Asha. Kal is shirtless and holding Anwar in his lap, feeding him what looks like oatmeal.

Anwar grimaces at each bite, but then reaches for the spoon as if hoping that the next one will produce a different, or more pleasant taste than the one before.

At Kal’s feet, which are bare, are his trainers and socks. His damp shirt is draped over the back of his chair. He has already been running.

Jada looks around the kitchen, almost forgetting to say good morning. When she does, neither Kal nor Asha fully meet her gaze, so she knows that they know something is wrong.

“We made a full breakfast,” Asha says, getting up. “Do you want eggs, or …?”

“Don’t trouble yourself with serving me,” Jada says smiling, or at least attempting to. “I’ll pull myself something together.”

She makes a show of getting a plate, going over to the stove, taking some of the scrambled eggs with cheese and spinach. And then she makes toast and pours herself a mug of coffee. Kal and Asha, who always have something to say to each other are still silent when she takes a place at the table with them.

“He’s wearing more of that than he’s eating, Kal,” Asha says after a few silent, awkward minutes. She reaches for Anwar. “Let me change him and top him off with some milk.”

“Top him off?” Kal grins at her and Asha smiles back and shakes her head.

“You know what I mean.”

Jada pretends not to watch them, but she can’t help it. It makes her heart sing to see Kal like this, so happy in his marriage, so in love with his wife and son. But it also opens a yearning in her soul for what she and Ibrahim once had and can’t seem to retrieve.

He was rough with her last night. And not in the way she sometimes wants him to be rough. But it was as though he was saying, ‘If this is all I can give you, this is all you will get. This. And this. And this.’

Each thrust was like a knife to her heart because she knew that his heart wasn’t there with them but locked away safe somewhere.

And worse than that, she now feels that it was her doing. With her cruel words to him out on the street, his locked-away heart is her fault.

“I don’t know where he is,” Kal says almost immediately they are alone. “I haven’t seen him.”

Jada’s hand pauses mid-air. Even though he is not here now, she assumed he had gone running with Kaleem.

“Do you know where he might be?” Kal is first to speak once again.

“No, Kaleem, I don’t.”

“What’d you do?”

Jada drops her fork and trains a hard gaze on her son. “What makes you so certain that I was the one who did something?”

Kaleem stands, or tries to, but she holds his wrist and pulls him down, so he is seated again.

“God,” she says, trying to keep her voice down so Asha won’t overhear. “You are truly your father’s son.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you only ever belonged to him. Even when he was away, you were his alone. You kept yourself far away from me, you …”

She stops abruptly. If she has learned anything from last night, it is that it isn’t always best to give license to her unbridled emotions and put them into words.

Kal reaches out and puts a hand over hers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t. I just … I see him trying so hard to be a man, and …”

“And that’s not something I can help him with, Kaleem! How to build himself up to be a man again? I can’t help him with that any more than I could have helped you become a man while he was gone.”

“Don’t say that.” Kal shakes his head. “You did. You did.”

Jada raises her head and sees that Kal’s eyes are filled with tears. Seeing him like this guts her. He is still her baby. Hers, and Ibrahim’s little boy. No matter how much of a man he has become, he is their little boy.

“Like I said …” His voice is thick. “I don’t know what’s going on. But one thing I do know? Now that I’m married, I know things can get … complicated. And no one understands those complications better than the two people in it. But I can be here for you. And for him. If y’all need me to be.”

Jada can’t help herself. She smiles. Then she drags her hand from beneath her son’s and puts it at the side of his face.

“Now that you’re married five minutes, you know all the secrets to marriage, huh?”

“Nah. But I know it can be tough. And I know you’re tougher. Both of you.” He shrugs.

“You …” she begins. “You are his son, y’know. You are all the best parts of him.”

At that, Kal dips his head, embarrassed at the praise, and humbled by it. Even at this age, and even after all their time estranged, Kaleem is thoroughly in his father’s thrall.

Jada loves and envies this about their relationship.

It is impenetrable, unbreakable, no matter what Kal once told himself. And Ibrahim doesn’t give himself enough credit for that either, for the solidity of what he built with their son.

“But what’s going on, Ma?” Kaleem asks. “What’s …”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I don’t know.”

24

Then

“I put you on the books,” Samuel explained.

“What? You serious?” Ibrahim grimaced, looking down once again at the check in his hand. “Why you do that for?”

“That ain’t a bad thing, young man. It means you’re legit. A genuine, tax-paying citizen.” Samuel pronounced the word gen-YOO-wine, stretching out the syllable in the middle.

Exhaling, Ibrahim folded the check and put it in his back pocket. He had been counting on leaving work with a couple hundred dollars cash in his pocket and instead all he had was a piece of paper with a figure on it significantly lower than he was accustomed to getting.

After Uncle Sam—the real one, not his employer—took his cut, Ibrahim was left with just over a hundred-and-fifty. The timing couldn’t be worse. He had plans for his money. He was setting something aside each week to buy a whip of his own so he wouldn’t have to keep mooching off Nasim all the time. And every weekend, he tried to take Jada someplace decent. All those movies, takeout, trips to the wharf and to get ice cream added up.

“For a spell, I don’t put people on the books ‘cause they don’t stick,” Samuel explained. “They come out the gate strong and then these early morning and late nights wear on ‘em. I gotta make sure a person’ll be ‘round for a while ‘fore I bother adding them to my ledger. And you, young man? You stuck. Congratulations.”

Samuel slapped him on the shoulder and pulled up at the curb in front of the building—one of the larger ones—that was today’s evening shift.

He waited for Ibrahim to get out and open the back of the van. The only other person who was getting out was Klara who was working the site with him. If he had been paying attention, Ibrahim would have realized sooner that Klara, the older Polish woman, was the only other person on the crew who got a thin envelope on payday, which meant she was the only other person who paid by check.

The Mexican Girls, most of whose names Ibrahim didn’t bother registering anymore, were a rotating cast of characters. Some of them, like Xiomara and Luisa worked a solid three weeks before disappearing for a while. And then they would come back for another three, and then disappear once again. Though they had been working with Samuel for as long as Ibrahim had, they still only got paid in cash. Maybe they were smarter than he was and had been doing their disappearing acts on purpose, just to avoid the tax man.

As he helped Klara out of the van, his pager vibrated at his waist. He didn’t get it right away. He had to hold Klara’s hand and support her weight to help her out, because she had a bad hip which made her walk with a rocking gait that looked painful just to watch. Riding in the back, where the only places to sit were hard surfaces couldn’t be comfortable for someone of her age. Ibrahim made a mental note to leave the seat free for her to ride up front from now on.

She would probably refuse, but he would offer.

He didn’t need to look down at his pager to know who it was. Jada paged him when he worked evenings, before she went to bed, because she knew the wait wouldn’t be too long before she got a call. He always called her right back because he wanted to get right to work the moment they arrived at a site, and not stop until he was done; and he also didn’t want her parents’ phone ringing too late at night and waking them up.

Ibrahim wouldn’t say that the Mr. Green had warmed to him exactly, but he could tell that he was developing a healthy respect for his consistency. When he picked Jada up, he always came up the walk, rang the bell and went in for a few minutes of pleasantries. He made sure he sat on the sofa and didn’t display any of the impatience he might feel. And he always brought her home at least two hours before curfew.

Sometimes, he brought Mrs. Green a small gift, like pastry from the Spanish bakery near his house, and if it was a Sunday afternoon, he picked up a copy of the Tribune for Mr. Green. When he did, he made sure he skimmed the headlines before going in, just so he had something intelligent to say about the world in his conversation with the older man.

Recently, though, he found that he wanted to read the paper first before giving it away. Turned out the world was an interesting place, well beyond the ten square blocks and the city where he had spent all his life.

Now, once he and Klara were inside the building, Ibrahim paused at the bank of payphones and fished out the change he kept on him for exactly this purpose.

“I start at the top, Ibrahim,” Klara called to him. He liked the way she rolled her ‘R’ when she said his name.

He nodded and waved her on, tipping his chin at the night security guard manning the front desk. Building security knew him and all the women on Samuel’s crew on sight, and never bothered asking for their credentials anymore.

The phone rang only twice before Jada answered.

“Hey,” he said. “Everything okay?”

“Yup. I’m good.”

She was always good. But he liked that even if she had no news, she didn’t like going an entire day without at least once hearing his voice. And that if he told her he had to work on a weekend and couldn’t see her, her disappointment was obvious.

“Just got to work,” he said. “What were you up to today?”

“Same ol’, same ol’. School, practice, library. But, here’s the thing …” She paused.

“Uh oh. Nothing good starts with ‘here’s the thing’.”

Jada laughed. “It’s good. Promise.”

“Okay, what’s up?”

“A party,” Jada said. “My friend Chloe’s party. For her birthday.”

“Yeah?”

“I want you to take me,” Jada said rushing the words. “It’s this weekend, and I know you might be working and I didn’t give you a whole lot of notice, but I had no idea it was going to be a bring-your-boyfriend kind of thing and now it’s just days away and everyone else is bringing a …”

“Whoa, whoa. Slow down. What kind of thing is it?”

“A … couples thing.”

Ibrahim leaned against the phone carrel bracing himself with a forearm.

“When exactly this weekend?”

“Saturday? I mean, if it’s too little notice and you can’t make it work …”

“I can make it work,” Ibrahim said, not knowing whether he could make it work.

“Cool.”

He heard the smile in her voice and that made him smile, too.

“So, what kind of thing exactly is it? A couples thing but …”

“Roller-skating.”

Ibrahim rolled his eyes. “Sounds like fun.”

Jada laughed. “You are such a liar, Ibrahim Carter.”

He grinned.

“I know. It’s corny, but Chloe’s really into it. She’s even on some kind of team. But it’s at one of those places that we can hang out for hours and hours without the management looking at us funny and expecting us to leave. Mostly people just sit around with their skates on, eat french fries and go into the back to make out with their boyfriend.”

“Is that your plan?” Ibrahim asked. “To sit around, eat french fries and go to the back to make out with your boyfriend?”

“I wasn’t aware I had one,” Jada said.

She ‘wasn’t aware’. It sounded like a phrase she may have heard one of her parents, or a teacher use.

“For real? You weren’t aware? Maybe I need to be a better communicator.”

There was a brief silence, during which he could picture her face. The way she pulled in her full lower lip, biting back the smiles that tended to escape eventually. A large part of why he loved kissing her was that full lower lip. That, and the way she kind of purred when he pulled it between his lips, arching her back, pressing her chest against his, pushing her pelvis forward.

The last time he’d taken her out he’d only had Nasim’s car for an hour, so they went to the closest strip mall near her house, one that had an inner courtyard. From the grocery store that anchored the mall, Ibrahim got a bunch of grapes to snack on, and Jada asked for a bag of chips. They sat in the courtyard eating, not talking much but just enjoying being together.

You know what I like about you? Jada said out of nowhere.

What?

That even though you’re doing your healthy thing. She indicated his grapes. You’re not preachy about it. You don’t try to make me feel bad about eating this crap. She held up her bag of chips.

Ibrahim had shaken his head. Why would I want to make you feel bad?

Jada shrugged. I don’t know. Some people are like that. They try to force you into stuff. By shaming you.

I would never do that, he told her. Force you into anything. Or shame you.

At that, she said nothing more, just leaned in and kissed him, putting both her hands up to his head, cupping it and holding it in place while her lips and tongue played with his.

Ibrahim remembered the taste of her, the mix of saltiness from her chips, and sweetness from his grapes. When he thought about kissing Jada—and he thought about it a lot—he thought mostly about that kiss. It had been just like her—the salty with the sweet.

“So, we’re going then?” Jada asked him now.

“Yeah, we’re going.”

“Okay. Cool. I’ll let you get back to work now.”

“Thank you.”

“Jeez. I only took up like ten minutes of your precious time, Ibrahim,” she said.

“Well, these toilets won’t clean themselves,” he said returning her teasing tone.

Jada gave an explosive bark of laughter that made him smile.

“Nah. But for real though …You can take up all the time you need, Jada,” he returned. “Any time you need it.”

“‘Kay,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Turns out I don’t need any more right now, so … g’night.”

“G’night.”

“But … Ibrahim?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you mean that? What you said?”

“What’d I say?”

“About being my, you know, being my …”

He laughed. “Yeah, I meant it.”

“Okay. ‘Night.”

And then she hung up, but not before he heard the poorly disguised note of pure joy in her voice.

Replacing the receiver, Ibrahim leaned against the carrel for a few moments and took a long, deep breath.

~~~

“It is good, yes?”

Klara and Ibrahim met up on the tenth floor for dinner. When they got to ten, it meant that they were done because the building had twenty floors; and if she started at the top and he at the bottom, and if they worked at roughly the same pace, they would almost always meet somewhere in the middle.

It humbled Ibrahim that sometimes, she would show up on the ninth floor, and once even on the eighth floor, meaning that this woman, who had easily thirty-five years or more on him, worked faster and more efficiently than he had.

When they worked together, Klara brought food from home for her dinner and always shared it with him. Like Raj, she insisted that there was enough for them both and gave him generous helpings of bigos, a cabbage dish that Ibrahim liked, or liver and onions, one that he did not. When he was inside, he read something—he couldn’t recall whether it was Elijah Muhammad’s book or something else—that warned that organ meats were particularly unhealthy, that they stimulated and activated dormant cells that could turn cancerous.

But cancerous cells notwithstanding, Ibrahim always ate the liver and onions, because it was offered with such generosity of spirit, Klara’s bright blue eyes shining when she extended it to him on one of the plastic plates she always brought along, and because she looked up and smiled just from the pleasure of watching him eat her food. While they ate, they seldom spoke except when she asked him, as she had just now, whether he enjoyed the meal.

Her English was heavily accented, and he wondered whether that made her embarrassed to speak because she didn’t say much. That never bothered any of The Mexican Girls. They were more likely to get impatient, as though the failure to understand something they said could only be due to the listener’s own stupidity.

“It’s good,” Ibrahim confirmed to Klara. “One day I have to bring you something I cook.”

Klara laughed. “You cook?”

“Learning,” he said.

“What do you cook?” she asked, a note of playful skepticism in her tone.

Ibrahim listed for her all the dishes he had learned, either from Raj’s recipes scribbled on computer paper, or from the cards he had started picking up in the grocery store.

“Very good.” Klara sounded impressed. “You are good boy. You cook for your mama?”

Ibrahim shook his head, moving a particularly large piece of liver to the side of his plate to dispose of discreetly when he got a chance.

“I don’t have a mother,” he said.

“Oh. I am sorry.”

“It’s been a while.”

A while, yes. But sometimes it felt like yesterday.

They fell silent again.

“You get paid by check, too, right?” he asked after a few minutes.

Klara nodded, looking vaguely suspicious for a moment.

“It’s a racket, man,” Ibrahim said. “Seeing all that money come out of your check. I might ask Samuel to take me back off the books.”

“No!” Klara said, grimacing and shaking her head. “No, you must not.”

“Why? Way I see it, people who work jobs like ours shouldn’t pay taxes.”

“You want roads to drive on, yes? Lights on street? Garbage collectors to come pick up trash? Police to come when you call? Then you must pay taxes.”

Immigrants, Ibrahim thought, not unkindly. Even more than most Americans, they bought into the whole doggone system. Thought the government really was there to look after people.

“I would never call the police,” Ibrahim said offhandedly. “Not for almost anything. And also … the garbage barely gets collected where I live at.”

“Then do it for you,” Klara said. “Pay tax because you are a man and you want nothing for free. Because even if the price is unfair, you are a man, and willing to pay for your own. For whatever you take.”

Ibrahim said nothing. He liked the sound of that.

“And when you get check, you don’t go to check-cashing,” Klara said sternly. “Put it in bank. Put some money in bank, put some in pillow.”

Ibrahim laughed. “In my pillow?”

“Yes,” Klara said, serious faced. “In pillow. Not in pillowcase.”

Ibrahim’s smile dissolved.

This lady. She’s seen some things. She knows some things.

“Promise,” he said, nodding. “No check-cashing. Bank, and pillow. That’s where I’ll put my dough from now on.”

Klara smiled finally, and then nodded.

“Good,” she said. “You are good boy. Here … more liver and onions.”

She reached over and transferred a heaping spoonful from her plate to his, giving him the best and biggest pieces.

25

Then

It was too loud. Jada had forgotten how loud it always was at Skate Obsession. She had forgotten the flashing lights and the scores of younger kids who were likely to be there, screaming at the top of their lungs, squealing at every fall, clutching each other’s hands as they spun around in circles avoiding the dance skaters, and clinging to the wall, trying not to wind up on their butts.

And most of all, she had forgotten how ridiculous her friends sometimes were when they got together in a group.

There were four other couples: Chloe of course, whose birthday they were celebrating, with her boyfriend, David; Lisa, and Earl who had taken a night off from his not-quite-clandestine hookups with Laurel; Kyle who had brought Christine along; and finally, Chloe’s childhood best friend, Marlene and her boyfriend Russell.

When Jada and Ibrahim entered, hand in hand, all the other girls had looked up with newly-interested eyes. Lisa hopped up from the table to greet them noisily, eager to show everyone else that she was ahead of the game, and fully-acquainted with the dark stranger who was infiltrating their group for the evening. She hugged Jada, and then Ibrahim, who gamely played along, giving Lisa the loose, one-armed hug, of someone hugging their grandmother’s church-sister.

When Jada introduced Ibrahim around, the guys all immediately started flexing, doing the things men did when they wanted to assert their alpha male status—spreading their arms and legs wider, taking up more room, slouching a little in their seats, trying to look cool. Earl didn’t even speak, just tipping his chin up in a scant acknowledgment.

Jada felt the moment that Ibrahim sized up and then emotionally retreated from the whole childish scene.

Since then, he had been sitting and dispassionately watching everyone—the guys yelling at each other to be heard over the din, the girls dancing as they skated, trying to look seductive.

Jada skated with her friends and tried to focus on having fun but couldn’t help occasionally checking on Ibrahim out of the corner of her eye. He was sitting near the other guys, but not talking to any of them, oblivious while they performed for him. From their body language, Jada could tell they knew in their own sophomoric way that they were only pretenders to the confidence, self-possession, and other full-grown-man traits Ibrahim already had.

He blinked lazily, bored, while they got louder and more rambunctious. Even Kyle, who Jada knew resented Ibrahim’s mere presence, seemed unable to help himself and joined in the attention-seeking.

As she positioned her feet heels inward, toes outward, and held hands with her friends in a circle, all of them spinning round and round, Jada still managed to keep an eye on Ibrahim. Finally deciding it was silly to make him her entire focus while celebrating one of her best friends turning eighteen, she shut her eyes and let her head fall back, trying to feel the music. The sensation was what Jada imagined it would be like being one of Saturn’s rings. Spinning and spinning in a never-ending perfect revolution.

She had almost begun to enjoy herself when Jada opened her eyes once again and despite promising herself not to, checked on Ibrahim. Except he wasn’t there.

Surprised, she wrenched her right hand free of Lisa’s, almost flinging her friend toward the wall, and throwing the circle entirely off its axis.

“What’re you doing?” Lisa screamed.

Everyone else in the circle pulled up short, and suddenly enough that they had to grab each other for support, almost collapsing in a tangled mass.

“Sorry!” Jada said, barely glancing over her shoulder as she skated toward the edge of the rink and their table. Only once she was nearer did she see that Ibrahim was making his way to the exit.

Fumbling with the laces of her skates, trying to get them undone, she finally abandoned the attempt and yanked them off from the heel, running after him in only her socks.

“Ibrahim!”

He turned at the sound of his name and looked her over. His brow furrowed when he saw that she was without shoes, then realization entered his eyes.

Coming slowly toward her, he shook his head.

“I wasn’t leaving,” he said. “I was just going outside to get some air. And some quiet for a minute.”

Jada studied his face then reached for his hand, tugging it lightly.

“I’ll go with you,” she said.

She could see him about to say something, like maybe that he would meet her out there. But then he probably noticed the near-frantic look in her eyes, because after a second, he nodded and went back to the table with her to wait while she put on her shoes.

~~~

“Want to go back in when it’s time for the cake?”

Ibrahim’s eyes were amused. “There’s going to be cake?”

“Of course,” she said. “It’s a birthday party.”

He smiled, then nodded. “Sure, we’ll go back in when it’s time for cake.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Never.” But he didn’t sound convincing.

“Why? Is there no cake when there’s birthdays in the hood?” She pronounced the word ‘hood’ with a hint of irony.

“Yeah, sure. If the birthday girl is thirteen and under, sure.”

Jada laughed. “Sometimes I think you’re messing with me. Pretending we’re from, like, different planets or something.”

“Close to it.” He nodded slowly, thoughtfully, eyes still fixed on her.

Jada sighed.

She looked across the parking lot at the line of cars that were pulling in, slowly, because spaces were scarce. People spent hours and hours at Skate Obsession, and it closed in the wee hours of the morning. It was the alternative to going to a nightclub, and it sounded wholesome and acceptable whenever mentioned to a parent as the place where you were planning to hang out with friends.

But the truth was, there was alcohol consumed at Skate Obsession, and even weed if you wanted some. Probably even harder drugs, though Jada had no direct knowledge of that. Halfway through the evening, the guys would probably slip out back and return with bloodshot eyes or smelling like malt liquor. Sometimes the girls indulged as well, if they wanted to do things with their boyfriend that they could later plausibly deny to themselves having wanted to do.

Jada never did. She was too afraid she might see visions of her disapproving father’s face floating in front of her if she took a puff of a blunt, or more than the smallest gulp from a forty. She just wasn’t rebellious by nature. And if she wanted to do something with a boy—or in this case, with Ibrahim—she couldn’t imagine denying later that she wanted to do it, because what was more likely was that she would want to do it again.

“Tell me about your planet, then,” she said.

Ibrahim was leaning on the car next to her, his arm brushing her arm. Their extended legs also touching, his in stiff dark jeans, hers in denim as well, though a lighter stonewash fabric. Jada thought she could feel the warmth radiating from his skin.

She often wondered what it would be like to be with him like that—skin to skin, and nothing between them. But Ibrahim, strangely, exasperatingly, didn’t seem like he was in any hurry to make that happen.

“Tell you about my planet,” he repeated slowly. “What d’you want to know?”

“When you were … away, I wrote to you all the time. You can probably recite my daily schedule from memory by now. But I don’t know much about your life, and what you do … well, what you did, before you got … sent away.”

“A lot of stuff I shouldn’t have.”

“Like what?”

“I could tell you.” He turned a little to look directly at her while he spoke. “But that’s not the kind of thing I want to be in your head when you think of me.”

“It won’t be. I just …Okay, let’s start with this; what they sent you away for … Did you do it?”

He grinned at that, like he thought she was cute, or quaint. “I went away, didn’t I?”

“People didn’t always do what they get locked up for.”

“True. But most of the time? They did.”

“I’m not asking about them. I’m asking about you.”

He seemed to think about the question for a while, then finally he looked at her again.

“Let’s put it this way, I wasn’t innocent when they sent me away.”

“But I mean …”

“Jada,” he said, shaking his head. “Let’s just leave it at that. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, sighing.

“Hey,” he said when she turned away. “What’s on your mind?”

“You,” she said honestly, giving a wry laugh.

He smiled. “You’re funny. Why’re you thinkin’ about me? I’m right here. What about me?”

“How different we are … how every time we do something like this together, I feel like I’m some stupid, naïve kid and you have all these experiences … and you’re just suffering through the whole ordeal.”

“Nothing about the time I’m with you is an ordeal,” he said. “And yeah, we are different. But I like our differences. They way you’re different from me … it makes me better. Makes me want to be better.”

“Do you mean that?”

She always felt on the precipice with him and wallowing in uncertainty. His comfort with silence made her want to guess at his thoughts, or goad from him some show of extreme emotion. Anything to interrupt his quietude which sometimes felt like indifference.

“Yeah, baby. I do.”

His forefinger was on her chin, and Jada instinctively turned toward him once again, and they were kissing. Soft, smooth, slow kisses. When he kissed her this way, their differences didn’t matter. Lisa and Chloe and Kyle and her friends’ judgment didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered.

~~~

They went back in for the cutting of the cake and by then, Jada could see that the guys had already been out back to drink. They were even louder, a little grabby with their girlfriends and spluttered into laughter at stupid things, or nothing at all. Chloe looked vaguely embarrassed when everyone was singing ‘Happy Birthday’ and the guys amused themselves by being purposely discordant and off-key. Her lower lip trembled a little as she blew out her candles.

Jada knew that she had probably built up in her mind some unattainable perfection for her eighteenth birthday, the first party she was allowed to have without parents in attendance. Jada’s own eighteenth had been dinner at a nice restaurant with her parents, and Lisa along with them as a special treat. Her father had given her a 14-carat gold necklace with a locket. Her mother had given her gold teardrop earrings. It had been celebration enough.

That evening in bed, she had written Prophet (because that was what she still called him then) and told him all about it. He wrote back and told her it sounded perfect.

I wish I’d been there, he said. But in a way it’s good I wasn’t. Because what you deserve, I probably wouldn’t be able to get you.

Jada thought about that as she and Lisa helped Chole cut large slices of the chocolate cake for everyone, and it made her feel better. Maybe Ibrahim didn’t talk a lot, and wasn’t as noisily expressive as these boys, but she knew him. She knew his heart.

When the cake was cut, before serving everyone, they all—all the girls anyway—pulled gifts out of purses and bags. The presents were the kinds of things girls always got for their birthday since turning thirteen—earrings and inexpensive accessories from Claire’s, perfume, a book from Jada that Chloe would have to hide under her mattress since her mother was sure to confiscate it, and scented candles. David got Chloe a sterling silver bracelet which Jada thought was a perfectly fine gift from a boyfriend, but which Lisa rolled her eyes at.

After all the squeals and obligatory sounds of appreciation for her presents, Chloe turned to serving the guys the slabs of cake they demanded in loud, drunken voices. Finally, she turned to Ibrahim to ask how big a piece he wanted, and Jada held up a hand, shaking her head.

“He doesn’t eat cake,” she said almost instinctively.

“None for me, thanks,” he confirmed.

It was an inconsequential moment, but she felt smug for some reason.

When she got her slice, and everyone was settled for the moment to enjoy eating, he reached for her hand and pulled her toward him, so she was sitting on his lap.

Jada dug a big forkful and put it in her mouth to hide her smile. She barely tasted the cake. Ibrahim’s thigh, beneath her butt was solid and painfully present. She scooted back a little, wanting to not be on his knee, but nestled into his groin. He put a hand at her waist, to thwart the move, and Jada felt her face grow hot.

After that, she couldn’t even turn to look at him. But she couldn’t make herself get off his lap either. She liked being there, because it meant that if any girls looked over at him (and some had been looking, all evening) they would know that they were together.

When everyone had finished their cake, Chloe’s good spirits returned, and she wanted to do some more skating. By then, David had begun acting like a boyfriend again and took her. Everyone else followed, but Jada sat there on Ibrahim’s lap, her back stiff, her plate empty, except for the chocolate icing hollowed out of cake leaning a little against the plastic fork.

“What time you gotta be home tonight?”

Jada felt his warm breath against the back of her neck as he spoke. It made goosebumps rise on her arms and a pleasant chill go down her back.

“Same time,” she said. “Midnight.”

Ibrahim lifted his arm and she noticed for the first time the heavy, silver watch on his wrist, the smooth dark hairs on his sinewy arm.

“We got like an hour and a half,” he said. “But you know I don’t like taking you back that late.”

“That’s my actual curfew,” she said. “It’s not like you’ll lose brownie points for taking me home at my curfew.”

“I know. But …”

“Is there someplace else you want to be?” she asked testily. “Is that it?”

“What?”

“I’m just saying. It’s like …” She stopped and shook her head, not knowing how to continue, then sighed, her shoulders slumping.

“Jada.” He put both his hands on her waist, trying to get her to turn around.

She did. But in doing so, straddled him—her legs open and on either side of his—which she knew from his expression wasn’t what he had in mind. A tiny pulse beat visibly at the side of his neck, and he swallowed.

“What’s goin’ on with you? Why you so moody tonight?”

“We can leave,” she said, feeling bolder now. “But if we do, I want to go somewhere to be with you. Just the two of us.”

“Jada …” His gaze drifted off to the left, away from her.

“I’m not a virgin, y’know,” she said.

Ibrahim’s head jerked up a little his eyes meeting hers.

“You’re surprised”

He nodded. A little one. His brow furrowed.

“Are you disappointed?”

His eyes fell from hers and his brows furrowed more, like he was thinking about the question.

“Are you?” she pressed.

Finally, he shook his head. “Not … disappointed. Just … I didn’t.”

“You are disappointed. I can tell.”

“I’m …” He was squinting now, trying to discern his own emotions. “I’m … surprised.”

“It was only one person,” Jada said, now desperate to mitigate the damage.

She just wanted him to know that they could have sex. But she didn’t want him to think that she had sex with just anyone.

“You ready to go now?” he asked.

Jada nodded. “If you are.”

“I’m ready,” he said. He put his hands on her waist, lifting her a little, so Jada got off him. She collected her skates and took them back to the reclaim her sneakers.

When she came back, she waved Chloe over and hugged and kissed her, wishing her ‘Happy Birthday.’

“You’re leaving already?” Chloe whined, looking over her shoulder toward Ibrahim.

Jada nodded and bit back a little smile. “Yeah. I’ll call you tomorrow though.”

Chloe’s eyes widened in realization. “Oh,” she said. “Okay. Well … thanks for the book! Call me, okay? Make sure you …”

“Yes. I will.” Jada was already backing away.

She saw that Lisa, further out on the floor had taken notice of her and Chloe and was preparing to come over, so she turned and walked away, not wanting to delay her departure with Ibrahim any longer.

When she was next to him, he raised a hand in a wave at Chloe and they walked out together, not speaking. At the door, a fresh crowd of noisy patrons were entering, jostling each other as they came in.

Ibrahim reached for her hand and pulled Jada closer to him to get her out of traffic and she leaned against him, wanting to wrap an arm around his waist, wanting his arm draped over her shoulder. But all he did was hold her hand. He held it until they were at his borrowed car and released it only to unlock the doors and hold hers open for her.

“Where are we going?” Jada asked as he backed out of the parking space. “Is there a place …?”

“I’m taking you home,” he said, not looking at her.

“Home? But I thought …”

“I know, but …”

“Ibrahim.”

He said nothing.

And she said nothing.

They said nothing for the entire drive back to her house. And when he walked her to the door, and waited until she opened it and was inside, he didn’t kiss her goodnight, or even say the words.

26

Then

“My mother found me a girl,” Raj said.

Ibrahim laughed. “Just like that, huh?”

“Believe me, it wasn’t ‘just like that.’ It was a very involved process.” He pronounced the word ‘Pr-OH-cess’, the British way. “There were birth charts, and recommendations, family background checks. An entire … thing.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Not at all.” Raj shook his head. “It’s what we do in my culture sometimes. Use matchmakers. That’s what my mother did.”

“And what’re you supposed to do with her, now that your mother … found her?”

Shrugging, Raj leaned against the doorframe.

He had taken a break and was keeping Ibrahim company while he cleaned the server room. In another half hour or so, they would eat. Raj brought even more food now that there was a weekly routine of Ibrahim eating what he called “supper” with him.

Neither of them was surprised by their friendship any longer. It just was.

“I’m supposed to marry her.”

“You serious?”

Raj nodded.

“And? Are you going to?”

“Of course.”

“Raj, man. You can’t do that.”

“Why not?” He sounded genuinely curious.

“Because, do you love her? Or like her? Or even … know her?”

“I like her,” he said, giving another nod, this time a firm one. “I like her very much. She’s a nice Punjabi girl, with good parents. Very smart. Good work ethic. She’s studying to be a medical doctor. I might even be a step down for her.”

“Why?” Ibrahim was insulted on his friend’s behalf. “You’re about to go to MIT. Ain’t no way she’s smarter than you.”

Raj smiled at that.

“But my profession. It won’t make money for quite some time. Or maybe never. I’m probably not a good risk. But apparently her parents put a lot of stock in the charts, and they say we’re perfectly-matched.”

“What’re these charts you keep talking about?” Ibrahim was emptying a large bin of discarded paper into an even larger bin that he would have to take out back at the end of the shift.

“It’s basically astrology. Traditional …”

“Wait. So, you’re going to marry someone because your horoscope says you should?”

“It’s more complicated than that, but yes, she’s going to marry me because her charts and mine align.”

“And you believe in that stuff.”

“I believe I don’t know everything. And I know what I’ve seen in other marriages arranged this way.”

“You might not know everything, cuz. But you do know you’re into that chick, though. Mean Molly.”

At the sound of the name, Raj smiled.

“I am into Molly,” he conceded. “But I don’t know. Maybe I’m into her because she’s mean to me. Or because of the sex. And we both know, those are not good reasons.”

That had been a new development. Raj and Molly were sleeping together now. Ibrahim had coached him into the drawers, basically; telling him that what he needed to do with Molly was give as good as he got. If she was mean, Raj needed to be mean right back; and dismissive as well.

After a few attempts, Raj couldn’t manage to be mean exactly. He just didn’t have that kind of spirit, but he was able to be dismissive and even ignore Molly, except when they were talking about work. And within two weeks, she was the one doing the chasing. It took only a month before he was getting it on with her regularly.

“So, you can marry this other girl … What’s her name?”

“Vidhya.”

“So, you can marry Vidhya, and still be into Molly?”

“We won’t be married right away. Probably when I go to graduate school in Cambridge. She’ll be there, too. At Harvard if she gets in. We’ll do it then.”

“And until then, you just plan to keep bonin,’ Molly?”

“No.” Raj sounded regretful. “I can’t do that. If Vidhya and I, and our families reach an understanding, I’ll have to stop with Molly. I have to give Vidhya my full focus, get to know her. Get to love her.”

Ibrahim tied off the large plastic bag with the discarded paper and peeled off his blue work gloves.

“That’s crazy, man. But what if Molly is the one you want to be with? You’re just gon’ walk away from that?”

“Yes. Because what we want isn’t always what’s good or right for us.”

“And Molly’s not good or right for you?”

“Definitely not,” Raj said with a laugh. “And when I met Vidhya last week …”

“Wait. You only just met her last week?”

“Yes.”

“For the first time?”

“Yes.”

“And you plan to marry her.”

“I think so, yes. She’s a beautiful girl, so I’m not worried about not being attracted to her. And she has all the qualities I could want in a wife.”

“So, what happens now?”

“Now, I’ll court her. She’s at UCSF, so we can see each other quite a bit.”

“Court her?”

“Yes. Her family, my family … it’s not a casual thing. The intention is for this to lead to marriage.”

“And Molly …”

Shrugging, Raj nodded in the direction of the breakroom. It was time to eat.

“Molly will meet a nice, strapping young man from Idaho. He’ll be much more handsome than she is pretty, but still not be good enough for her. But she’ll think of him as an accomplishment, a catch, because he’s handsome.

“She’ll make more money than him for a while, then she’ll squelch her ambition so he doesn’t feel emasculated. And in time, he will be the superior breadwinner. And they’ll go on to have a perfectly acceptable, reasonably happy All-American marriage.”

Ibrahim laughed. “That’s cold.”

“It’s the reality,” Raj said. “I know who Molly is. She’s wonderful, and our physical relationship is satisfying. But she’s not the girl who will bring home a skinny Indian boy with an accent. And I’m not prepared to be the skinny Indian boy Molly, or some other girl just wants to piss off her parents with.”

“Your physical relationship is … satisfying?” Ibrahim teased as they headed for the breakroom. “Is that code for she sucks your dick?”

Raj blushed and shook his head. “Ibrahim,” he said, his voice chiding. “What happens between a man and woman … it’s private. It’s sacred.”

Ibrahim rolled his eyes. “Okay. So you’re having sacred sex with Molly, the chick you’ve already decided you’re dumping to marry Vidhya. A’ight, man.”

Raj shrugged. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I see absolutely no conflict in that.”

~~~

“how’re things with you and the high-schooler?”

“She’s eighteen, man. Stop calling her a high-schooler. And things are … they’re fine, I guess.”

“Why are you guessing?” Raj asked. “Did she throw you over for the captain of the football team or something?”

“Throw me over?”

“Dump you.”

“Yeah. I figured. And no, she didn’t dump me. But …” Ibrahim paused and shoveled in some rice and chicken vindaloo, chewing thoughtfully.

“But what?”

“I haven’t called her in like, a week.”

“Why not?”

He was embarrassed to admit it, but Jada caught him off-guard when she said she wasn’t a virgin. If he had to bet, he would have bet it all that she was. And when she asked if he was disappointed that she wasn’t and he said ‘no’, it was true. He hadn’t been disappointed, he’d been destroyed.

She had been paging him ever since. Had started that same night and hadn’t let up since. Twice a day, he got pages from her, like she was on a schedule—once in the morning, once in the evening. Twice a day he ignored them.

He wasn’t angry at her. And he didn’t feel betrayed. He felt … late. Like he had missed a connection that was supposed to take him to an urgent destination.

Jada was supposed to be his. Except someone had gotten there first. Maybe because he’d been locked up? Had someone been fucking her while he was in jail?

Foolishly, stupidly, the night she told him, the night of her friend’s stupid birthday party, he lay awake in bed thinking that she should have told him. If she was out there screwing some dude while he was locked up, she should have told him. Except that was stupid. How was she supposed to write something like that in a letter?

‘By the way, while I write you, I’m out here boning someone else’?

She didn’t owe him that then. There was even some ambiguity about whether she owed him that now.

They were all cute and vague about what they were to each other. He was playing “boyfriend” at birthday parties and telling her in a jokey way that that’s what he was, but everything was still much too undefined. And it had begun to feel inadequate.

Other things were coming together—he had a bank account for the first time in his life, he almost had enough to buy a car, he was eating clean, and had recently begun running just to clear his head and get away from the incessant din of his home-life.

He needed what was happening between him and Jada to be defined too.

“She told me she’s not a virgin,” Ibrahim said, finally.

And when Raj looked at him in amusement, he shrugged.

“I know,” he said. “But it really messed me up, man.”

“But … are you not having …”

“No. What makes you think …?” Ibrahim broke off and shook his head.

“Well, no offense, but I honestly didn’t think you’d be involved with a girl who isn’t having sex with you.”

“That’s messed up,” Ibrahim said, offended. “Why? Because you think a big, Black dude …”

“Oh please,” Raj scoffed. “It’s just … you. Not because you’re a ‘big, Black dude’. You exude a lot of highly-sexual energy.”

Ibrahim gave him a look.

Raj laughed. “I didn’t say I was attracted to you. Just that you seem to potentially attract that. And to give that off as well. So, I thought … Anyway. You’re not sleeping with the high-schooler. Interesting.”

“What’s interesting about it?”

“Are you … Do you want to sleep with her?”

“Of course.”

“Then why don’t you? Doesn’t she want to?”

Ibrahim gave a wry laugh. “Yeah. She doesn’t exactly hide it.”

“And that makes you uncomfortable. That she’s very sexual as well.” Raj looked even more amused.

“It’s not that she’s sexual. It’s that she’s been sexual with someone else,” he admitted. “And the worst part is, I think I know who, too.”

“You can’t put women in cages,” Raj said matter-of-factly. “They get to have sex too. And they even get to like it. If a woman is sexually-fulfilled, she’s more fulfilled in general.”

“That’s real advanced of you,” Ibrahim said. “And real funny by the way, you tryna school me about women’s sexual fulfillment. A guy who’s letting his mother and an astrologer decide who he marries.”

Raj smiled and shook off the jab.

“Here’s the thing. Without going into unchivalrous details,” he said. “I can tell you I enjoy sex with Molly. Very much. But I can also tell you this, Ibrahim. Even though she was chosen by my mother and an astrologer, I can’t wait for the kind of sex I’ll have with Vidhya: a woman I am fully committed to, who I’ve pledged to take care of—mind, body and soul. I can’t imagine a deeper connection.”

Ibrahim made a skeptical sound. “That’s just the yoga and Kama Sutra talkin’.”

27

Then

Breonna was sitting on the stoop, legs extended, one crossed over the other. Her skin was pale and standing in stark relief was a purplish mark on her left calf, maybe a bruise, maybe a burn from a motorcycle tailpipe. He had been hearing around the way that she was with Kwame now.

Kwame owned a noisy low-riding Harley that he inherited from his father, a Vietnam vet who blew his brains out a few summers ago. Ibrahim didn’t know him very well, but from his personal experience and limited contact with him, Kwame was a cool dude. To other dudes. To girls, he was rumored to be a little free with his fists.

When Ibrahim heard that Bree was hanging out with dude, he briefly considered checking in with her, asking if she was alright. But she wasn’t his business, and he couldn’t keep creating expectations that he would make her his business.

“Hey, Prophet.”

She stood as he came through the gate, still sweating and trying to catch his breath from his run.

He had the day off, and whenever he did, tried to start the morning with movement, fighting the urge to sleep long hours and do nothing more than watch television and play video games.

Raj tried to convince him to try meditation, but he already knew he wasn’t a ‘stillness’ kind of guy. He needed to move, and strangely, when he did, he found that his mind was at rest. All his focus and concentration drifted away from worldly problems and toward the simple mechanics of the run. He was reduced to two things: breath and motion.

“Ain’t seen you in a minute,” he said, giving her an awkward hug. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Just thought I’d stop by.”

Breonna hovered just behind him as he let himself into the house. It was still early. His father would have gone to work if he had a weekend shift, and his brothers were still likely asleep.

“You didn’t knock?” he asked.

“Nah. I was just …” Breonna broke off and Ibrahim looked over his shoulder as she followed him inside.

“Just …”

“Waiting to see if you were around,” she finished. “I been hearing that you run now, early in the morning, so I figured …”

He looked her over properly now, realizing that she was in a black iridescent skirt, nice shoes, a light, airy top. Her hair was out and looked like it had been styled but later drooped a little.

“You comin’ from the club or something?”

She nodded. “I was out.”

“I gotta shower,” he said. “You want something to eat?”

Breonna gave a nod. “Yeah,” she said. Her voice was barely audible.

“Okay. You can chill in my room if you want,” he said. “Till I’m done.”

She nodded again and followed him into his bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed and sliding off her high-heeled shoes.

Ibrahim undressed in front of her because it was stupid not to after all the times they had seen each other naked in the past. And something told him Breonna wasn’t here for anything like that.

“Be back in a few,” he said as he headed for the sole bathroom in the house.

He had known Bree since they were kids. And she had always been That Kid. Though almost everyone in their neighborhood had it tough on one level or another—absentee parent, father on dope, brothers in the life, raised by grandmothers who were declining in health—Breonna was the hardest of the hard luck stories. She was from one of those families that could never seem to get it together, and upon which fate visited almost every kind of calamity known to man.

Illness, addiction, incarceration, violent death. You name it, Bree and her family had seen it.

The first time Ibrahim remembered even being aware of who she was, it was in connection with the story of a kid who had been run over near one of the parks. Run over and dragged three blocks by a delivery van before they even realized they had hit him. The incident had been so horrific it made the evening news.

The kid was Breonna’s younger brother. It took him a month to die in the hospital.

She had other siblings. Two more brothers in prison, one of whom was a certifiable sociopath. The kind of dude who did crap like set fire to stray cats when he was bored or punched his pregnant girlfriend in the stomach when she pissed him off.

Breonna, for whatever reason, had remained a quiet, meek and even gentle soul. Ibrahim cared for her but couldn’t see himself dealing with the stink of persistent misfortune that seemed to follow her and all her kin.

When he came out of the shower, she was half-dozing on his bed, lying on her side, knees pulled up almost to her chest, one hand idly massaging the opposite elbow.

He thought about Kwame and those free fists of his, but decided to leave it along, getting dressed in a pair of loose basketball shorts and slipping his feet into his Adidas slides.

“C’mon help me cook,” he said.

Breonna sat up and nodded. She sighed, yawned, then lowered her feet to the floor and followed him into the kitchen.

Ibrahim felt her eyes on him as he moved around the kitchen, separated egg yolks from the whites and made omelets, and fresh coffee. When he finally put a plate in front of her, she looked at it for a few moments and smiled.

“This looks like something you’d get in a restaurant,” she said.

“Casa Carter,” he said nodding. “Where the food is always hot …”

“And the men are always hotter,” Breonna finished, deadpan.

Ibrahim grinned at her. “So how you been, Bree?”

She shrugged, picking up her fork. “Got me a job,” she said.

“Oh yeah? What you doin’?”

“Cashier over there by the Foot Locker in the mall. Comes with a ten percent employee discount, so that’s cool.”

“Cool,” Ibrahim agreed. “So you can hook a brother up.”

“Yeah. Course I can. But you gotta come in.”

Her eyes softened at that last part.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, Ibrahim only getting up to fetch them creamer and sugar for their coffee and to refresh hers when she was done.

“How ‘bout you?” Breonna asked. “I never see you no more. You got …”

The sound of the squeak and creak of the metal gate out front got their attention and Ibrahim stood. By now, he knew that neither his brothers nor his father was home. If they had been, the sound of voices or the smell of cooking would have drawn them out of their bedrooms.

Breonna held her coffee mug midair, frozen and seeming to hold her breath.

“Someone comin’ to pick you up?” Ibrahim asked.

She shook her head.

Ibrahim went to the front door and opened it, expecting to see someone coming up the walkway. But they were already at the door.

Standing at the threshold, wearing basketball shorts not unlike his, and a team jersey, was Jada.

Glancing over his shoulder, Ibrahim stepped outside.

“How’d you get here?” he asked, more surprised than displeased.

“Chloe. She’s waiting in the car.”

Jada indicated a blue Toyota idling at the curb. Someone inside lifted their hand in a wave and Ibrahim idly waved back.

“So, you’re alive.” Jada folded her arms. Her long, thick braid was resting on her shoulder. She smelled like flowers.

Ibrahim wanted to hold her by one of those stiff, tense arms and pull her against him. He forgot, even after an absence of a few days, how pretty she was. And it had been more than a few days. It was almost two weeks.

“I thought for sure you were dead somewhere,” Jada said accusingly. “Or … I don’t know. In … trouble or something. Because you said, when you got your pager that if I paged you, you’d call me right back. And …” Her voice was trembling, and her eyes were beginning to fill.

“Jada. Look …”

“Look ‘what’?” she asked. “Are you … Is this your way of saying you don’t … that you …”

“Prophet?”

At the sound of the voice coming from behind him in the house, he shut his eyes, then let his head fall back.

Shit.

When he opened his eyes again, Jada was staring at him, betrayal and disbelief in her eyes. She leaned to the side and looked inside. He didn’t bother turning to see what she saw.

Breonna in her shiny short skirt, barefoot, hair loose from a night out. And of course, there he was, shirtless.

“Okay,” Jada said, finally, the tears threatening to spill onto her cheeks. “I see.”

She turned to leave, and Ibrahim grabbed her arm.

“No,” he said. “You don’t see. I promise, this is not …”

“Let me go,” she said.

Her voice was shaky, but certain. It was the tone a woman used just before she said something like, ‘if you don’t, I’ll scream.’

Ibrahim let her go but followed her out to the curb as she turned and began walking away.

“Jada, Breonna is …”

She kept walking, like she didn’t even hear him, her back erect, her long, heavy ponytail swinging behind her. Just before she got into the blue Toyota, she gave him one last look. Her mouth twisted into a wry, sad smile.

So, that’s that, her expression seemed to say. That’s that.

The Toyota, only idling before, switched into gear and pulled away.

Turning back toward the house, Ibrahim heaved a deep sigh. Breonna was still standing at the doorway. The expression on her face, in some ways mirrored Jada’s, and when he opened the door and stepped back inside, she pursed her lips and looked down.

“Is that your … That’s your girl, huh?”

Ibrahim nodded. “Yeah,” he said. Because he wouldn’t even consider that it might no longer be true.

“Are you going to go after her?” Breonna asked slowly.

Ibrahim shrugged. “Yeah. But not right now. I ain’ got a ride. And she wouldn’t hear me right now anyway.”

“Sorry,” Breonna said, then, “I feel like I seen her before.”

At that, Ibrahim turned to look at her. She had seen Jada before. The last time she had shown up uninvited. What were the chances that Breonna would be around both times? And in different places, too.

“Maybe,” he said. “It would’ve been a long time ago though.”

He went back into the kitchen, Breonna behind him, and resumed his place at the kitchen table, picking up his fork.

Didn’t he tell her not to come over here? But she was stubborn as hell. And now, because of some crazy-ass timing, he was going to have to …

“Were we ever going to be together?”

Breonna’s voice broke through his thoughts.

Ibrahim looked at her. Her eyes were like those of a woman more than twice her age, tired, sad, and having seen way more than she ever wanted to see in this life or the next.

“I mean, for real together,” she continued. “Be honest. Was that ever even going to happen?”

“Bree,” he began. “You’re one of the coolest chicks I know. And …”

She picked up her coffee mug and took a long, loud slurp, pointedly shutting him up. Or at least, letting him know that however he intended to finish that thought, she wasn’t interested in hearing it.

“Bree,” he tried again.

“These eggs are good,” she said, speaking over him. Then she emptied her coffee mug and stood. “Mind if I use your phone? I’ma call somebody ‘n see if I can get a ride home.”

28

Then

“He’s kidding. He has to be kidding, right?”

Like Lisa and Chloe, Jada watched as Ibrahim walked into the study lounge toward her table. He didn’t walk with uncertainty, or like he had any fear of being rebuffed. He was striding purposefully, as confidently as he always did. Scanning the room for a few seconds when he first darkened the doorway, he saw her and immediately started in her direction.

Jada wanted to feel exasperation or anger, but honestly, she felt neither. She felt relief.

She was supposed to still be pissed at him. Now, four days after she’d gone to his house and seen that girl there. The same one she had seen him with more than a year ago.

She was supposed to feel something like righteous indignation and a steely resolve to make him work his way back into her good graces. But what she felt was an instant surge of hopefulness that he was about to put her out of the misery that had been the past two weeks.

If Chloe hadn’t been there to see her humiliation in person, Jada wasn’t even sure she would have told her friends what happened at Ibrahim’s house. Maybe she would have gone on waiting, quietly, desperately hoping that he would have the explanation that she had been too heartbroken in the moment to ask for.

“Can we talk outside?”

Ibrahim didn’t bother with the niceties of greeting her friends or her with a ‘hello.’ He just stood over their table and looked down at her—only at her—with complete focus. And unless she was mistaken, there was even a little resentment in his tone. Like he had a reason to be annoyed with her, and not the other way around.

“I don’t know that there’s anything for us to talk about,” she tried. But her voice lacked conviction.

“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” Lisa chimed in.

Ibrahim ignored her friend and stared at her as though she was the only one sitting at the table.

“There is,” he said, unmoved. “There’s lots for us to talk about. Meet me outside?”

Jada looked at him. Not nodding, but not shaking her head either.

He turned and walked out of the room, not looking back.

Lisa exhaled a sharp burst of breath.

“He must be out of his …”

Jada pushed back her chair and stood.

“Jada!” Chloe hissed.

“Are you serious?” Lisa added. “After what he …”

“I’m just going to hear him out,” Jada said.

She was already moving toward the exit, more frightened that Ibrahim might not wait too long than she was concerned that her friends might think her a fool.

He was leaning against the railing just outside the front doors leading into the library.

Jada sighed and went to stand directly opposite him, leaning on the railing across from his. Between them, patrons passed in and out of the wide, sliding doors.

“Why you all the way over there?” he asked.

Jada shrugged.

“You shouldn’t have come by the house, Jada. I told you not to,” he said.

“You’re going to make this about me?” she asked, incredulous. “And make it about what you asked me not to do? After you didn’t call me back for …”

“I was working some things out. I needed …”

“Could you have said that?” she demanded. “Could you have maybe called me and said, ‘Jada, I’m working some things out. I don’t want to talk right now, because I’m working some things out.’ Could you have done that?”

He looked down at his bright-white sneakers. How did he even keep them looking like that? If she walked ten feet her sneakers got scuffed.

“I could have,” he admitted. “I should’ve.”

“And that girl. What’s her name again?”

“Breonna.”

“Breonna,” Jada repeated. “Is she …? Are you …?”

He didn’t seem inclined to help her, or to assume the rest of her question.

“Is she like, your … Are you like, messing around with that girl?”

Ibrahim gave a brief laugh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No.”

“Are you …? Then why is she always there? Whenever I come by unexpectedly, wherever you are, she’s there, Ibrahim.”

“The first time, the place you came to? You came to a stash …” He lowered his voice. “You came to a stash house, Jada. Breonna’s from around the way. She knows how to handle herself in places like that. You don’t. She just happened to be there, and I didn’t want you anywhere near that shit. That’s why I took you home. And this time, this time, you came to my house, unexpectedly, just like Breonna came unexpectedly.”

“To see you? Did she come to see you?”

She was being inquisitorial now and felt almost powerful. Because he was answering her questions so willingly, she was reminded that she had every right to ask them.

“Yes.”

Jada shook her head. “Why would she be coming to see you?”

“She’s my homegirl. A longtime, complicated, messy, you-wouldn’t-understand kind of homegirl. Okay? But there’s nothing more than that between us. Not anymore.”

“Anymore.” Jada let her entire body sag. She leaned against the railing. “So once upon a time …”

“Yeah. Once upon a time. But no more.”

His gaze didn’t falter as he said the words. He was telling the truth.

Jada said nothing for a long while. People entered and exited the library. Some paused as they came out, looking around for cars, adjusting books into bags, lingering long enough to make Jada want to yell at them to get the hell on with wherever they were going and stop interrupting the fight she was trying to have with her boyfriend.

Ibrahim, too, seemed to lose patience, because he sighed loudly.

A woman who was fidgeting with a bus pass, hearing the sigh, looked at him then at Jada and moved away so she was no longer standing in the line of sight between them.

Ibrahim was standing with his legs apart, arms at his sides.

“Can you come over here?” he said.

Pushing herself up, Jada went to him, stopping when they were inches apart. He took the fabric of her uniform shirt between his thumb and forefinger, gently tugging her closer until her face was almost touching his chest. She leaned in, the remaining two inches, her face pressing into his t-shirt.

She was so weak with him. Weak, and easy. And she knew it but couldn’t make herself do otherwise, be otherwise.

“Why didn’t you call me?” she said. “Even before I went to your house, you didn’t call me.”

“Because I was all messed up in the head. By what you told me. And I know that’s not fair. But that’s what it was. It was messing with me and I was trying to deal with it before I called you back.”

“You can’t do that,” she said, pulling back so she could look up at him. “Disappear like that. Because that messes with my head.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Can you promise never to do that again? To just … ghost me like that?”

“Promise,” he said.

Jada felt his slight hardness between them. Ibrahim pressed his lips to her forehead, then to her temple.

“I don’t even know what to do with you, Jada Green,” he said.

“What do you want to do with me?”

“Everything.” He exhaled a slow breath against her skin. “I want to do everything with you.”

“Then … do it,” she breathed. “It’s what I want, too.”

“Hey. Come over here, lemme show you something,” he said, abruptly switching tacks and pushing away from the railing he was leaning on.

Taking her by the hand, he led her out toward the parking lot.

Jada followed along, frustrated that just as it seemed they were about to get to the heart of the matter, he was changing gears again, putting them back in ‘park.’

She allowed herself to be led until they stopped at a random spot in the parking lot. She spun around, and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, looked at Ibrahim and shrugged.

“What am I looking at?”

“This.” He pointed at a car. A silver Honda Accord, spotless but not brand new.

“Did you …?”

“Yeah. Just bought it. Drove it off the lot yesterday.”

Jada walked around the car.

It shone in the sunlight, obviously having been waxed and polished recently.

Ibrahim unlocked it and opened the door for her on the passenger side. She got in, and he got in behind the wheel.

“It’s definitely not my dream car or anything,” he said. “But …”

“It’s perfect,” Jada said, cutting short his self-deprecation.

“Need me to take you home?”

She shook her head. “Lisa and me …”

“It’s okay. Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after. Whenever.”

“You work tonight?” Jada asked, remembering something.

“Nah. I did this morning.”

“My parents …” She swallowed hard. “They’re … My father drives my mother to San Francisco tonight. For this thing they do once a month? They’re staying over.”

Ibrahim stared at her for a long time.

“What time d’you want me?” he asked.

~~~

He was kissing her, his open mouth against her mouth, their tongues dancing and tangling. In a move that felt more like instinct then intention, he shifted so he was on top of her and between her legs. Jada answered the maneuver by arching upward to meet him. Within moments they had lost control or even any pretense of it and were grinding against each other.

She twisted her mouth free and instead sucked the solid column of Ibrahim’s neck, loving the low grumble in the back of his throat that produced. Maybe it began to feel too good, because he abruptly pushed himself up, arms extended so his torso no longer touched hers.

But between their legs they still touched, and Jada felt that Ibrahim was fully erect.

“Shit,” he said.

That almost surprised her more than anything that had happened in the last few minutes because he had been successful lately in his quest to stop cussing.

“Shit,” he said again. “Fuck, Jada.”

Perversely, the expletives pleased her because it meant he had just about forgotten himself. One rule broken could mean another.

And apparently it did, because he reached for her top and pulled it upward, pausing at her bra, then pulling that up too, without unfastening the clasps at the back.

Looking at her for a few moments, lying there beneath him, her chest heaving, he bowed his head and kissed her between her breasts. Jada heard herself breathing hard and was embarrassed at how that gave away how much she wanted him.

Squirming a little, she reached behind her and unfastened the bra for him, but Ibrahim didn’t take it, or her top completely off. He instead slid the straps aside and moved from her cleavage to the domes of her breasts, kissing them so lightly, artfully avoiding the nipples until she was thrusting herself forward, pressing them toward his mouth. And when he finally took one between his lips, Jada cried out.

Kissing her along her center, he moved lower and Jada’s mouth opened a little wider, in wonder and surprise when he peeled down her panties. She froze, still feeling the tight, taut need in the base of her stomach, but now also self-conscious and anxious about what he saw, and what he thought about what he saw, and about whether he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

“Jada.”

In an instant, he seemed to return to himself. As though staring at her nakedness had jolted him out of a trance and made him focus on what they were about to do.

Anticipating the inevitable rejection, she shoved against his shoulders so he would lift all his weight from her and rolled free. Turning her back to him, Jada refastened her bra, pulled it back down to cover herself, and put her top back in place.

The panties were not as easy to reach. For that she had to meet his gaze. And what she saw in his was something tender and maybe even vulnerable.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

It was so unexpected, so unwelcome a thing for him to say that her head snapped upward and once again she looked him in the eyes.

“What’re you sorry for?” she demanded. She was angry, but her voice was trembling. “For touching me? For wanting me? Or for making me want you?”

“Jada …”

“Does that embarrass you?” she continued. “When I like it?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

He stared at her for a moment and then shook his head as if in disbelief. Frustration was etched across his face.

Instead of responding right away, he looked behind him, moved the sheets and searched for something. Only once he found it did Jada realize with a flash of humiliation that he was holding her white cotton panties.

She leaned forward to snatch them from him, but he held them out of reach.

He placed his hands on her thighs. They were so big, those hands. He could almost hold one thigh in each, their span was so wide. Ibrahim turned her so her legs were pointed at him, then he slid his hands down, over her calves and to her ankles, holding one in each hand using them to draw her closer.

He put one foot through one leg of the panties, and the other foot through the other, then slowly, slid the garment up, effortlessly lifting her when he needed to pull it up to her waist.

Closing her eyes, it was Jada’s turn to shake her head in disbelief.

He had just made dressing her almost as arousing as undressing her had been.

“I want you to like it when I touch you,” he said, while her eyes were still shut. “I want to touch you and kiss you and taste you … everywhere. I want to make you say my name like you’ll die if I stop … But not like this. Not when we’re in your bedroom because your parents aren’t home. That’s not how it should be when we do this.”

“Then how should it be, Ibrahim? Are you going to wait until …”

“We’re married,” he said, matter-of-factly.

Jada gave a startled burst of laughter. “What?”

“That’s what I want. I mean … I’m hoping you want it, too.”

“I’m eighteen!”

“So, we’ll wait a while.”

Jada sat further upright, staring at him through narrowed eyes. “Are you serious? You’re saying …”

“I’m saying that I don’t want to date you. I want to … court you.”

“That’s … crazy,” she said. She was shaking her head but wasn’t sure even as she said it that it was all that crazy.

They had talked about this in Youth Group at church. About the difference between ‘dating’ and ‘courting’.

The difference, their youth pastor said, is intention. Anyone want to take a guess at what that means?

Kyle raised his hand. Kyle always raised his hand.

Jada used to think it was his fearlessness about being wrong. Now, she wondered whether it was just his assurance that he was always right.

It means, you’re spending time with someone with the intention of making them your partner.

Your spouse, the youth pastor corrected. Your mate. Your wife, or your husband. Let’s make sure we’re specific about this. Courtship doesn’t lead to some generic ‘partnership’. It leads to holy matrimony.

“I think that’s what we’ve been doing all along,” Ibrahim said. “Courting. But maybe I didn’t know how to name it. Or was scared to.”

Jada stared at him.

Ibrahim and the word ‘scared’ didn’t go together. He was, in her mind, an immovable object—strong, steady, sure.

“So, if we did that … if we named it, what would that mean … exactly?” she asked slowly.

“That we’re making plans. Setting goals. Building a life.”

Jada lifted a hand to her lips, chewing on the corner of her pinkie finger for a moment then abruptly letting it drop. It was an old habit from when she was maybe twelve-years-old, and it only resurfaced in times of extreme stress. Or overwhelming excitement.

She examined her emotions for a moment and decided that what she was feeling right now was the latter.

Definitely, the latter.

29

Now

The man who is striding toward Ibrahim might have been unrecognizable if not for the fact that Raj has the same loping walk, slightly leaned forward on the balls of his feet. He still has a full head of hair, though it is now threaded in grey, as is his well-manicured beard. He is darker in complexion, but with a golden tone, and when he removes his sunglasses, there are crinkles about the eyes that confirm him as someone who spends a great deal of time in the sun.

For the first few seconds when he entered the coffee shop, he didn’t spot Ibrahim, so he paused and looks around. He stood with more self-assurance, Ibrahim noted, no longer a young man vaguely reticent to takes up any space in a room.

Just above the belt of his perfectly pressed beige slacks, where his peach-colored polo is neatly tucked, there is the slightest softness. Not a belly or paunch—it is way too subtle a bulge to be called either of those things—but it is a hint of a comfortable life with occasional indulgences.

When Raj finally sees him, his lips part into a broad, white smile. The teeth, once slightly crooked, are perfect now. He nods slowly then advances toward Ibrahim. He extends a hand, perhaps out of habit but when they are standing in front of each other, Raj grasps his hand and yanks him forward into an embrace.

Ibrahim allows himself to be hugged, and even returns it, though he is aware from his slight stiffness that prison has trained him to recoil from another man’s sudden closeness. He hugs his son, but even then, there is always the barrier of their clasped arms between them.

Raj though, has always been different from anyone else Ibrahim knew. Always indifferent to social mores that made no sense to him.

“Ibrahim!” he says now. “Brother!”

“Look at you, man!”

Ibrahim uses this as an excuse to pull back. He hasn’t seen Raj in well over fifteen years, and even if his old friend doesn’t feel it, for him there is the smallest awkwardness.

“Look at us,” Raj says. “We’re old men.”

He is still grinning, still nodding.

“My god,” he adds. “How did you find me? How is it … and why is it you never found me sooner?”

~~~

Being in the old neighborhood, the one where Ibrahim used to clean, and where Kaleem now lives reminded Ibrahim of Raj. And earlier that day, his friend had drifted through his mind once before when he and Jada were in Free Range. It seemed like too much of a coincidence, and Ibrahim does not believe in coincidences. He believes in signs.

He hadn’t slept well or very much at all, the exchange with Jada still weighing heavily on his mind. To have words with his wife was uncommon. To have made her cry even less so. She fell asleep eventually, but he could not.

He finally chose wakefulness, going to sit at his son’s computer and idly surf the internet, looking for anything he could find about his friend. What he found had been remarkable, so remarkable that the listing of an email address, buried deep on one of the pages he browsed had frankly surprised him. Raj was no longer the kind of person who should be as accessible as he was.

Idly, and with little expectation of a response—let alone one that came only forty minutes later—he wrote a quick note.

Hey, old friend, it said. Holla if you hear me.

And then he added his cellphone number, and name at the end.

Raj did “holla.” He pinged Ibrahim’s cellphone with a question: the mean girl, you remember the one, what was her name?

Ibrahim had smiled at that, figuring that it was Raj’s way of testing his identity.

Molly, he responded. The name had sprung to mind almost immediately and seemingly from nowhere. It had been years, and she wasn’t even an acquaintance of his, but of Raj’s.

Moments later, his cellphone rang, and he answered right away keeping his voice low, not wanting to wake the house.

~~~

Raj is wearing a Patek Phillipe watch. Ibrahim only recognizes that’s what it is because crooks tend to be materialistic. And while he was locked up, Ibrahim was surrounded by them. In prison, occasionally they had access to magazines, like GQ, and Maxim and some inmates pored over those with the same hungry looks usually reserved for pornography.

Since images that were considered provocative of sex or violence were routinely censored, all that was left were those of places and … things. The cars, jewelry, and shoes were what was interesting to most inmates. Some guys liked the look of the suits. And others liked the look of the guys wearing the suits.

Ibrahim was most drawn colors, the bright, shiny newness of every image, and the reminiscence of the outside world. A glossy ad for a timepiece that featured some young guy trotting across a city street to a waiting car (usually with a pretty girl in it) could occupy him for fifteen minutes. To walk across a street—any street—seemed like both an impossible future and a far-too-distant past.

And probably, despite his preoccupation with other details about the ad besides the timepiece, the ability to recognize it had slipped into Ibrahim’s consciousness nevertheless.

Noticing his scrutiny, Raj touches the watch and twists it a little on his wrist.

“A gift from my wife,” he explains. “For our anniversary last year.”

“Your wife,” Ibrahim says. “So, you’re still …?”

“Married to Vidhya? No.” Raj looks embarrassed. “We divorced about five years ago. I remarried almost straightaway.”

Ibrahim nods.

“But there were good years with Vidhya. Good years and two children. Let me show you …”

Raj fishes out his phone, and taps the screen a few times, sliding it across the table toward Ibrahim.

The picture is of a pretty, South East Asian woman with long, dark hair, a fashionable streak of grey at her widow’s peak. She is flanked by two bright-eyed girls. They are sitting on a beach, all of them in white shirts and jeans, barefoot in the sand. The girls are grinning widely at the camera. The younger of the two looks like Raj, and both have his ectomorphic lankiness.

“That’s Noor, on the right, and Shashi on the left,” Raj says, the pride evident in his voice. “Eleven and nine.”

“They’re beautiful.”

Raj nods and slides the phone back toward him, darkening the screen. “They are,” he agrees. “My loves.”

“But things didn’t work out? With …”

“With Vidhya?” Raj exhales deeply. “We had a difficult time getting pregnant, both times. I don’t think we every recovered from the strain.”

A fleeting look of regret crosses his face then it brightens again.

“But what about you? When last we were in touch, you and the high-schooler were well on the way.”

“Married. Still married.”

Raj looks genuinely pleased. “Ah. You followed my good example, and you got results even better than I did. Children?”

“One. A son. Kaleem.”

“Kaleem. It means ‘speaker’.”

Laughing, Ibrahim nodded, remembering Raj’s penchant for knowing the meaning of names. “His mother and I named him well. It fits. He also has a son, my grandson. Anwar …”

“Which means …”

“Light. Yes. I know.”

Raj leans back in his seat. He folds his arm. “It’s so good to see you, my friend. I’ve thought of you many times over the years. I even looked for you, and then …” His eyes fill with something like pain.

“You heard.”

“I did. I saw the old news reports. By then you had already …” He sighs. “What happened?” he asks, his voice lowering to a whisper.

“So much. So much happened. I …” He is unable to continue, and Raj comes to his rescue.

“We don’t have to talk about it. But, it’s not where I would have imagined you. I was grief-stricken when I heard.”

Grief-stricken.

He always had a way with words, and always chose the most expressive ones. Ibrahim doesn’t ask whether Raj’s grief was for the man he killed, or for Ibrahim himself.

Then Raj is looking around, and places both hands, palms down, on the surface of the table preparing to push himself up.

“But let’s not have our reunion in Starbucks. You must come to my home. Right now. We’ll have a real breakfast. And talk about old times, and whatever’s new.”

Ibrahim studies his old friend.

Raj knows he was sent away for taking a man’s life and seems to have no hesitation about it inviting him to his home. Even though, given where Raj currently is in his life, maybe he should. It’s been more than two decades since they say each other last. But Raj doesn’t even seem to be entertaining the thought that he might not know Ibrahim as he once did.

He stands.

“Come,” he says. “And no smart remarks about my fancy car or the ridiculous, vulgar sprawl that is my house.”

~~~

Ibrahim wouldn’t call it vulgar. In fact, it is quite elegant, but Raj’s house is undoubtedly sprawling. It looms ahead as they pull through Spanish-style wooden gates into a flagstone courtyard, at the center of which is a fountain. The enormous hacienda has turrets and arches, and is painted a warm, buttery yellow.

When they left Starbucks, Raj led him outside to a shiny, midnight-blue Tesla S. That had been impressive enough, but the house is awe-inspiring. Surrounded by palm trees and precision-manicured grass to rival a golfing green, the entire tableau looks like a page from Architectural Digest.

“You done good, man,” Ibrahim says. He gives a low whistle and shakes his head. “Not that there was ever any doubt.”

“There was plenty of doubt,” Raj says. “Believe me.”

They have their breakfast in the “center courtyard” as Raj calls it. The house, it turns out, is built in the shape of a square, and in the hollow is a mini-arboretum, some of which is paved in the same flagstones as the driveway, the rest of which is shaded by well-maintained orange and lime trees.

After leaving Ibrahim alone for about ten minutes, Raj returns, shortly afterward followed by a woman who serves them eggs and slices of avocado on whole-grain toast, yogurt and fresh berries, and jasmine tea.

“You look like you’re still eat healthfully,” Raj says. “You haven’t aged a day. I, on the other hand …”

He pats his soft middle.

“You’re fine. For a middle-aged guy,” Ibrahim ribs him.

“My new wife is twenty-nine,” Raj announces in a ‘can-you-believe-this-nonsense’ voice. “She was my yoga teacher.”

And when Ibrahim gives him a deadpan look, he laughs.

“I know,” he says. “I’ve become a Silicon Valley cliché.”

The laugh subsides to a smile. And then the smile disappears.

“I don’t quite know how it happened,” he adds wryly. He reaches for his tea. “The divorce, the remarriage, the entire thing.”

The silence lengthens until Ibrahim feels duty-bound to fill it.

“But life is good, right?” He extends an arm to indicate the beauty surrounding them.

“I have … many physical comforts,” Raj says in the tone of one taking a compromise position.

“If you tell me that deep down inside you’re miserable while surrounded by all this?” Ibrahim says. “Then that would really make you a cliché.”

“Something only becomes a cliché because of the frequency with which it occurs,” Raj says.

That silences Ibrahim again for a few moments.

For the past year of his life, he has had two preoccupations: the sense of distance in his marriage, and his inability to provide materially for his wife. The first concern, he believes, is a clear product of the second. It has never occurred to him that he could provide for her—and in abundance—and still not be satisfied.

Raj extends his arm and points at his expensive watch.

“I’m married to a woman who gave me this as an anniversary gift,” he says. “What’re the chances such a woman knows anything about who I am?”

“But look at all this.” Ibrahim indicates the grounds. “Why would she think you wouldn’t like an expensive watch? How many rooms are even in this place?”

“Enough for a large family to stay. It wasn’t about the opulence … Okay, it wasn’t only about the opulence. It was about having room for my parents, my brother and his family, Vidhya’s parents. Her siblings and their families. All of us here together at once.

“It was about proving to Vidhya that her years of sacrifice after medical school, financing my dreams, were worth it. The house itself means surprisingly little to me, but once you can afford most things, you’d be surprised how easy it is to lose your sense of scale.”

“I don’t even know your new wife’s name,” Ibrahim says, shifting the conversation away from material things.

He had learned from the internet search that Raj was successful, but that wasn’t the reason he wanted to get in touch.

“Patricia,” Raj says. “Her name is Patricia. She likes to be called Trish.”

The way he says that, “Trish” tells Ibrahim everything he needs to know about this new marriage. Raj gives the same wry smile he has given now several times, and shakes his head, almost in disbelief.

“I haven’t seen you in more than twenty years. And in twenty minutes, you know my entire life,” he says. He looks down at Ibrahim’s almost empty plate. “If you’re done, let me show you the house.”

For the next half hour, they only speak as Raj is pointing out features of his almost palatial residence, and Ibrahim asks the occasional question. By the time they make their way back outside, they have both lost interest in looking at the impressive real estate and the land on which it sits.

The tour ends at the showpiece infinity pool.

They stand at the edge, staring out at it.

30

Now

“You want to take him for a while?”

Asha has brought Anwar in to Jada where she is sitting in the guestroom, reading a book. The book is ‘Soul on Ice’, Eldridge Cleaver’s memoir.

The first time Jada read it was when she was pregnant with Kaleem. She had picked it up from the coffee table in her and Ibrahim’s small apartment, where it had lain facedown for weeks. He was reading it, but as far as she could tell, hadn’t gone beyond halfway. Thinking it had probably failed to maintain his interest, she grew curious and opened it, and flipped through.

What she read made her by turns sad, and then angry. And she understood immediately why Ibrahim had taken a break. Ibrahim was exactly the kind of Black man in whom a book like that would stir very complicated feelings.

“It’s rare that you get to keep him for more than an hour or two,” Asha says. “And since you’re here …”

Jada sets the book aside and takes her grandson.

“I’d love to have him visit with me for a while.”

Anwar is sucking on a fist soaked in drool. He looks content and pumps his cubby brown legs as he is being handed over. His dark-brown, curly hair seems to be trying to decide whether to go lighter, because she can see, at some angles, that there are occasional streaks of gold and auburn.

When he is against her chest, he cranes his neck to look up at Jada with his wide, long-lashed hazel eyes. He settles in comfortably after taking her in (‘oh I know you!’) and her heart wrenches in her chest with an indescribable love for him.

“If Kal and I popped out for a little while, would that be okay?” Asha asks, giving a tiny grimace, as though she’s afraid the request may be an imposition.

“No, of course not. Go on. Enjoy yourselves.”

“It’ll just be for about an hour or two,” Asha says. “Or maybe we’ll have lunch while …”

She is blushing now. Obviously, she and Kaleem want some time alone. Jada remembers all too well how much of a premium that was for her and Ibrahim when they had a new baby. Her parents weren’t always willing to take Kaleem for long periods of time. It had taken them a long time not to be difficult with her and Ibrahim, wanting to “teach them a lesson” about the consequences of assuming adult lives far too early. And anyone else … well, there was practically no one else to whom Ibrahim would relinquish their son.

Sometimes for ‘adult time’ guiltily, they would put Kaleem in the center of their bed, buffeted on all sides by pillows so he wouldn’t roll off. Then they would make love on the floor nearby while he strained to raise up onto his arms, his little head bobbing, curious at the strange noises he heard.

“Whatever you feel like, Asha. I’m in no hurry. And since Ibrahim …” Is MIA, I won’t be going home anytime soon.

He didn’t take their car, which should mean something but doesn’t. He could be ten miles away, even without having taken a mode of transportation. Ibrahim would have not shied away from a long walk or run.

“Great. He’ll take the bottle if I’m not around, so if we don’t get back in …”

“It’s fine,” Jada says. “Go. Have fun. Take as much time as you need.”

Asha lingers in the doorway for a few moments. “There’s this cool new farm-to-table place that I’ve been wanting to try, and you know Kal won’t eat almost anything that didn’t come directly from the earth like ten minutes ago, so …”

Jada laughed. “Well, he’ll live to be a hundred, so I guess there’s that benefit.”

“Yup. Anyway. Thanks for, you know, taking him while we …”

“Go,” Jada says yet again. “Anwar and I will be fine.”

“One more thing.” Asha is still leaning in the doorway and for a moment, Jada wonders whether she is nervous about leaving Anwar with her for too long. But that isn’t it. “Kal and I were just talking about this this morning. What do you want Anwar to call you?”

Jada smiles.

“He’s convinced you would hate it if he calls you ‘granny’ or something like that.”

“Asha.” Jada shakes her head. “I’m just so giddy at his existence in this world, it scarcely matters what he calls me.”

“My vote was Nana,” Asha says. She is blushing again.

“Then that’s what we’ll use.”

Asha gives one brief nod and then ducks out of the room.

Jada looks down at Anwar.

“We didn’t even think to ask you your opinion, did we?” she says, smiling at him.

He gurgles and says something unintelligible to her, taking the moment to remove his fist from his mouth.

“My thoughts exactly.” Jada kisses him on the soft curls at the dome of his head.

~~~

She is sitting on the floor of the living room with Anwar, playing with his colorful plush animal toys. She lifts and names each one then puts them in his chubby hands. When her phone rings, Jada jumps at the sound, only realizing at that moment that she has been waiting for it to ring all along.

It’s Ibrahim.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” he says. “I’m … I met up with an old friend.”

Who? Jada wants to ask immediately. But she doesn’t. She has already said enough over the last two days to imply she doesn’t trust him.

“Okay,” she says instead. “Were you … Did you plan to …?”

“Did you have a shift tonight?” he asks, which is just as well since she was having trouble formulating her thoughts, much less a coherent question.

“No. Not until Monday.”

Anwar is becoming restless. He was enjoying their game and sees that he no longer has her undivided attention.

“I’ll be a while more,” Ibrahim says. “Maybe even overnight. You can leave without me, if you need to get back.”

“I’m not leaving without you,” Jada says, sounding more annoyed than she intended. “Ibrahim, what’s going on?”

“We’ll talk when I get back,” he says. “I just wanted you to know where I am. And that you shouldn’t worry.”

His evenness of temper has always stood in stark contrast to her excitability. Even now, when she is sure she has ample reason to be—and sound—annoyed with him, he responds calmly, making her feel like she’s the one who is overreacting.

“Is everything alright over there?” he adds.

“Yes. Kaleem and Asha are out, having some time without the baby. So I’m home with him.”

“That’s nice.”

It sounds like he’s making idle conversation. Jada senses that he has already heard as much as he needs to, has communicated all he intended to and wants to get off the phone.

“Yes,” she says. “Anyway. Call me later when you’ve decided. If you plan to stay overnight, I mean.”

“I will,” he says.

But she can tell that he has already decided.

31

Then

“Have you spoken to your brother lately?”

“Ahm … yeah. I live with him, so I speak to him all the time.”

Jada was lying with her head in his lap, in the park just across the street from her school. Sometimes, even though it was technically against the rules for seniors to leave campus during the school day, people went to hang out. Most of the time it was because it was a convenient meeting place to see friends who didn’t go to Crestlawn and were not allowed on campus even if only for an hour during lunch.

Ibrahim sometimes stopped by now that he had the convenience of his own car, especially on the days when he had an evening shift and wouldn’t have time after Jada was out of school to see or even talk to her much on the phone.

“Tell him he needs to call Dee.”

Jada’s voice was uncharacteristically hard, and Ibrahim knew why.

“He hasn’t been calling her?” he asked.

“Yeah, but not nearly enough.”

He said nothing. So, what he knew, Jada knew as well. But if one of them was going to be first to refer to it directly, it wasn’t going to be him.

“I’ll pass on the message,” he said.

Her legs, in her short pleated Crestlawn uniform skirt, were visible from mid-thigh. It was baffling that a get-up that was supposed to look modest and even prim was anything but.

Jada was sometimes almost sexier in her school uniform skirt, a thought which to Ibrahim felt perverse and made him slightly ashamed of himself. The short skirt exposed was a raw scrape on her left thigh, and the shadow of old bruising from where she had taken a hard foul in basketball practice a week earlier. Whenever Ibrahim looked at it, he felt a strange twinge. That had been happening more and more lately. Any thought of Jada’s discomfort, no matter how slight, and he felt discomfort as well, and sometimes even anger.

“Do you know?” Jada asked, her tone still combative.

She was going to start a fight with him, he understood now. Transferring onto him all the emotions she wished she could unleash on Manny.

“Do I know what?” he asked, still determined not to be the first to break.

“About what Dee had to do last week.”

Ibrahim sighed.

“If a girl has to do something like that, the least the guy can do is be there for her.”

“You’re right,” he said.

Idly, he reached for bottle next to him and tossed back the remnants of his carrot and ginger juice.

“Then why hasn’t he …?”

“Jada. That’s their business. That’s his business. I’m not gettin’ in the middle of it.”

“She committed a sin, Ibrahim. For him. Because he wanted her to. If it had been up to her, she would have had that baby.”

“They can’t take care of a baby,” he said before he could stop himself. “To have one under those conditions? That’s what would be the sin.”

Jada sat up and looked at him, eyes wide. “You don’t think abortion is wrong?” she demanded.

“Baby …”

“If you and I were to … If that were me, would you want me to have one?”

“That couldn’t be you and me,” he reminded her.

She rolled her eyes, and quickly looked about them as if making sure no one else heard what he said. There were other off-campus guests of Crestlawn students nearby, as well as some of her classmates. Ibrahim inwardly shook his head. Jada was almost as embarrassed that people find out they weren’t having sex as she should have been if the wrong people thought they were.

“But if it was us …”

“It wouldn’t be,” he said again. “And that’s one of the reasons why we … If ever something like that happened by accident to you and me, we would be married. So, it wouldn’t be the end of the world, and we’d take care of our kid.”

“But being married doesn’t make the difference between being financially able to take care of a kid or not,” she pointed out. “You said they did the right thing because they can’t take care of a kid.”

“I don’t think I said anything about being financially able,” he said. “Even though that’s pretty damn important. There’s more than one way to take care of your family. Money’s only a part of it.”

Her eyes were on fire now, and she was breathing hard out of her nose. It was obvious to him that they weren’t talking about Dee and Manny anymore. They were talking about them.

“If they love each other, and love their baby, they’d find a way …”

“You think all the people you see with kids they don’t take care of didn’t think that way once? That they’d ‘find a way’?”

“So, you’re saying you think it’s fine that your brother …” She said the words ‘your brother’ with emphasis, “… forced …” more emphasis, “… my cousin to have an abortion she didn’t want?”

“I’m saying that it’s a lot worse to bring a kid into the world when you’re not ready for them, can’t take care of them, and would do more harm to them than good.”

Jada stood, picking up the refuse from her lunch and straightening her skirt. “Anyway,” she drawled. “I have to review for my chemistry quiz. Before lunch is over.”

Ibrahim looked up at her.

“You can review right here,” he said calmly. He indicated the textbook under her arm. “Isn’t that why you brought that?”

“No. I’d rather go somewhere quiet. It’s too distracting out here.” She wasn’t looking at him.

He stood, brushing off the back of his jeans, and as Jada turned to leave, held her wrist. Pulling her toward him, he waited until he felt no resistance and then tugged again. She stepped forward and into his arms.

Ibrahim kissed her on the temple.

“Okay,” he said. “Lemme walk you back over.”

Literally crossing the street put her back on campus, but he walked her anyway, then they parted, Jada heading up the slight slope that would take her to the cafeteria, and Ibrahim down the block toward where he had parked his car.

Sometimes Jada drove him just to the edge of crazy. Big or small, she forced every issue, wanted to hash it out in the moment, no matter how inopportune the time or place. And if he wasn’t with it, or didn’t agree with her, she pouted.

Over the past few weeks, as their thing grew more solid, he learned not to give in to it. Because Lord knew he wanted to.

But lately, now that her parents were allowing him further into their home—twice for Sunday dinner, and to spend some time sitting in their living room to watch television, or on the front porch with Jada—Ibrahim had been paying close attention to what they said and how they behaved and taking note. Mr. and Mrs. Green had been married for over thirty-five years, but from what Ibrahim could see of how they related to each other, the primary component was respect.

Each deferred to the other on some things and assumed primary charge of others. And on the rare occasion his wife expressed an opinion or made a choice he didn’t agree with, Ibrahim watched Mr. Green purse his lips, as if restraining himself from overruling her. Sometimes, she did get overruled, but it was only apparent when maybe permission granted was later revoked, like the time Mrs. Green told Jada she could go with Ibrahim to an outdoor midnight movie marathon. And then later rescinded that approval.

My Dad did that, Jada complained to Ibrahim bitterly. Probably during some late-night confab like they always have.

But while Jada saw that as a drawback, he saw it differently. He liked the way Mr. Green exercised his leadership over his family’s moral choices, never openly undermining his wife, but choosing to quietly, respectfully and behind closed doors, rein things in when they were going in a direction that he wasn’t comfortable with.

Jada wasn’t unlike her mother, though she would have argued that she was. Mrs. Green, too, was the more emotional between her and her husband, the more talkative, the less contemplative of the two. And Mr. Green didn’t try to stifle or squelch that. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it, often smiling while his wife held forth. But in his stillness and reserve, Ibrahim felt strength and purpose—his wife was the heart of their home, but he was decidedly the head. He knew it, and Mrs. Green did as well. Their family had a final arbiter, and her husband was it. It seemed to be an arrangement that suited them both.

With that model, Ibrahim thought as he unlocked his car and got in, Jada would probably be the same kind of wife.

~~~

“You should call your girl, man. This ain’t cool.”

“She don’ wanna see me right now,” Manny said, eyes still on the television screen as Ibrahim shoved the bag with his and Klara’s dinner into the duffel he took to work.

He cooked and brought her dinner a couple times a week now and she covered a night or two herself. On the nights they didn’t work together, and Ibrahim was instead working Redwood City, he ate whatever Raj brought.

“She does, though,” Ibrahim said. “She does want to see you.”

Manny looked up. “How you know? You seen her?”

“Nah, but I saw Jada, and she was hot. Real mad about you and Dee.”

Manny shook his head, looking at the screen again, restarting the level of the game.

“Of course she mad. You know how they are. But I couldn’t do other than I did, man. There was no way me and Dee could handle a kid right now. As much as her ass out there partying, I don’t know one hundred percent if it’s even mine for real. Or why she would even want it even if it is mine.”

“She did.”

Manny looked at him again. This time, he put the game controller down altogether.

“You know I love that girl, and it hurt me too, man. To take her over to that clinic and then see her come out all pale … and cryin’ …” He shook his head. “But I can’t take that pain away. And I couldn’t have done any different than I did.”

“You didn’t do anything though,” Ibrahim said, pausing at the front door, before opening it. He shrugged. “It was all her. She’s the one who had to do it. You just had to wait in the car.”

Manny sighed and scratched the back of his neck.

“So … she mad or what? What’d Jada say?”

Manny had only recently found out about Ibrahim and Jada, and even what he knew—or thought he did—was limited. For reasons he couldn’t even name, Ibrahim wasn’t eager to expose his and Jada’s thing to too much of his family’s scrutiny.

“Just call Dee. Find out for yourself.”

Grimacing, Manny tossed aside the game controller and stood, presumably to go make the phone call. Ibrahim left the house, making a mental note to never be quite as emotionally obtuse as his brother seemed to be.

Outside, Samuel’s van was idling at the curb, and Ibrahim went toward the back to open it when Samuel opened the window on the front passenger side.

“C’mon up front, young man!”

Ibrahim did as instructed, and when he got in, glanced over his shoulder into the back. No one else was in the van.

“What’s up? Where’s everybody?”

“Them young girls ain’t worth a damn. All of ‘em called out today. And Klara … her sciatica actin’ up.”

“Her what?”

“She got a pinched nerve in her back. Can’t work while she got a flare-up. Can’t hardly walk.”

Ibrahim thought of the slightly hunched-over unevenness of the elderly woman’s gait, and the way she sometimes rested one hand on her hip.

“Is she gon’ come back, or …?”

Samuel shrugged as he put the van into gear and pulled away. “Maybe. Maybe not. Too bad if she don’t. Even old as she is, she work twice as hard as most o’ y’all.”

“What about tonight? Who’s gon’ work her floors?”

“That’s all you, young man. Ain’t nobody else.”

“There’s you,” Ibrahim pointed out.

“Nope. I gotta take them sites those Mexican girls was s’posed to do. Messed my whole night up with they bullshit.”

“So you need to pay me extra.”

Samuel looked at him. “How much extra you talkin’ ‘bout?”

“Double. I want my pay and Klara’s too.”

“How you figure …”

“Unless you gon’ give me twice as much time to complete the site, I’m guessing you want it done just like she’s there, with no more than another hour or two tacked on. So … If I’m working almost twice as fast, I need twice the money.”

Ibrahim could see Samuel’s shoulders slump.

“Fine,” he said sourly. “Double.”

They drove in silence for a while, except for the sound of oldies station playing on the radio, and Samuel humming along to the music. Oakland whizzed by until they were on the highway, charging toward Stanford where, to hear Raj tell it, exciting things were happening that would change the course of the country, and even the world.

As they rumbled along the interstate, Ibrahim cracked the window open, feeling the cool night air stream inside and brush against his face. He thought about Dee, recovering from her pregnancy termination and wondered whether Manny had reached her on the phone. And then he thought about Jada who, based on her cousin’s experience was holding onto unspoken fears of her own. And finally, he thought about Klara.

“Does she have a family?” he asked aloud.

“Does who have a family?”

“Klara.”

“She’s got a son in the Service. A daughter-in-law, I think. I don’t know if she got grandkids. But her husband’s been dead ‘bout ten years. Bastard up and died and ain’t left her nothin’.

“Drank hisself to death, and all she had when he was gone was a piddlin’ little partial pension from the city and twenty-five grand from his life insurance. Who the hell only got twenty-five thousand on they life insurance? That couldn’t carry that woman more than a year if she tried.”

“What did she do before he died?” Ibrahim asked.

“She was a housewife. I guess we s’posed to call them homemakers now. She made that bastard a home and he died and almost left her homeless.” Samuel gave a mirthless laugh.

Ibrahim thought of Klara’s smiling blue eyes, and the evenings she heaped his plate full of food, more than she put on her own.

If she never recovered from her back problems, how was she going to live? This woman, who argued in favor of paying taxes might not even have enough of a paycheck to meet her basic needs. He wished he could believe, as she seemed to, that the government took care of people like her, but he knew better.

“But she must get his social security or something, right? Her husband’s …”

“Man, I don’t know.” Samuel sounded weary of the subject. “You ‘bout to be her social worker or somethin’? I expect she make do. With this job and what little he left her, I expect she make do.”

~~~

He took a much briefer dinner break, mindful of the promise he made to Samuel to finish all the floors Klara would have done, but with only a slight increase in time. And though it was nine-forty, much later than he had ever called before, he dialed Jada’s number while eating out of his container of reheated rice and chicken.

When Mr. Green answered, sounding none too pleased, Ibrahim hastily swallowed his mouthful and cleared his throat.

“I apologize for calling so late, sir,” he said. “But there was something I needed to tell Jada before tomorrow. We had plans I’ll unfortunately have to change, and I didn’t want her waiting for me unnecessa…”

“Alright, just be quick about it. As it is, she should already be in bed.”

Before Ibrahim could thank him, he heard the ‘thunk’ of the phone being put down.

Moments later, Jada was on the line. Her ‘hello’ was a petulant one.

“You still mad?” Ibrahim asked her.

“I’m not mad,” she said. “I wasn’t.”

“Then what are you?”

There was a long pause, but he waited through it. He wanted to give her a chance to examine her feelings and think about her response.

“I guess … I guess I’m disappointed. Because it felt like if that was you and me … And I know you say it wouldn’t be us, but even you saying that feels like you’re saying we … I don’t know.” She trailed off then sighed, giving up. “I don’t know why I’m mad.”

“Can I tell you why I think you’re mad?” he offered.

Jada sighed. “Okay. Tell me.”

“I think you see what’s happening with Dee and Manny and you see it’s real serious. Like real relationship stuff. Life and death stuff.

“And I think because of that, it feels more real than anything you and me got going on. We don’t have sex, we just kiss sometimes and hold hands like we’re thirteen. So it feels like it’s … a game or something. Not real.”

Ibrahim waited through the long pause, knowing she was thinking over what she’d heard.

“Yes.” Jada finally spoke. “Exactly.”

“Well, don’t feel like that, okay? You and me? This isn’t a game. This is very real.”

Jada said nothing. In the background, Ibrahim heard her father’s voice, reminding her of the time.

“Jada?”

“Yes,” she said. Her voice had grown softer.

“This is real,” Ibrahim said again. “Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, her voice barely audible. Then, moments later, “Ibrahim? My father …”

“I know. You should go. G’night.”

They hung up and Ibrahim leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath and then hastily eating the rest of his evening meal.

32

Then

“Who is this again?”

Jada clutched Ibrahim’s hand tightly as they rounded the corner and headed down a narrow side-street. It was so tight, he hadn’t even been able to park down there. If he had, and another car happened by, they would had scratched his for sure.

“Co-worker,” he explained. “She’s been sick.”

“Must be a pretty close co-worker for you to feel like you need to visit her when she’s sick.”

Jada thought about the girl on the beach. The one with the flawless golden skin.

“Kind of. She’s good people.”

Holding in her sigh, Jada allowed him to lead her toward a seven-foot high wooden gate, which he tested, then pushed open. Once it gave and they stepped inside, Jada almost gasped. On the other side of the ugly, partly rotten wooden gate was a small garden. It bloomed in resplendent colors, with tomatoes and herbs, cabbages and cucumbers. It was like stumbling across an oasis in the middle of a slum.

Maybe that wasn’t fair. The neighborhood wasn’t a slum, but it was certainly working-class, and almost devoid of greenery. And yet, someone had taken the time and care to create this.

“Wow,” Jada said. She released Ibrahim’s hand, pausing to look at the vegetables while he went up to a door that was protected by the standard wrought-iron gate.

He found and rang the bell, then they waited. When nothing happened, he rang once more, then used his car keys to knock on the gate, making a clanging noise that would have gotten the attention of anyone who might be inside, even if they were determined to ignore the doorbell.

“Who is this?” she asked, now a third time. “Your co-worker, I mean.”

Just as Ibrahim was about to respond, the door behind the gate opened. A woman was standing there, wearing a worn pink housedress, slippers and a weary expression. Then she seemed to bring Ibrahim into focus and her face transformed.

“Ibrahim!” she said.

She had a strong accent, so she pronounced it elongating the ‘Eee’ at the beginning even more than the average person might.

Fumbling, with what looked like eagerness, she reached to her side and produced a key to unlock the iron gate. No sooner had she swung it open than she reached out and up, like a grandmother, reaching out to embrace a favored grandchild.

Ibrahim allowed himself to be hugged, and even stooping a little so she could get her arms around him and reaching around to lightly pat the old lady on her back.

Jada looked on.

What the …?

~~~

Klara offered them coffee and then something called szarlotka, both of which Ibrahim refused, chiding her repeatedly to sit down. But she never stopped moving, even though each movement seemed to cause her to wince. And she never stopped smiling either, fluttering around Ibrahim, patting his face as if she couldn’t believe he was really there.

“You keep moving around,” he told her. “So you must be planning to come back to work soon.”

“I move around because if I stop, I die,” Klara said.

Jada watched as Ibrahim’s face fell.

“Don’t say that.”

Klara shrugged. “Everyone dies. But I am not ready. I am not ready to come back to work either. Maybe one more week.”

Ibrahim nodded. “You will come back though?”

Klara beamed, her bright blue eyes becoming almost invisible among her wrinkles and between her puffy eyes. As happy as she seemed to be in Ibrahim’s company, she didn’t look well.

“I think he misses me,” Klara said, addressing Jada.

Jada smiled and nodded. “I think he does.”

Ibrahim shook his head. “I miss the liver and onions,” he said. “It’s been three weeks and I’m gettin’ sick of my own cooking.”

Klara laughed. “Even if I don’t work, I make you liver and onions. You come to dinner, you bring your lovely girl …” She nodded in Jada’s direction. “And I make you liver and onions.”

“Maybe. But if I do that you might get it in your head you don’t have to come back,” Ibrahim said. “And I don’t want that.”

He stood, pulling something out of his back pocket and putting it on Klara’s coffee table. It was an envelope.

“What is this?” Klara reached for it and broke the seal. “Get well card?”

She peered inside and her face fell. She looked up at Ibrahim then down in the envelope again. It seemed for a moment that she might be distressed, but then she smiled.

She stood, came around to Ibrahim and reached up to pat his cheek.

“You are good boy,” she said. “Very good boy.”

“Just take care of yourself. Go lie down or something. Rest up, and then come back to work.”

“I will,” Klara seemed to have renewed determination.

“And we can’t stay,” Ibrahim added. “I just wanted to stop by and see how you’re doin’.”

Jada stood as well, extending a hand to Klara who took a moment to notice it because she was staring at Ibrahim as though he was a miracle. When she finally took Jada’s hand, it was to clasp it in both of hers and squeeze it firmly.

At the door, as she let them out, she gave Ibrahim another hug which he received once again, with something like embarrassment.

“In the envelope …” Jada began, when they were almost back at the car.

“It was just her pay,” Ibrahim said.

“But … Does she get paid while she’s …”

“Nah.” Ibrahim gave a brief laugh. “This ain’t exactly the kind of job that has benefits. I just … worked her share and got paid her share.”

“And then gave it all to her?”

They were at the car now, and Ibrahim unlocked and opened the door for her, holding it so she could get in.

“Yeah, but …”

Jada put a hand at the back of his neck and dragged him forward to kiss her before he could finish. When she pulled back, he stared at her intently, but said nothing.

Once he got in on the driver’s side, he sat there. Just sat there for a few seconds until Jada turned to look at him.

“Ibrahim …”

“I have to tell you something,” he said.

Nodding, Jada held her breath for a moment. “Okay,” she said, releasing it once again.

“I’m not some kinda saint. That extra money I got for doing Klara’s work? I gave it one of my homeboys. I gave it to him, and he flipped it for me. So, what I gave her in there? It cost me nothing. I just wanted to make sure you don’t think …”

“That you’re perfect or anything?”

He didn’t speak, so Jada nodded.

“I don’t think you’re perfect,” she said, because he seemed to need her to.

“Okay.” He started the engine and gave one firm nod, settling the matter.

As he drove, Jada looked at him out of the corner of her eyes.

He thought that what he’d done to get the money made him less of a good person. While she thought that only a person as good as he was, would think it necessary to make that confession at all.

~~~

As soon as she let herself into the house, Jada could tell they had been waiting for her. Not just watching television, which was how they tried to seem, but waiting.

Her mother sat up just a fraction straighter, and her father’s jaw tightened a little. Not with anger—because it was still hours before curfew—but with what looked like determination. And just that quickly, Jada knew precisely what was coming.

“Hey!” she said, brightly. “Are we having movie night?”

She only said this because her father rarely sat to watch television unless it was the news. And the news show he preferred had long passed.

“Would you like to?” her mother asked. “I can make popcorn.”

For a single, fleeting moment, Jada felt she was seeing into the future. In the future, her mother would still be here in this living room, energized and excited by the mere mention of a family “movie night.” And she, Jada, would have pulled even farther away than she felt now.

Because of Ibrahim, she had walked fearlessly into a party at a drug house, eaten some of the best meals of her life in underground, unlicensed restaurants, and walked through one of Oakland’s struggling neighborhoods and into a secret garden.

And just this evening, in the backseat of his car, parked in a secluded spot, while she and Ibrahim kissed and touched each other, she learned that desire could sometimes feel stronger than any other emotion. Stronger than love, fear, shame, anger, or even pain.

She knew he had to have felt it, too, in the way her body trembled against his, and her breaths came harder and faster with each kiss. When Jada reached down to touch him through his pants, he captured her wrist, holding it tight and redirecting it away from his erection.

Ibrahim, she’d said. Please.

She begged him, but he didn’t relent. At least not completely.

Instead, after seeing the look in her eyes, which had to have close to desperation, he moved his hand, sliding it between her legs. Then he was slowly running his fingers along the apex of her thighs while they kissed. It wasn’t too long before the seam of her jeans was damp and Jada, gasping against his lips, unfastened the buttons to slide partway over her hips.

Ibrahim didn’t stop her. He watched, and let her do it. Maybe he could tell she was well past stopping, even though they were in a semi-public place where, if they were caught it would have been disastrous. Maybe he was past stopping too, because when she grabbed his hand and shoved it down into her underwear, his breath came out in one hard, short burst.

Jada.

He said her name in the same way she had moments before said his. And for a few seconds she was relieved, thinking that he might finally give in to what it was abundantly clear they both wanted.

But again, he surprised her. He seemed to summon his will from somewhere, and suddenly, he was moving with less urgency. His lips alternately parting and sucking on hers, his tongue exploring, and down below, his fingers, stroking. He managed, somehow, to turn the focus from himself and his wants and entirely toward satisfying her.

And he had. Within the limits of his boundaries, he had. Jada came with a clenching, jerking ferocity that had her clamping her thighs shut, holding his hand in place and biting hard on Ibrahim’s shoulder to avoid making a loud noise.

Clutching his arms, she dug her fingers into his biceps. She heard him breathing and felt his heart thrumming in his chest, but he remained still, allowing her to feel the full force of her orgasm, waiting until she came down from the high and was able to release him her thighs relaxing around his wrist.

Lifting her head, Jada was for a moment embarrassed to meet his gaze, feeling as though she had violated him. At a minimum, she may have forced him to violate the code he wanted for their relationship. But when her chin dropped, he tipped it upward again, so their eyes met.

Hi, he said, with a tinge of amusement, as though she was returning from a long absence.

And in a way she was.

Hi. Jada smiled shyly at him.

Ibrahim grinned back at her. And then he kissed her.

She felt more than desire then. She felt love for him. She felt loved by him. And it didn’t matter what her parents might say to her, she was never going to be persuaded to give him up.

“I might be too tired to sit through an entire movie,” Jada said now, feigning a yawn.

It was true that she might not be able to sit through a movie, but untrue that she was tired. She just wanted to escape to her bedroom, lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling. She wanted to replay that moment, when Ibrahim looked at her, amused but matter-of-fact, untroubled by how much she wanted him, and more than willing to give her what relief he could.

“Sit for a moment,” her father said, indicating the armchair where he usually sat.

Both her parents on the sofa, with her in the armchair made the room take on the air of an inquisition.

“Was that Ibrahim?” her father continued once she was seated. “Who you were out with this afternoon?”

Jada swallowed before answering.

Suddenly, she was worried about the state of her jeans. Had she refastened every button? What about her hair, her mouth? They had kissed for a long time, and sometimes very hard. Her lips still tingled, and felt swollen, and even tender in places. Were they visibly bruised?

“Yes,” she said meekly.

“He seems like an industrious young man,” her father said.

But it wasn’t the words that got her attention. The words were fine. It was his tone. It didn’t sound like the beginning of a conversation, it sounded like what she feared it would be, the opening salvo of an unwelcome lecture.

33

Then

“Prophet. Wake up.”

Ibrahim groaned and shrugged away the unwelcome hands on his shoulder.

“What?” he demanded.

The longer nights picking up the slack and doing Klara’s work as well as his own were beginning to hit him hard. That first week had been fine, the second week less so, and it had only gotten progressively worse.

Now, he went to bed with his arms, neck and back aching and woke up feeling like hell. How a woman Klara’s age had managed, doing even half of what he was doing now, Ibrahim didn’t know.

“When’s the last time you seen Breonna?”

At that, Ibrahim opened his eyes.

The blurry image of his brother Zac materialized and slowly sharpened. He sat up, still groggy, and blinked a few times, shaking his head to get the cobwebs out.

“Breonna?” he repeated, still trying to get his brain to fire on all cylinders.

“Yeah, man, when you seen her last?”

Running a hand over his head, Ibrahim shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe a week, ten days?”

“Brittany’s here,” Zac said. “Askin’ after her. Almost knocked down the damn front door.”

“Who the hell is Brittany?”

“Her auntie. C’mon, man. Get up. She said she ain’t seen Breonna in two days.”

“Why she think to come over here?” Ibrahim asked, annoyed.

“I ‘on know. Get up. Come talk to her.”

He got up, but went to take a piss first. Then he washed his hands and took a moment to stare at himself in the bathroom mirror. He looked rough and thought of his father’s refrain whenever he woke up in a bad mood.

Don’t talk to me, he would warn as he emerged from his bedroom. Not one goddamn word. Not till I shit, shower and shave.

Rinsing out his mouth and grabbing a t-shirt that was hanging on the bathroom door handle, not even sure it was his, Ibrahim went out to the living room to see Breonna’s aunt and tell her in person what he had just told his eldest brother.

When he got there, he was surprised that his father was there as well, and awake, as was Manny along with Zac. They were all looking at him expectantly.

“What’s up?” he asked.

He looked toward Breonna’s aunt.

Brittany.

He remembered now. She was one the neighborhood’s legendary baseheads. Now thin, barely clean and with a mouthful of browning teeth, word was she used to be one of East Oakland’s beauties.

Ibrahim had heard the story so many times, he rolled his eyes whenever his father started in with it again, which usually happened whenever he spotted Breonna.

Back when they were still messing around, she might come sheepishly slinking out of Ibrahim’s bedroom and run into his father in the hallway then slip out of the house.

Hi, Mr. Carter, she’d say, eyes downcast.

His father would watch her leave then turn to Ibrahim.

You know her auntie used to be the baddest chick in these parts? Damn shame what she done to herself.

Then he’d tell the story of the umpteenth time. Her daddy was a Panther. Used to run with Huey and ‘em. But he had this thing, this thing a lot of ‘em had. They would get with white girls. White girls from good families most of ‘em, who hung around, trying to volunteer or join the movement, feeling guilty about their privilege, wanting to ‘give something to the cause’.

Except the only thing these cats wanted from them, besides a little of their daddies’ money was some pussy. I heard tell that sometimes they’d game these chicks to death, make ‘em think if they rejected a sexual advance, they were racist, weren’t really down like they said they were. All kinds of head-games. Hell, I heard some girls were passed around like concubines by brothers who already had ‘em a woman. A Black woman, of course. While the white girls were just there to use for the sex. I don’t know if it was revenge, or some forbidden fruit stuff, or if they was really just into white women. But that’s how it was.

Funny, right? How they just turned all that shit upside down?

Brittany’s mom? Ain’t nobody know who she was for real. Some white girl. Got pregnant. Went off and had her, brought her back to the daddy who was with the Party and told him she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t raise a Black child. So Brittany was raised by one of the women in the Party who had two other half-Black babies she was takin’ care of for a couple brothers who had similar predicaments. One of ‘em was your girl Breonna’s mother.

And all Ibrahim ever responded to that soliloquy was, I keep tellin’ you, Breonna’s not my girl.

Brittany, sitting on the sofa, with brow furrowed, had lank, auburn hair, pulled to one side and fastened carelessly with a red rubber band. The tips were bleached blonde and looked dry and brittle. Her fingernails were as yellow as her teeth, as yellow as the whites of her eyes. And she fidgeted incessantly, barely able to sit still, twitchy, and probably jonesing for her next hit.

“Prophet,” she said.

Ibrahim was taken aback that she knew his name. Or rather, his street name. He couldn’t recall if they had ever even spoken ten sentences directly to each other.

“You seen Breonna?” she asked.

“Nah. Not for a minute. Why? What’s goin’ on?”

“She called me couple days ago at the house. She was cryin’ and asked me to call her job, tell ‘em she couldn’t come in … I ask her why she can’t call and she said she just couldn’t. I ain’t heard from her since and she ain’t come home.”

“Are you sure?” Ibrahim asked.

He knew Brittany turned tricks near Boulevard, and like most women who sold their bodies, probably didn’t confine her work hours to nine-to-five. Breonna could easily have come home and gone out again without Brittany being any the wiser.

“I checked her room,” Brittany said, sounding impatient. She had likely explained this many times before to his father and brothers. “Nothing been moved, nothing been taken. She ain’t come to shower and change, nothing.”

“Where did she say she was when she called?”

“She ain’ have to say. At that Kwame’s house.”

“So did you …”

“Of course I called him! Of course I went over there!” Brittany raised her voice for the first time. “You think I’m stupid? He said he ain’ seen her, but I know he lyin’. And he crazy as I ‘on know what. I know he hit her. His hands was all cut up and bruised. She prob’ly somewhere hidin’ from him.”

Ibrahim shrugged. “She’s not here. I haven’t seen her.”

At that, Brittany started to cry. “He done somethin’ to her. I know he did. And if you ‘on know where she’s at, I know she’s ...”

Her cries were a high-pitched keening that was like a drill to the brain, disturbing, and almost painful to listen to.

“Brittany, Brittany …” Ibrahim’s father stood and went to rest a hand on her shoulder. “What else did she say? We can help you look but tell us what she said. Everything you can …”

“I told you what she said!” she shrieked. “That’s all she said. Nothing more than I told you.”

“What makes you think she’d be over here?” Ibrahim asked, annoyed.

He was beginning to think of sleep again. Breonna and her aunt were pure drama. They attracted it. They might even have needed it, because calm was too unfamiliar.

Breonna would turn up sooner or later. Maybe a little bruised, but she would show up. And when she did, maybe he would have that talk he’d been meaning to have with her, about Kwame, and about how she deserved more. If only he could believe she would listen.

“You her best friend,” Brittany said unexpectedly. “That’s why I come here. She always say that, ‘Prophet is my best friend’.”

~~~

He and his father and brothers split up into pairs, Ibrahim going with Manny, and Zac with his father. They divided a list of places that Ibrahim knew Breonna liked to hang out—corner stores and friends’ houses, takeout places she frequented and even local strip malls.

It felt like a monumental waste of time, and he was tired, his head pounding from lack of sleep, from stress, from hunger. He hadn’t run in days, and he felt his body yearning for it. Raj was right, meditation was mental health care. And running was his meditation.

“Man, we ain’t gon’ find her like this,” Manny said, sucking his teeth as they pulled away from the sidewalk in front of the house of one of Breonna’s friends. “When the last time you seen her for real? Y’all been creepin’ or somethin’?”

“Nah. You know I’m dealing with Jada. I ain’t seen Breonna in like a week or more. Just like I said.”

“So, c’mon ‘best friend’, where you think she’d be at?”

Those were the words that had moved Ibrahim to act back at the house. Best friend. When Brittany said them, his first instinct had been to deny it. Breonna wasn’t his best friend by any stretch. Except, that wasn’t what Brittany said. She said Breonna had said he was her best friend. That wasn’t the same thing.

He was her best friend.

It took Ibrahim all of twenty seconds to acknowledge that that might be true. Breonna didn’t hang with too many other girls and the ones she did party with were some combination of cruel and kind to her, which kept her head spinning and made her already deep insecurity even more profound. Ibrahim suspected that all Breonna was to them was bait.

She had that look that got guys’ attention, at least initially. She’d catch a dude’s notice in the club or at some party because of the long hair, the fair complexion. But often, her “friends” would wind up taking the prize for themselves—if guys in clubs could be considered prizes—because they were prettier or cleverer at the game of seduction.

Come to think of it, Breonna never tried to attract male attention. She was probably on some level afraid of it, because she had been so often deceived and then grievously harmed by it. She was the funny homegirl, the cool-as-hell chick who didn’t mind standing around with the dope boys, shooting the breeze, and who felt safest when surrounded by guys who thought of her as one of them, and hardly saw her as a girl at all.

“She might be over there by the spot,” Ibrahim said.

“Which one?” Manny asked.

Ibrahim told him, and at the next intersection, Manny made a sharp turn, heading back toward their neighborhood, and one of the bungalows their father rented out.

The house was quiet when they got there. No one was outside, though inside Ibrahim had no doubt there would be between a half-dozen to ten dudes, sleeping off the long night and preparing for the day ahead.

These places were in some ways precisely what they were portrayed as in the media—places of crime and despair. There were drugs, of course, and where you had drugs, there were also guns. And sometimes, people who used the drugs, though they were around the house less often than one might think.

The houses were also a sort of clubhouse. Dudes who couldn’t go home, or who didn’t have homes to go to chilled out and watched TV, played videogames or screwed their girl in one of the back rooms. Ambitious little kids who wanted in on the game hung around and waited for someone to give them a few dollars to pick up food from the carryout, or run a small package down the street.

Occasionally, the kitchen was used for the cook-up but mostly not, since Ibrahim’s father owned the house, and that was the flimsy line he drew in the sand. Drugs and guns galore in both the houses he owned and rented out to the dealers, but ‘don’t cook shit!’ was his idea of a dealbreaker.

When Manny and he got out of the car and saw that no one was outside, they shoved open the gate and started hollering for someone to come open the door before they approached it. Everyone inside would be either asleep or jumpy. Manny had just identified himself and hollered again when the wrought iron gate and then the front door swung up open.

The dude who stood there was only vaguely familiar to Ibrahim. He hadn’t been around much, and the faces were beginning to change much more often than they used to. Zac had been complaining lately that the business was getting more dangerous, because they didn’t know anyone anymore. Gone were the days when your homeboy was really your homeboy on a deep level, because your families went way back to when your granny and his granny came from down South together.

That’s why them Jamaican posses be runnin’ the game in New York, Zac opined. They got bonds that go back as far and deep as the ghettos of Kingston. Ain’t nobody can penetrate that.

Now, what they had in Oakland was a lot of new faces.

“Wha’s up?” Manny said, greeting the kid who opened the door. “You seen Breonna?’

“Who?”

“Light-skinned shorty with …”

Losing his patience, Manny hissed his teeth and shoved the kid aside, pushing his way into the house and looking around for someone else who might know.

Finally, they found someone even Ibrahim knew. A young dude they called Shank, for reasons that were self-explanatory, was asleep on the coach. Manny nudged him awake with the toe of his sneaker, and Shank directed them to one of the rear rooms.

Ibrahim and Manny looked at each other, shaking their heads in exasperation. It had been just that easy. Brittany probably wouldn’t have thought to come here because truth be told, she probably didn’t know that much about her niece’s movement and daily life.

The door to the room where Shank directed them was locked. Or it appeared to be, but after jiggling the handle and shoving a little, Ibrahim realized it was just wedged shut, a mattress on the floor shoved in front of it to slow down—but definitely not stop—anyone who had a mind to enter.

Another mattress was set far back in the room, just under the window, and on it, Breonna was curled into a fetal position. Still wearing her pink Timberland boots with jeans shorts and a pink top, she was on her side, her hair spread about behind her, facing the wall.

“Bree,” Ibrahim said.

Manny expelled a deep sigh. “C’mon, girl. Get up. Your auntie lookin’ for you.”

“Bree,” Ibrahim said again.

She didn’t stir, so he went closer and kneeled next to the mattress, putting a hand on her shoulder. As soon as he did, he knew something wasn’t right. Tugging with more force he turned her over.

“Fuck,” Manny breathed.

Breonna’s face was a mass of bruises. Her right eye was swollen shut, there were twin knots above both the right and left brows and her jaw had ballooned to twice its natural size. Dried blood was encrusted at her nostrils, and at the corner of her bruised and split lip.

“Bree!” Ibrahim said again. This time it came out as a gasp.

She didn’t move. She didn’t respond.

Putting his head to her chest, he tried to hear something, anything, but there was nothing, not even the whisper of a weak heartbeat.

But what was worse—what Ibrahim would always remember, even more than her battered-in face—was the sight of her hands.

They had curled in on themselves, clenched into loose fists, as though she had been gritting herself against pain. And her nails. Her short nails, chipped and ripped like she had been in a fight, were painted the identical soft, little-girl pink as her top and shoes.

34

Now

Kaleem and Asha come spilling into the house around three in the afternoon, their faces alight with recent laughter. Kaleem’s arm is around his wife’s waist and Asha’s face is flushed. Maybe they went to a motel or something? And the talk of brunch was all a ploy to get away for a few hours of complete privacy?

Jada remembered how embarrassing it had been when Kaleem and Asha came to stay just after graduating from college. Ibrahim was home, and Kal had been under firm orders to sleep on the couch. It was stupid, Jada knew, even as she lay down the rule. It was clear from the way Asha looked at her son that the girl was not just in love, but deeply in lust with him as well. There was no way Kaleem would be sleeping anywhere other than with her.

Of course, she has always known her son is handsome. He looks like his father, after all. But seeing him through Asha’s eyes was something else. It reminded her of the headiness of new love, the way she used to almost obsess about Ibrahim—waking up and thinking of him before anything or anyone else, looking at the phone and willing it to ring, or sitting on her hands to prevent them from paging him, just one more time in case he hadn’t gotten the previous one.

It happens, she would tell herself with all the silliness of an eighteen-year-old in love. Sometimes pages don’t go through. Sometimes you have to do it more than once.

Ibrahim was her drug back then. And he made her every bit as high as Asha looks right now.

Kal tosses his keys on the entryway table and looks around.

“Where’s my young ‘un?” he asks.

“Napping,” Jada responds. “He wore me out. He’s an energetic boy.”

Asha laughs. “Isn’t he? I think he’s going to walk early. Lemme just go check …”

She heads toward the back, drawn by that irrepressible maternal instinct that Jada recalled as having woken her up several times a night when Kaleem was a newborn, sending her tiptoeing to the next room just to make sure he was breathing. His silent sleep had been just as nerve-wracking as his wakeful cries.

Baby, Ibrahim would say, voice deepened and rough with sleep. Leave him alone. If he sleeps, we can sleep.

I know, she’d reply. But I just … I have to check.

And Kaleem would be lying there on his back, arms and legs spread and plump lips slightly open, breathing soft, regular, healthy-baby breaths. Oblivious to the hum of panic that permeated her being just about every single moment of every day since she had become a mother. Oblivious to the terrifying depth of her love.

Well … in that regard, perhaps little has changed.

“He didn’t come back?” Kaleem asks now, collapsing on the sofa, across from her.

“No. Called though. Said he ran across an old friend.”

Kaleem’s eyes narrow. “Ran across, where?”

Jada shrugs. Her thought exactly.

“I don’t know,” she says. “But I think I’ll head back. I have work Monday, and your father says he may spend the night.”

She had told Ibrahim on the phone that she wouldn’t leave without him, but now that Kaleem and Asha are back, she feels like her job here may be done. They’ll want to get back to their routine and she would be underfoot, an extra person for them to consider and cater to.

Kaleem looks confused, and she can’t stand to see it. Because she has no explanations to give him, and because this experience—of being unable to explain her husband to his son—is far too familiar.

When he was sent to prison, Ibrahim decided that he wanted to have no contact with Kaleem, having gotten in his head the idea that if he stayed too closely in touch, if he let Kaleem visit, he would … infect him somehow with “prison culture.” That Kaleem would begin to see Black men in prison as “normal”.

Ibrahim hadn’t asked her opinion on the matter and when she expressed it, he overruled her. And she let him. On something so crucial, so meaningful, she just … let him. But by then, that had been the pattern of their marriage and it hadn’t occurred to her that she could just insist or refuse to go along with it.

Ibrahim had been not just her husband, he was her shelter, her center, her everything. He was the one who helped her make sense of the adult world, since she had been so young when they married. Of course, he had been young, too, though to her he hadn’t seemed it.

Their wedding had been in her parents’ church, a concession Ibrahim happily made just to get their approval, and have her father agree to walk her down the aisle, despite his misgivings. And Jada knew it was also because he realized it was the final nod to her father’s influence in her life.

After they were married, he would be the one to lead her. Ibrahim had even consented to premarital counseling. Her father was worried about their immaturity, and probably secretly wanted pastor to talk them out of it.

But he hadn’t tried, and in any event would not have been successful if he had. Instead, he talked to them about compromise and hardship, and partnership and about the various forms of love. He told them that there might be times in the future when the glow of romantic love dimmed, and that they would need to remember to lean on the other forms of love that would endure and see them through to a time when romance may return to their marriage once again. He gave them Bible verses to study, and in the final counseling session asked them to think about one that he might read at the ceremony and craft his remarks around.

Jada and Ibrahim chose Ruth 1:16.

“Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God: Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.”

The pastor had smiled at their choice.

Even now, the decision to leave Ibrahim, even if just to go back home to prepare for work, feels traitorous.

“Wait,” Kaleem says. “Who’s this old friend?”

“Kaleem, I don’t know,” she says impatiently. “When he comes back, maybe you can ask him.”

“So, you’re leaving right now?” he asks. “You don’t want to wait a little?”

“No.” Jada shakes her head. “I’ve had enough of waiting for your father to come back to me.” Her voice breaks a little. “He knows where I am.”

~~~

Jada is at first a little nervous getting in the car on her own and backing out of the driveway. It isn’t the drive itself that makes her nervous, of course, it is the act of leaving Ibrahim behind. Having him leave her is more familiar.

When he went to prison, led from the courtroom, arms shackled behind his back, to serve his sentence, she had been stoic. They only exchanged a brief few seconds before he was ushered out. His shoulders were still square and erect. He still walked like a king. He was unbowed.

She on the other hand, as calm as she may have appeared, was screaming inside, tearing her hair from her scalp and shrieking in distress. She did not know how she would even begin to organize a life that was not centered on him.

That night, after the folks from the church left, and Kaleem, strangely mute had fallen asleep, she sat at the kitchen table, her mind flooded with questions.

Where was Ibrahim now?

Was he being hurt?

Was he scared?

Was he thinking of her?

Was he thinking of their son?

It was like being shot back in time more than a dozen years to the start of their relationship when he stayed on her mind when they were apart. That first night Ibrahim was in prison, she realized with mounting panic that they had not spent a night apart since they were married. Just as she thought she might drive herself mad with that thought and a dozen unanswerable questions, someone knocked on the door.

People had been stopping in throughout the day, telling her they were sorry, as though Ibrahim had died. Men going to prison was not uncommon in their community, but his case was different. He had been defending a woman who herself might have been killed if he hadn’t intervened. He was a hero, people said. And yet, the justice system didn’t see it that way.

Jada was still dressed in her court outfit when she opened the door. But she had slipped off her uncomfortable pumps and didn’t bother to put them back on to welcome the uninvited guest. She was too tired of maintaining social graces.

She remembered hoping it was her mother, or father. But they had been ashamed, or at least her father had been, of where Ibrahim ended up, and treated it as an inevitability, even though he knew the special circumstances. It would take weeks before they came over to comfort her, and by then, Jada had begun feeling the emotional estrangement from them that would never again be fully repaired.

So, that night it was not her parents who stood at the door.

It took her a moment to recognize him. He looked like a ghost. He looked like Immanuel, the closer of her husband’s two brothers, both in age and in relationship. But Immanuel had been several years dead by then.

It was Isaac. The eldest of the Carter brothers.

He said nothing.

Jada stepped aside and let him in.

He would come to her many more times after that.

35

Then

Jada stood at the front door, open-mouthed.

“Ibrahim,” she said. “What’s …?”

“Can I come in?”

Nodding, Jada looked up and down the block before quickly pulling him inside. There was no one in sight, but that didn’t guarantee that Mrs. Leary, the old lady a couple houses down wasn’t watching them right now from between her curtains as Jada let him in. And what Mrs. Leary saw, she talked about if given the chance.

“I went to your school,” he said. “You weren’t there at lunch.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Dental appointment. And I figured I’d take the rest of the day off and study for finals.”

Ibrahim stood with his back to her, looking around the living room as if it wasn’t familiar to him already.

“Your mother here?” he asked.

“No. She’s gone to get her hair done. Trimmed, colored.”

“Oh,” he said. He still didn’t turn to look at her again.

It was past noon, but she knew it was early for him since he was working tonight. Sometimes he got up early to run but hadn’t done it as much lately because of the extra hours he was taking on.

“I’m so damn tired,” he said, as if he’d read her mind.

He turned to look at her and Jada noticed for the first time the drawn, almost distraught expression in his eyes. His eyelids were red-rimmed, and slightly puffy, likely from lack of sleep.

“Ibrahim. Are you …?”

“How long’s she gonna be gone?” he asked. “Your mother.”

“Another three, maybe four hours. She has a lot of hair …” She lifted her own heavy braids as if to demonstrate. “And then she’ll stop at the grocery store maybe. Why?”

“You mind if we just lie down a little bit?”

Jada hesitated, but only because Ibrahim was usually so careful about putting them in situations like that. Where they might start kissing and touching, and not be able to stop.

“Just for a little bit,” he said again. “I just …”

“No. Yeah. Of course.”

She took his hand and led him back to her bedroom. The moment they crossed the threshold she almost groaned in embarrassment. Her room was a mess.

Reaching for a pile of clothes at the foot of her bed, she tossed them onto her armchair and pulled back the comforter, and the covers. Ibrahim looked around, turning in a slow three-sixty to take everything in. Then he looked at her and a small smile teased the corners of his lips, not an amused smile, but an almost rueful one.

He was in a strange mood, and she didn’t know how to decipher it.

“Ibrahim.”

Before she could ask him what was wrong, he was sitting on the edge of her bed, toeing off his sneakers. Once done with that, he reached for the hem of his light-blue t-shirt and peeled it over his head. Jada realized that since he wasn’t even looking at her, it was probably just something he habitually did before getting into bed.

He wasn’t trying to get a response out of her, though there was one nevertheless. Jada swallowed hard and tried to look away. Ibrahim’s body was smooth and firm, with ridges and bumps at his abdomen.

Six-pack, she thought reflexively.

Guys at her school were always going on and on about getting a six-pack, thumping themselves in the stomach with the flat of their fists and grimacing like bodybuilders. She had always thought it was silly and didn’t see what the big deal was about.

Now, she saw what the big deal was about.

“C’mere.” Ibrahim extended a hand to her and she went to him, taking it.

“Lie down with me?” he said. “Just for an hour maybe.”

Jada nodded like an automaton. She briefly considered taking her top off. He wouldn’t stop her if she did, would he?

But his mood was a little off, and something told her that sex was the last thing on his mind.

They lay on their sides, spoon-fashion, Ibrahim behind her. She thought she could feel his semi-hardness nestled against her because he was only wearing basketball shorts, and she was in thin, lounging sweatpants.

“Don’t let me sleep too long,” he said against her neck. Jada’s skin tingled at the sensation. “Just maybe an hour or so.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice a croak.

She lay there, his solid arm around her, and tried to relax. But she was too aware of the mass of him. His chest rising and falling against her back, the smooth, dark hairs on his forearm and even the slightly musky night perspiration scent of his skin.

She moved a little, and his arms tightened slightly, like he didn’t want her to unexpectedly slip out of his grasp.

Occasionally, he sighed, and the expelled breath stirred the hair at the nape of her neck and made her shiver. He lay very still, but Jada could tell, he wasn’t falling asleep.

~~~

Jada must have fallen asleep herself, but she was only aware of it when she was startled awake. Ibrahim was sitting up, sliding away the arm that had been beneath and wrapped around her.

Groggy, Jada turned onto her back and looked up at him. His expression was still odd and hard to read. He looked like he was a million miles away.

“Ibrahim,” she said, her voice gentle. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said, lying down, but he avoided her gaze.

Then he sat up again to check the LED clock. Jada rolled over to check the time herself and saw that it had only been about forty minutes or so since they first lay down.

“You’re jumpy,” she insisted. “What’s going on?”

He put his head on the pillow next to hers. They were facing each other now, their faces only inches apart. He opened his mouth as if to answer, then shut it again. When he finally spoke, it wasn’t to respond to her question.

“If anything ever happened to you,” he began, “if anyone ever … put their hands on you …”

“Why would anything happen to me?” She touched his face.

The question was instinctive, but something about it made him smile. Almost. It approximated a smile, and it didn’t reach his eyes. He pressed his lips to hers.

“No reason,” he said.

Then he was sitting up again.

Jada followed suit.

“Are you leaving already? I thought …”

He put a hand at her cheek, his thumb brushing her lips.

“Yeah. I gotta … There’s something I need to do,” he said. “I just needed you to help me … forget the world for a little while.”

“Did you?” she asked. “Forget the world.”

“When I’m with you?” he said. “Yeah. Always.”

He reached for his shirt and shrugged it on, then looked around for his sneakers. He slipped his feet into them and leaned over to kiss her on the forehead.

“You snore,” he said winking at her.

And then he was gone.

36

Then

There hadn’t even been time to mourn the dead.

Ibrahim had remained there for a moment, on his knees, staring at Breonna. Her face, purple and battered, was slack. She didn’t look like herself. There was a speck of blood on one of her front teeth. He had the urge to wipe it clean with the tail of his shirt, to smooth back her hair which was matted and tangled near her scalp.

While he was there next to her, he dimly registered that his brother had turned and gone back out to the front of the house. He heard Manny’s voice, loud and urgent, waking everyone up, ordering them to bag up, and clear everything out.

Ibrahim knew he should have gotten up and gone to help them, but he didn’t want to leave her alone.

“Bree,” he said, though he didn’t know why.

She was gone. Anyone could see, she was no longer there and what remained was just the mortal shell of a person who had once been but was no more.

He didn’t touch her again.

Soon, there would be cops and crime scene technicians all over the house. Once all the contraband was out, he, his brothers and his father would have to think of a way to report this. His father owned the house. They would have questions for him.

Manny was gone for what felt like minutes but was probably much longer. When he returned, he rested a hand lightly on Ibrahim’s shoulder.

Prophet, he said. His voice was gentle. You can’t be here. Neither one of us can be here.

They both had criminal records, and though the neighbors wouldn’t say a word to the cops under almost any circumstances about who and what they had seen at the house, there might be fingerprinting, and a full investigation. Or maybe not. Breonna was a girl from around the way. She had a reputation for hanging out with bangers, and her boyfriend of the moment was known to be violent and possibly unstable. Maybe they would give everything a cursory glance and close the case by nightfall.

No one cared about girls like her.

C’mon. We gotta go, Manny said, this time sounding much more insistent. Now.

The front room of the house was almost unrecognizable. All that remained was the furniture, the television and the dirty stained carpet. Glancing back over his shoulder and down the hallway as they left, Ibrahim saw that the kitchen had been cleaned up, too.

Manny shouldered open the front door, and Ibrahim noticed that he didn’t lock it before they left, didn’t even close it fully.

At a payphone in a nearby corner store, Manny paged Zac and when he called back, told him that they’d found Breonna, and that they should all meet back at home.

Breonna’s aunt Brittany was still there when they got back, which was a surprise. Even in his numbed emotional state, part of Ibrahim expected that she would have cleaned them out while they were gone. Found some valuables and taken them to the pawn shop while they were out looking for her niece. But no, she was still sitting where they had left her, on the sofa, wringing her hands, and picking at a scab on her elbow.

It made Ibrahim think of all those weeks back, Bree lying on his bed, massaging her elbow. He had a suspicion then that she had been hurt, but he wasn’t thinking about saving her. He was thinking about Jada, the girl he was falling in love with, and who was going to help him save himself.

You find her? Brittany asked, getting up out of her seat as they entered.

Her eyes, almost always flat and dull and weary, for a moment brightened with hope.

~~~

He only stuck around long enough to make sure he knew the story they were telling, in case he was asked.

It was only a matter of time, but his father would be questioned since he was the owner of record for the property.

What he would say was: he had a damn hard time finding people to live there because of the drug activity in the neighborhood. It was a terrible thing.

Yes, he sometimes rented it on a short-term basis, because he needed to pay the mortgage. Matter of fact, he rented the house out to some tenants who had skipped out on the rent, leaving it partly furnished.

No, he didn’t know what they did for a living. He didn’t ask questions, so long as they paid their rent. And they had, up until recently.

No, he didn’t know where they were, but he sure would appreciate finding out since they owed him money.

Yes, the house was locked and secure last time he checked.

No, he didn’t know how Breonna or anyone else could have gotten in.

Yes, he knew her. Knew her well and for a long time. Knew her mother, knew her aunt.

No, of course he had no idea who hurt her. And what a damn shame, what a damn shame somebody did her like that.

Breonna’s aunt Brittany listened to the plan, her eyes darting back and forth among them.

But what about my baby? she asked. We can’t just leave her there! We can’t just …

Somebody found her, Manny said. They’re calling 911.

What? Who? What you mean? You found her!

Nah, Manny said with a straight face. He looked directly into Brittany’s eyes. We didn’t find her. ‘Cause we wasn’t never there. Somebody else found her.

While Ibrahim had been in the room with Breonna, Manny hadn’t just commandeered the cleaning. He had paid an old head they knew who sometimes got high to say he went to the house to smoke and found Breonna. He would say the door was unlocked when he got there, and that he had no idea who might have lived in the house except that as far as he knew, lately, no one did.

Ibrahim watched the conflicting emotions flit across Brittany’s features. He saw her anger, that they hadn’t called someone the moment they found Breonna because, maybe she wasn’t gone quite yet? Maybe she could have been saved? And he saw when she reflected that if it hadn’t been for them, for the Carters, she might not have found Breonna for days more.

And finally, he saw her resignation. Breonna was gone. Nothing was bringing her back, and these men were the only ones who had ever been good to her. Hadn’t Breonna told her? Prophet was her best friend. So, she wouldn’t do anything to get these men in trouble.

After all, she had been the one to bring trouble to their doorstep. Breonna had brought that trouble.

Ibrahim felt like throwing up. They—he and his father and his brothers—were too good at this. Had stitched things up too effortlessly.

I understand, Brittany said. The tears on her face hadn’t even dried yet, but she was falling in line. You wasn’t never there.

The room seemed to silently sigh with relief. Ibrahim went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face.

Manny said someone was reporting it right now. Had they gotten there yet? The police and paramedics? Or was Breonna still lying there, alone on that dirty mattress with her ruined face?

It had been a little over a week earlier, just like he told her aunt, that he’d seen her. It was while he was out running, much later than he usually ran. He rounded a corner to see her on the block, coming toward him, her long mane swinging jauntily from side to side as she walked.

Lookin’ for me again? he’d teased her, running in place.

Nah, she said twisting her lips and neck in a parody of a chicken-head. Ain’t e’ry chick out here checkin’ for you, man.

He’d laughed and pantomimed someone receiving an arrow to the heart.

But how you doin’ for real? he asked.

I’m doin’ good, Prophet, she’d said nodding for emphasis. Doin’ real good.

He didn’t think it at the time, but now he wondered at how she said that. It didn’t ring real, or true. Like maybe she knew it was what he wanted to hear, because things were going well for him, and he would be too exasperated, too impatient with her to listen to anything else.

And in truth, he didn’t want to hear anything else. Because Jada had just told him a few nights before about a little sit-down with her parents. They were concerned, they told her, by how serious things were getting with him. And wondered whether it wasn’t too much too soon, and whether she had considered how he might fit—or not—into her plans for her life.

They’re so dramatic, Jada had drawled.

But Ibrahim knew they weren’t. They were right. Their daughter was going somewhere, and she had to start thinking long and hard about who might and might not be equipped to go there with her.

So, seeing Breonna that morning? It had barely even registered on Ibrahim’s emotional Richter scale. He had been thinking about where Jada was going in life, and whether he could handle it if—as her parents were suggesting—she had to get there without him. He had been thinking that he couldn’t lose her, and that he had to focus even more because he would do whatever it took to make sure that didn’t happen.

Surprised to hear a choked sob escape his lips Ibrahim grabbed a towel off the nearby rack and stuffed it into his mouth, allowing himself one—but only one—loud, primal, anguished scream. Breonna thought of him as her best friend. And in the final weeks of her life, he thought of her as a lurking nuisance.

Brittany said Kwame had answered the door with cut and bruised hands. That’s how confident he was that what he had exacted on Breonna was nothing but a routine ass-whupping. Like he’d given her God only knew how many times before. That motherfucker had answered the door.

Ibrahim felt a rush of sick shame that he knew he would always feel, whenever he thought about Bree. He should have looked out for her, but he didn’t. Because it would have been too messy, too time-consuming and ultimately take him further away from the life he wanted and pull him back to the one he was trying to leave behind.

When the sobs were exhausted, he washed his face again, returned to the living room and told Brittany and his family that he needed to go. They all looked at him funny—and justifiably so—because where the hell was it so urgent for him to go in the middle of a full-blown crisis?

At the thought of not being able to leave the house, he felt his heart begin to race, his chest rising and falling more visibly.

He a’ight, Manny said, studying him closely. He could always read Ibrahim better than anyone. Let him take a minute.

His father called after him to keep his pager close.

Ibrahim nodded. Then he grabbed his keys and drove straight to Jada’s school.

He waited almost half an hour for lunchtime, near the park where they sometimes met, and when Jada was nowhere in sight, but he spotted Lisa, he asked where she was.

Home, Lisa told him. And she must have seen something in his eyes or on his face, because she asked him the same thing Jada would later ask. Is something wrong?

Nah, he said. Just wanted to see her, that’s all.

Even though there was every likelihood her mother would be home, he went anyway. Because if he was to do what he knew he had to do, he wanted to see her first.

Once it was done, it would be a secret he had to keep, even from her.

And to keep the secret about what he had to do meant accepting that what he and Jada had now—which was the truest and purest thing in his life—would never be the same.

37

Now

Raj and Ibrahim are sitting by his pool. They have been there for hours now, baking themselves in the warm sun, looking out at the horizon.

Twice, the woman who served them breakfast comes out to ask whether they need anything. Each time, Raj looks to Ibrahim, and he demurs. The second time, Raj smiles at the woman and tells her he will call her if there’s anything they need. He holds up his cellphone to demonstrate to her that he has the means to do so. It is Raj’s way—unfailingly polite always—of asking that they not be disturbed again.

The wife, Patricia-who-likes-to-be-called-Trish, stops by in a breeze of light perfume and wispy blonde hair. She is lean, wiry and looks precisely the way one would imagine a yoga instructor should look. She registers almost no reaction except polite disinterest when Raj tells her that Ibrahim is someone he has known for more than twenty years.

She doesn’t ask any questions, nor offer even the barest expression of surprise when Raj says they have only just reconnected after a long time. When she leaves them, she tells Raj she will be late returning.

Ibrahim watches her walk away, in her pink yoga pants and baby-blue tank and tries to picture her and Raj as a couple but can’t. Even when they were right next to each other, Ibrahim could not picture it. And with no further information than this, Ibrahim senses that his friend made a mistake in marrying Trish. He suspects Raj looks at Trish each day and thinks the same thing.

“How long has your son lived in Redwood City?” Raj asks, breaking their long silence.

“He moved there more than a year ago,” Ibrahim says.

“And you’ve visited him since then?”

“At least twice a month.”

“Yet, this time, this visit is the only one when it occurred to you that you worked there. And that we ate Indian food and talked about life in a little house, right there in your son’s neighborhood.”

“Crazy, right? How memory works. It just came to me out of nowhere. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”

Raj shakes his head. “It all just slipped your mind? I don’t believe that.”

“What’s your theory, Aristotle?”

“You need something from me, maybe. Something that only I can provide.”

Ibrahim looks at him. “You mean like … what? Money?”

Raj shrugs. “Maybe. But that’s too easy.”

“Too easy.” Ibrahim gives a short laugh and looks around them. “For you, it is.”

“You know what I mean. If money were all you needed, you would have resurrected me from your consciousness long before now. Although … where money is concerned, you only need ask.”

“Okay, so what do you think I need?” Ibrahim asks partly to humor his friend, and partly because he really is curious.

The comment about ‘only needing to ask’ for money he tucks away for later deliberation. He isn’t sure he could make himself do that.

“Maybe you need the same thing I do,” Raj says.

“Which is? You’re still cryptic as hell, man. That much hasn’t changed. So, tell me. What do we both need?”

“To get in touch with our younger, more hopeful selves.”

Ibrahim considers this, and Raj continues.

“Do you know,” he says matter-of-factly, “that you are the very last genuine friend I made?”

Raj smiles at Ibrahim’s skeptical look.

“It’s true,” he says. “You know that when I left Stanford I went to MIT. And then Vidhya got into Harvard, and we were only a few miles apart so my social circle, which wasn’t that big to begin with … contracted. I don’t even know that I tried very hard to make it otherwise. I mean, I was spending all my time wooing my future wife, even though the outcome was a foregone conclusion. And in my graduate program …” He pauses to laugh. “We were mostly a bunch of cerebral, social misfits to be honest. I didn’t have a single conversation that wasn’t superficial the entire time I was there. Other than about the work. It was all about competition. That, and intense, unrelenting … pressure.”

“You expected something different than competition and pressure? At MIT?”

Shrugging, Raj looks out toward the softly sloping hills of Palo Alto.

“I guess not. But it was way more intense than I expected. Everyone walked around like we were spies or something, guarding the code we’d written … as if it was the answer to the secrets of the universe. I sold my first bit of source code for five-thousand dollars. And I thought I had it made.” He laughed. “And then the boom happened, and everyone was dropping out of school and rushing back West, going in on startups.”

“Is that what you did?”

“No. I was raised to finish things. I stayed. Also, Vidhya was there, and …” Raj smiles a little. “And by then I was in love with her. So, I wanted to stay. When we moved back, I had an easier time than some of my counterparts getting investors because of my MIT credentials. But anyway, there was enough money to go around. So much money. Everyone wanted to get in on the tech boom, like it was the new Gold Rush.”

Pausing to look over at Ibrahim, Raj seems to have a thought.

“Where were you then? Around the time I graduated from MIT.”

“When was that? Like maybe three, four years after we met? I was a newlywed. About two years married. With a pregnant wife, scared as hell.” Ibrahim smiles himself at the memory.

“But happy,” Raj says.

Ibrahim nods thoughtfully.

Happy. But scared. Stressed. Frantic with worry about how he was going to support his new family, since his income hadn’t increased much.

He wondered what he had been thinking, taking Jada out of her nice middle-class life and asking her to take a chance on him. He had had some fantasy that though they had nothing, they would build something together. After she was done with school, he would go to school, get a trade or a two-year degree. He would reduce his hours at his menial job, and she would have a real job with benefits and carry most of the expenses until he was accredited in something, a profession.

But life happens. Unplanned pregnancies happen.

Around then, his daily five-mile runs had almost doubled in distance as he tried to outrun his fears.

He would get home, dripping in sweat, his body still humming from the exertion and Jada would be waiting for him. Kaleem would be in her arms, and she would be at her wits’ end because the baby wouldn’t stop crying, or because she couldn’t stop crying. The most valuable thing he had to give her back then had been his love and commitment and that didn’t seem like enough. Not nearly enough.

So, he ran.

And God forgive him, there had been one or two weak moments—mere seconds probably—when he wondered what it would be like to just keep running. Just as far as he could away from the crushing weight of his failure. He could never leave his wife, never leave his son, but the failure … if he could have run away from that, so help him, he would have.

The memory gave him pause.

Was that what he was doing now? Distancing himself from Jada because he wanted to run away from his failure? Did she have a point that his absences when she woke up each morning, his long walks, were just plain ol’ abandonment?

“What?”

“Huh?” Ibrahim looks up.

“You had a thought. I saw it pass over your face.”

“What’re you? My shrink?”

It was easier to laugh it off for now. He would think about it later. He would think about it when he was alone.

“You were telling me about when you started making crazy money after MIT.”

“That’s right,” Raj says. “I was explaining how, after I started making money, I stopped making real connections. Real friendships.”

“There had to have been people as rich as you. Richer.”

“Yes, but many of us are locked in our own private prisons, Ibrahim. It’s a strange world. One in which everyone outside the prison is a suspect. You don’t trust them, or their motives. Even the woman you ask to marry you after you divorce the wife who knew you when you had nothing? That one, the second one you ask to sign a contract, saying she won’t take you to the cleaners if something in your marriage should go wrong. Can you imagine that?”

“No,” Ibrahim admits. “But I can imagine wondering whether your wife should leave you. Because you have nothing. And you think maybe she’d be better off.”

“Let me put it this way. You’re providing for your wife. Providing well beyond your, or her wildest dreams. But she asks you for a divorce anyway. Because she’s that unhappy.”

Ibrahim says nothing. He can’t imagine that. And yet it is precisely what had happened with Raj and Vidhya.

“Then imagine having little, or nothing,” Raj continues.

“That, I don’t have to imagine,” Ibrahim says.

“But she doesn’t leave. Don’t you see? She has the choice, but she doesn’t leave. I think, my friend, that what you fail realize is, you don’t actually have nothing. You have everything.”

38

Then

The energy on the block had changed. He had only been gone for a little over two hours—to Jada’s school and then to see her—but now there was a taut, tense hum in the air. People were hanging around by their gates, talking to friends and neighbors, and many of them were looking in the direction of Ibrahim’s house where he guessed his father and brothers were still inside waiting for the shoe to drop.

He parked his car and kept his eyes on the pavement as he went in, not wanting anyone to stop him and ask questions.

The house where Breonna had been was several streets over, but news moved at the speed of lightning around here. Especially news of a death.

By now, everyone would know about his and Breonna’s shared personal histories. They would be whispering that she had once been his girl. Hood gossip always got some of the finer points wrong, but the crux of the thing was generally communicated with accuracy. They knew enough, after all, to be staking out his house waiting for some action.

Heading inside, he braced himself for the look in Brittany’s haunted eyes, but she was nowhere in sight. Only Manny and Zac were in the living room.

When he walked in, they both looked up with expectation in their eyes, disappointment, and then relief.

“Where’s Brittany?” he asked. “And Pops.”

“He got the call,” Zac said. “Asked him to come down and answer some questions.”

“That quick?”

They had all been expecting it, that the police would find out who owned the property and either show up at the house or ask their father to come in. But Ibrahim had been expecting that to take a day or more. With the city’s murder rate being what it was, he wouldn’t have thought that the mere discovery of a body in a house would have them moving as fast as they apparently had.

That was what Bree had been reduced to.

A body.

He would never see her again. Never. Never.

He used to experiment with her name. Come up with nicknames for her when he was flirting with the idea of her being his girl.

Bree-Bree. But that one felt too obvious, so he had ditched it almost right away.

Cool Breeze. She liked that one, and smiled whenever he said it.

Breezy.

And then later, because he no longer wanted to make her his girl, nor cared enough to call her something no one else did, he just called her the laziest nickname of all, the one that everyone called her. Bree.

He thought about the time she came over the morning after the party where he’d first met Jada. He called, and Bree came. Probably had to beg for the ride, but she came, hours after he first called her.

Then he’d basically called her easy but still, she lay down next to him and let him put his arms around her, and they fell asleep like that. That was Bree. She found comfort in even throwaway gestures of kindness.

“Sent a car to pick him up and everything,” Zac said, shaking his head.

That explained the gawkers outside.

When law enforcement did that, it meant they really wanted to talk to you, and didn’t want to leave the timing of the conversation to your discretion. A friendly suggestion that they send over a car was never really that friendly.

“Prophet.”

He looked up and Manny was staring him in the eyes. Always reading him, and almost always on point.

“What you got on your mind, little bro?”

Kwame.

“Nothin’,” he said, his eyes never leaving Manny’s. “I’ma dip in a minute though.”

“By yourself?” Manny asked, pointedly.

Ibrahim shrugged. “Better that way.”

They were having two conversations. The one with words, and the sub-conversation. Manny stared at him for a few moments more, then sniffed.

“I know it might feel like that, but you ain’ gotta go alone. Ain’t no rush. Wait till Pops get home, then lemme roll wit’ you.”

Ibrahim nodded. A nod so slight one might even think they imagined it. Later, he would want to be able to tell Manny that he had.

“I’ma get somethin’ to eat, then,” he said. “You want anything? From the carryout?”

“Nah.” Zac answered first.

“I’m good,” Manny said, still watching him closely.

Ibrahim felt his head pounding as he went to the back of the house and toward Manny’s bedroom. He looked under the mattress and found what he was looking for, tucking it in his waistband.

He wasn’t angry. No, that wasn’t true. He was angry. But it was cold, purposeful anger. Not the kind that had people getting busted just minutes after the deed.

Standing upright again, he took two deep breaths then walked down the hall and through the living room, not meeting his brothers’ eyes as he left, mumbling something about being right back.

He felt the piece, weighty and cold in the back of his jeans, the muzzle slipping a little lower as he walked. His heart was beating harder, his breaths growing shallower with each step he took.

Ibrahim had only ever seen one person get shot. It happened when he was fifteen. A skinny kid everybody called Peanut. He was like the equivalent of the class clown around the way, except the stuff he messed with was far from fun-and-games. When Peanut got shot, everybody was sad to see him go, because he wasn’t a bad dude, but they also said he had it coming to him.

Peanut like to roll through other neighborhoods and stick up street soldiers. Word was, he even did it to dudes wearing the same colors. In fact, he preferred it if they did. He would disarm them with a joke or by acting a fool and then whip out his strap, catching them off guard. And because he never took more than a dove—and pretty much smoked it himself—he thought it was funny, like the equivalent of playing a prank.

But stealing weed off some other crew, no matter its value was no prank. And it finally caught up with him.

One hot afternoon, a black Impala slowed down on the block, a hand came out and the next thing everyone knew, Peanut’s head exploded like a watermelon. When he went down, the car cruised on down the block, turned the corner and left. It didn’t even break the speed limit.

All Ibrahim remembered was that the gun looked enormous, and the sound it made seemed to fill the universe. And then Peanut’s entire face was gone, the back and top of his head coming apart like a water balloon that had been smashed against a wall. There was blood, teeth and grey matter everywhere.

Everybody who had taken a dive once the gun was visible stood up to survey the scene. And someone, Ibrahim didn’t remember who, moaned, fuuuuuck!

And that was it. No more Peanut. A life, over in an instant.

But watching it happen was one thing.

“Hey, cuz, where you goin’?”

Ibrahim looked around. Nasim was leaning against his parked car, wearing his uniform—a white beater, grey pants and Fila slides with white gym socks.

“Carryout,” Ibrahim said, not meeting his eyes.

“Come roll wit’ me right quick. Gotta drop off some pies over by my grand-momma’s house.”

“Pies?”

“Yeah, man. Pies. C’mon.” And when he hesitated, Nasim gave him a long, hard look. “As many times as I let your broke, sorry ass hold my ride, nigga?”

Relenting, Ibrahim headed toward him when Nasim held up a hand.

“You walkin’ heavy?”

Ibrahim said nothing.

“I told you we goin’ to my grand-momma’s house, right?”

“Gimme a second, then.”

Getting into his own car, Ibrahim deftly removed the piece from his pants and slid it under the seat. He locked it inside then headed back toward Nasim’s.

~~~

Nasim and he drove in silence for a few minutes. Ibrahim wanted to ask him where they were going but didn’t want to betray his impatience since as he’d pointed out, Nasim had been nothing but patient with him, letting him use his car all those times. And he had gotten him his job. There was that, too.

He shoved the thought of work to the back of his mind. If he did what he planned to do, he might not make it to work tonight. He might not make it to work ever again.

But he couldn’t think that way. Oakland had been like the Wild, Wild West this year, and the “closure rate” was down. That’s how they said it on the news. There were dozens of “incidents” for which no responsible party was identified.

“You ever bust a shot before?”

Nasim’s voice startled him.

“What?”

“You ever fire a gun?” This time Nasim enunciated each word.

“Nah,” Ibrahim admitted.

Now, he thought, Nasim would ask him why he was carrying then.

“You know the first time I did, my dick got hard?” Nasim laughed at the memory, leaning further back in his seat and shaking his head. “Thought I’d skeet all over myself it felt so good. Shit, it felt better than pussy, and that’s my word.”

Ibrahim said nothing.

“And that was just some bullshit practice range with some soup cans. Then came time I had to step up to the big leagues. Point at another man, and pull that trigger …”

Remaining very still, Ibrahim wondered whether Nasim knew.

“I was high as shit,” he said. “Had to be. ‘Cause it wasn’t no personal grudgery. Just … you know, business. But it had to be done. Sometimes you gotta get ‘em or get got.”

Nasim sighed and didn’t speak for a long time. Then he sighed again.

“Anyone who tell you that shit is easy, is a damn liar. Except for some of these crazy young ‘uns out here these days, with no impulse control. It’s like videogames for some of ‘em, nah mean? Just rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat … and five niggas is down.

“But you know what I think. That shit they do? That’s easier than lookin’ a nigga straight in the eye, holding up your gatt and boom!’

Ibrahim jumped a little when Nasim raised his voice.

“That’s it. And then walking away with his brains on your shirt, in your face … pieces of bone … all that shit.” He looked at Ibrahim. “You hear what I’m sayin’?”

Giving no indication either way, Ibrahim turned away from Nasim and looked out the window at their neighborhood flashing by. He would have given anything right then to be a million miles away. Somewhere with Jada, just the two of them sitting quietly. Maybe in grass somewhere, or near water. Just sitting and talking about the kinds of stuff they always talked about—books, places, politics, even. Ideas. Not just shallow, small, petty and meaningless stuff.

Marrakesh, Jada told him once. That’s where I’d like to go. If I ever traveled. And Paris.

Paris, I get, Ibrahim laughed. Every girl wants to go to Paris, I guess. But why Marrakesh?

Because I like the way the name rolls off my tongue.

And just the mention of her tongue made him kiss her.

“I know she was your girl,” Nasim said, breaking through his thoughts.

This time Ibrahim didn’t bother with the now meaningless clarification. He waited for Nasim to tell him that no matter what she had been to him, she was gone now, and that Breonna would not have wanted him to sacrifice his life over this.

He waited for Nasim to remind him that he was on a different path now, and that this kind of thing, where they were from? It happened all the time and would keep happening.

And he waited for him to say that Ibrahim had to decide whether he was going to give in to it and become part of it. Or whether he was going to choose something else.

But Nasim said none of that. The words he had already spoken were maybe the most he had ever spoken to Ibrahim in a single interaction. And it appeared he was done talking.

They went to a house on the west side of the city and picked up some pies. Looked like they were sweet potato. Nasim cracked one open and he and Ibrahim ate it with their hands as they headed back east. It was sweet potato, and the pie was smooth and the crust flaky, buttery and melted in Ibrahim’s mouth. He hadn’t eaten anything sweet in a long time, so it tasted extra sweet, but still, good. He was surprised he was able to enjoy eating anything on a day like this and felt a little guilty about it. How easily life went on.

By the time the pie was done, they were pulling up in front of Nasim’s grandmother’s house, where Nasim ordered Ibrahim to come in. He did it with a mildly suspicious look, like Ibrahim was a hostage trying to get away.

Nasim’s grandmother was a small woman with skin that looked tissue paper soft and just as delicate. Smiling when she saw Nasim, she took the remaining three pies from him and scolded him when he confessed that he had eaten one.

“Doggone it, boy! That’s for my church group!” she said, but still not sounding too broken up about it.

Then she insisted that he and Ibrahim stay for some of the chicken, mac-n-cheese and greens she made for lunch.

“I have my one full meal in the afternoon,” she explained. “Just small meals in the morning and a little something in the evening. It’s how I keep my trim figure and good looks all these years.”

She did look young to be grandmother to someone Nasim’s age, but grandmothers tended to be young around here. Young mothers, young grandmothers … and sometimes young girls like Bree dying early deaths under violent circumstances. The thought made Ibrahim doubt his appetite could be revived even for a grand-momma’s homecooked meal.

“Those pies ain’t gon’ help with them good looks and good figure,” Nasim teased her.

Ibrahim had never seen Nasim smile before.

He was wrong about his appetite. Despite the pie he helped eat, and the intruding thoughts of Bree, his taste buds made an appearance when Nasim’s grandmother brought a plate piled high and set it in front of him.

“Lord,” she said once they were all seated and had heads bowed for a simple grace. “We thank you for this, and all your blessed abundance.”

After they ate, she swatted Nasim with a dishtowel when he suggested another piece of pie for dessert, then walked them to the door. She hugged them both as they left, but her grandson she held a little tighter and for a little longer, as if it just might be their last goodbye.

When they got back to the house, it was almost five o’ clock and when Nasim dropped Ibrahim off at his gate, it was without one more word. He didn’t ask him what he was going to do. He didn’t even look like he cared. He walked away without a backward glance, and left Ibrahim to it, to decide his own fate.

39

Then

“This is getting to be a habit. These unannounced visits.”

Jada bit back her smile and stepped out onto the front porch looking Ibrahim over. He looked much better than he had when he stopped in the day before—well-rested and freshly-shaved, his eyes brighter.

Glancing down, she saw that in his hand was a bag from Dairy Queen.

“And what’s that?”

“The bribe,” he said, grinning.

“Who’re you bribing?”

He glanced over her shoulder and lowered his voice.

“Your parents. For letting me come over and sit with you on a weeknight, the week before your finals.”

She smiled wider. “They’re not going to be happy about it. I was just about to start studying.”

“I figured. That’s why …” He lifted the bag.

“Well, since have gifts, I guess you’d better come in.”

The sun was just going down, casting a purplish-orange glow over everything on the street. There had been rumors of a storm but for now the sky was clear, and only wispy, half-hearted clouds were in sight.

Jada stepped aside to admit him into the house and watched as Ibrahim smiled at her parents and wished them a good evening. There was no trace of his dark mood from a few days ago, nor of him remembering what she had shared about her parents’ misgivings about their relationship. This was the first time he had seen either of them since then.

“I thought since it’s been so humid lately, you might like some ice cream,” Ibrahim told them now. “I stopped off on my way over.”

“Well, that’s nice,” her mother said. She stood and took the bag from him. She turned to Jada’s father for confirmation. “Wasn’t that nice of him, honey?”

“Ibrahim just stopped in for a minute. He knows I have finals so he won’t stay long,” Jada said, heading off the objection she could see building on her father’s face.

“Well, you definitely have to study,” her mother agreed. “But I don’t see why he can’t stay a while and watch some television with us. Cosby will be on in a minute.”

“I thought you worked nights.” It was the first thing Jada’s father said since ‘hello’.

“Yes sir, I do. But I took tonight off. Double-shifts and long nights finally caught up with me.”

“Hard work is … hard work, isn’t it?”

Jada held her breath. Her father was clearly looking to be disagreeable, or at least determined to take Ibrahim down a peg.

“Yes sir. And I’m definitely not afraid of it.”

Jada’s mother, who had been watching the exchange, looked in the Dairy Queen bag. “Three flavors. Looks like vanilla, chocolate or strawberry. Now who wants which?”

~~~

The hum of her father’s and Ibrahim’s voices from the living room was hard to ignore while she reviewed her practice History quiz answers. It had been constant since she left the room. And though she knew her mother was there as a buffer, Jada still worried about what was being said.

She knew two things: one, her father thought Ibrahim might not be “headed in the same direction” as her; and two, Ibrahim was proud. If her father said the wrong thing, she wondered whether his politeness would break.

Unlikely. She was only too well-acquainted with Ibrahim’s self-control. The no-sex thing felt crazy to her. Especially for someone who was so obviously a sexual being. He couldn’t stretch his arms over his head in a yawn without it looking sexy. It almost made her want to agree to his even crazier notion—that they prepare to get married or engaged or whatever—just so she could later coax him into making their relationship physical.

She imagined herself saying something like, ‘But if we’re getting married anyway …’

Jada giggled at the thought. Guys were supposed to be the ones making empty promises of commitment in order to get girls into bed.

It was terrible, but even when he showed up looking all crestfallen about something, she’d almost forgotten about all that the minute he took his shirt off. Part of her had hoped he was coming to her for some purely sexual healing of whatever was bothering him that day.

God. She needed to get ahold of her imagination.

But it wasn’t that easy. She sometimes touched herself when she thought about him. Remembering the indescribable, tingly pleasures of sex with Kyle, she couldn’t even begin to guess how much better it would be with Ibrahim. But her imagination sure gave her plenty of material.

Her bedroom door opened, and Jada jumped, quickly picking up her textbook so it wouldn’t look like she had just been sitting at her desk, daydreaming.

“How’s it going, sweetheart?”

“Okay. How’s things out there?”

“Ibrahim just left, so …”

Jada shoved back from her chair.

“He left? But …”

She moved past her mother and went back out to the living room. Her father was nowhere in sight.

“Mom.” She spun to face her mother who had followed her to the front room. “What …”

“That was a nice gesture, wasn’t it? Him bringing ice cream? Because lately, this heat …”

“But where’d he go?”

Her mother looked nonplussed by her reaction.

“Home, I expect, Jada. It’s late for a weeknight. I’m guessing he’ll have work tomorrow. Just as you have school,” she added pointedly.

“Did Daddy … say something to him?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Just … What did they talk about?”

“That’s between them. I think you should probably get back to your books, don’t you? Before it gets too late?”

Sighing, Jada returned to her room, but her concentration was shot. There was no way she was going to be able to get through reviewing details of the Civil War if she didn’t get at least some idea of how the conversation between her father and Ibrahim had gone.

Waiting until she was sure she heard her mother retire to her parents’ bedroom, she quietly made her way back to the living room and picked up the phone. Paging Ibrahim would mean he had to call her back, and the ringing phone would only make her father annoyed.

Sighing, she replaced the receiver. She would have to call him tomorrow, or hopefully he would have guessed at her curiosity and come see her at lunchtime, or the library.

~~~

He didn’t come to her school the next day at lunchtime. And after school, basketball practice felt interminable. Twice, Jada almost got hit in the face when she lost concentration as the ball was being passed to her. When Coach yelled at her asking where her focus was, she mumbled something about being distracted by finals.

And afterward, though it was something she seldom did on practice days, she went to the library. She waited around in the study lounge for almost two hours before accepting that Ibrahim wasn’t going to show up there, either, then took the bus home, alone since Lisa hadn’t gone to the library with her.

As soon as she was inside, she dumped her gear at the front door and paged him right away, sitting by the phone and waiting for it to ring She hadn’t called out to her mother like she always did when she came in, but neither did she hear her anywhere in the house. Hopefully, she was out at the store or somewhere.

By the time the phone rang about fifteen minutes later, Jada had built up a cluster of nervous energy that sat somewhere low in her stomach, making her feel like she was about to throw up.

“Hey,” Ibrahim said when she answered. He sounded maddeningly calm.

“You left,” she said right away. “Last night.”

“Yeah. I wasn’t planning on spending the night, so …”

“You know what I mean,” she said. “What happened? What did my father … What did you guys talk about?”

“You, mostly.”

Jada shut her eyes. “You didn’t tell him that … courting stuff, did you?”

“I didn’t use that word, but, yeah …”

“Ibrahim.”

“You didn’t want me to tell him?”

Jada thought for a moment.

Didn’t she?

She wasn’t sure. But what she was sure of was that long before it made sense, long before she had reason to feel that way, Ibrahim felt like he was hers. Like he was meant for her. So why did it feel so … off for him to have told her father he wanted to ‘court’ her?

Like the Youth Pastor said, courting was a statement of intention. And if Ibrahim told her father he wanted that with her, it meant he had to feel some of what she felt. Except …

“You talked to my father, and you told him you think you want to work towards a commitment to me.”

“Yeah. I mean, we …”

He sounded confused. She could tell he was reading her tone and didn’t understand it.

“I guess that’s it, then. You talked to my father, so … what? We’re like, engaged?”

“Jada, I don’t know what’s going on right now. Why d’you sound so …?”

“No reason,” she said.

Her throat was tightening. She could feel something like a sob about to surface.

“Jada …”

“I just got back from practice. I need to shower,” she said.

And then she hung up.

She sleepwalked through the rest of the afternoon. She showered, reviewed for her French exam, and then ate dinner with her parents. Her father didn’t mention Ibrahim at all, and Jada didn’t bring him up.

If he had any objections to Ibrahim coming to “keep company” with her, he didn’t voice them. And her father was the kind of man who would have voiced them. That meant he was probably reserving judgment. If she knew him—and she did—he was probably not thrilled by the idea.

After all, he and her mother had said as much in that little talk about how serious she and Ibrahim were. But both her parents were just traditional enough, just conservative enough to respect Ibrahim for approaching them as he had.

The sound of the doorbell startled them all just as they were finishing up the meal. Her father went to answer the door and Jada was helping her mother clear the table when she heard his voice, deep and unmistakable. And then her father’s voice, though she couldn’t hear what he was saying.

Moments later, while Jada and her mother were standing in the kitchen both immobile and transparently trying to eavesdrop, her father entered.

“This is the second night, during your finals week, Jada,” he said. “I told Ibrahim you have to be back within the hour.”

Swallowing, she nodded her assent and went out to the living room, leaving her parents facing each other in the kitchen. Their expressions were unreadable, but Jada felt that some unspoken message, or concern was passing between them.

She found Ibrahim waiting for her, standing by the front door, his car keys still in hand. He was wearing pressed slacks and a dress-shirt, like he had been on an interview or to a semi-formal event; and he looked tired.

He inclined his head in the direction of the door.

“Want to take a ride?”

They drove for a few miles without either of them speaking until they were in the parking lot of a Walmart. Ibrahim pulled into a space far away from all the other parked cars, under a light and turned off the engine. Still looking straight ahead, Jada waited for him to speak. She heard him take a breath.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Jada turned in her seat. “What’re you …?”

“I messed up, didn’t I? And skipped a real important step.”

She said nothing.

“It’s been a while since I told you about where I hope we’ll go, you and me. But even then, I told you. I didn’t ask you. And I should have. And I definitely should have asked you before I talked to your father about anything.”

Jada nodded, but still didn’t speak. Her throat was constricting again, just as it had earlier that afternoon, but now for different reasons.

“So … I’m sorry,” he said again.

He looked at her and there was something in his eyes. A hint of the same something she had seen the day he showed up when her mother was out and all he wanted was to lie down with her for a while.

“It’s not cool that I talked to your father before I looked at you and said … to you … that I want to marry you. I want to take care of you. I want to one day make babies with you. I want to make … my life with you.”

It was hard not to smile, not to crawl across the armrest to his side of the car and to straddle him.

“So, now I’m asking. D’you want …?”

“Yes.”

Ibrahim smiled for the first time. “I haven’t even finished saying what I wanted to say yet.”

Jada shook her head. She reached for him, yanking on the front of his shirt, pulling him toward her.

“No need,” she said, shaking her head. “Don’t be stupid, of course I want all of that. And we have less than an hour now before you have to take me home, so just … kiss me.”

40

Then

“So this is what vindaloo is supposed to taste like, huh?”

“I make very good vindaloo,” Raj returned. “Just without all the ghee.”

“Then maybe the ghee is what makes this better.”

“Hardly,” Raj said. “But I’m glad you like it. This is one of my favorite restaurants.”

When Raj invited him a week earlier to go have some authentic Indian cuisine, Ibrahim was embarrassed to remember that he hesitated. His and Raj’s friendship and philosophical conversations, confined to the office in Redwood City while they were both working was one thing. To leave the premises and eat elsewhere felt a little boundary-crossing. Like when your school-friend first invited you over to their house to play videogames or shoot hoops.

“I got into the program I applied for,” Raj said, casually, reaching for a piece of naan. “The one at MIT. And as luck would have it, Vidhya got into Harvard after all. She was worried she wouldn’t.”

“Dang,” Ibrahim breathed. “Y’all are some smart …”

“That’s a stereotype,” Raj said.

“Is it?” Ibrahim ribbed him. “Is it really though?”

Raj laughed.

“So, Boston, huh?” Ibrahim nodded thoughtfully.

He had never been to the East Coast. Always wanted to see New York City, but it had always felt so far away, and the steps to make it happen too numerous and complicated.

“Cambridge, actually.”

“Couldn’t have worked out any better. You and your future wife going to school in the same city.”

“It didn’t just ‘work out’. It was the plan.”

“How was it the plan? You didn’t even know her when she applied.”

“Not our plan,” Raj said. “Not a mortal plan. Divine.”

Ibrahim picked up his fork and took a bite of chicken.

Raj laughed again. “I know you don’t believe in that, but honestly, take your high-schooler for instance …”

Ibrahim gave him a look.

“Take Jada,” Raj corrected himself. “Do you really think it was an accident you met her just weeks before you went to jail? And that through her letters to you, you had to focus and get to know her, undistracted? Something you never would have done if you weren’t incarcerated?”

Incarcerated. Raj would never just say ‘in jail’ like a regular person. Even though he sometimes made fun of it, it filled Ibrahim with admiration as well. It made him think about his own vocabulary and diction and want to improve both.

Over time, Ibrahim had grown comfortable enough to share with Raj most of the details of his life. He told him about his mother’s death, finishing school early, and even about his brief stay in California’s correctional system. The only thing he didn’t share was that crime he was convicted of wasn’t his own. Nor did he tell him about Breonna whose name it was still sometimes difficult to say aloud.

“So, by that reasoning, I went to jail just so I could get together with Jada.”

“No.” Raj shook his head. “You probably would have ‘gotten together’ with her … in one manner of speaking, even if you hadn’t gone to jail. You might have … slept with her, for instance. And then probably left it at that. What going to jail did is it allowed you to know her.”

“I wouldn’t have had sex with her,” Ibrahim said.

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “I knew she was different. Even before jail.”

“Okay. And what did you do about it?”

He chased her off. Because he knew he would be no good for her. He chased her off and worried later, that he was the one who wouldn’t be able to stay away. But he would have. It would have been hard, but he would have.

“Okay, fine. Maybe you’re right. I wouldn’t have gotten to know her if I didn’t go to jail.”

Raj looked satisfied. “See? ‘And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose.’ Romans 8:28 in your Christian Bible.”

While Ibrahim liked the verse, he wasn’t sure he could claim to love God. He hadn’t thought about Him much until his mother died, and since Bree’s death, his relationship with God had gotten downright complicated.

Her memorial, which he went to a week earlier had been hard. There was no coffin because there was no money for burial. Just an urn and a single blown up photograph that was many years old. The service had been as sad and as under-attended as Bree’s life had been.

“In my Christian Bible?” Ibrahim laughed, trying to shove thoughts of Bree aside. “What’d I tell you about that?”

“You may not identify as Christian but at least we agree, don’t we, that all paths lead to God in the end?”

“Or to the other place.”

“I don’t believe in the other place.”

“You don’t believe in Hell?”

“Not as an afterlife, no.” Raj shook his head. “It’s here. Right now.”

Ibrahim was inclined to agree with him.

In a flash, he remembered Breonna’s face. Her face when he found her, and her face as he knew her, before she’d been beaten to death. She hadn’t had much happiness in this life. For her to go to the next one and be punished eternally for something like … premarital sex? That seemed arbitrary, and cruel. Not like any God Ibrahim wanted to believe in.

“You can’t take one without the other, though,” Ibrahim said. “Not in my Christian Bible as you call it. If you believe in Heaven, you accept the existence of Hell.”

“And that’s one reason why I’m not a Christian. But the fundamental premise is the same in most belief systems. There is always The One who is Most Holy.”

“I like that,” Ibrahim said, nodding. “I can get with that: The One who is Most Holy.”

“It’s true, though. The single common denominator in all belief systems is the Most Holy, who is merciful and gives countless chances for redemption” Raj said, chewing on yet another piece of naan. “Before I go to Cambridge, I’ll give you a book. I’ll need to leave many behind or give them away. I may as well give some of them to you. This one you’ll like. It’s called ‘The World’s Religions’.”

“I’ll read it,” Ibrahim promised, his interest piqued once again.

The Redeemer, after all, had sent him Jada.

~~~

The sun wasn’t yet up when Ibrahim pushed open the gate and stood still for a moment, mentally mapping out his route. He was tired, but he still had to run. His body had come to need and expect it. And his mind did as well.

Every morning that he ran, he found he could come back home, take a long hot shower and get another few hours of a deeper more restful sleep than he may have gotten the night before.

When he ran, he thought about Bree, and tried to forgive himself for not being as good to her as he could have been.

And he thought about the new ideas he was cramming into his brain from all the books Raj was leaving behind. Ibrahim had driven over to his apartment one weekend to get them and been shocked to realize how many there were.

Dang, he said when Raj showed him the seven boxes he had set aside. You want me to take all this?

Why not? There’s a very fine education in those boxes.

Is this every book you bought for every single class you took at Stanford?

Yes, Raj said with a straight face. Then he thought for a moment. Actually, no. The science and technology books I sold, but these are all the books from my Arts & Humanities classes. They’re the ones I think you’ll find most interesting.

The subjects were wide-ranging—literature, sociology, psychology, and of course, theology, Raj’s favorite subject next to coding. To have that many books, and to have someone see him as a person who would want them and find them “interesting” was more than novel, it was an epiphany.

To realize now at this late stage that he had a love of learning was both a blessing and a curse. Ibrahim thought seriously about college, but then ... he thought about Jada. Of course, while he ran, he thought about Jada and what was building between them. He wanted to marry her. He was sure of it now.

And it felt crazy, just like she said it was. And they were too young, just like her father said. But it also felt right, for reasons he was still not able to explain even to himself.

He visited her house at least twice a week now, and at least half the time it was to see her father as much as it was to see her.

My wife and I, Mr. Green said to him, both care about how you treat Jada. And from what I can see, you treat her very well. Very respectfully. But where we differ is, while my wife then thinks about how you make Jada feel, I care about how she will live. And on what.

I don’t have all those answers yet, sir, Ibrahim told him honestly. But I can promise you that so long as she’s with me, Jada will never go without. No matter what I have to do to make sure of that. I wouldn’t take her out of this comfortable life you made for her, and into one that’s constant struggle. You have my word.

But his word counted for nothing until Mr. Green got to know him better, so his mission was to demonstrate it through consistency. And what better way to do that than to just keep showing up?

And in the meantime, he had to plan. He couldn’t work for Samuel cleaning buildings forever. Not when there was so much more out there. He’d always known that, but now he also knew it was attainable.

On mile three, he got a cramp in his side, and stopped to wait it out, bent at the waist, his hands pressed one atop the other into his side. When he lifted his head, he saw that a car had slowed next to him.

“Need a ride home?” Dee asked, sticking her head out the window.

“Got a couple more miles to do.”

“Don’t look to me like you gon’ make it,” she said, curling her upper lip.

Conceding defeat, Ibrahim opened the door on the passenger side and got in.

“Since when you been into jogging?” she asked, looking him over.

“Running? Few weeks now.” He was perspiring heavily, so Ibrahim reached over and turned on the AC, directing one of the vents directly at him.

“You look good.” Dee’s eyes traveled his length. “Like a professional sprinter. You should get Manny to run with you. He’s starting to get a gut from all that damn drinkin’.”

At the mention of his brother, Ibrahim tried to remember whether he was alone. Even though he was presently on good terms with Dee, there was no telling from night to night whether he would have other female company.

“Thanks,” he said, shifting in the seat, feeling the discomfort of the beads of perspiration running down his back, and the equally uncomfortable weight of Dee’s stare.

“So … you and my cousin, huh?”

Ibrahim stilled.

“Yeah,” he said finally, deciding that it was better not to say too much.

“She’s real serious about you, Prophet.” Dee’s tone held a note of warning. “Real serious.”

“And I’m real serious about her.”

“She’s not like me.”

“And I’m not like Manny.”

At that, Dee laughed, but she sounded a little hurt, too.

Ibrahim said nothing.

“You want to hear something crazy?” Dee asked. “After what happened to your friend, Breonna? I caught myself thinkin’ ‘Immanuel would never do no shit like that to me.’ Like that’s a recommendation or something.”

She laughed harshly and shook her head.

“I bet me and him must look real stupid to you, huh?” she said. “All that back and forth bullshit.”

He didn’t think the back and forth with Manny and Dee was stupid. He thought it was sad. They had been at it so long, it was no longer possible to figure out who was the victim and who was the perpetrator. But what he did know, was that Manny could go on like this forever, and Dee was beginning to look weary of the fight.

“I would be with your brother, Prophet. Like for real be with him. Like get married or whatever? I swear I would. But he ain’t …” She broke off and shook her head. “How y’all turned out so different I’ll never know.”

“My brother loves you Dee. In every way he knows how.”

“He does, huh?” She sounded only partly convinced. “And what about you? You love my cousin?”

“Yeah,” he said, speaking aloud to Dee words he only then realized he had yet to say to Jada. “I do. I love her.”

41

Then

“You asked this girl to marry you?” His father sounded incredulous. “This girl none of us has even met.”

“I’ve met her,” Manny said, chewing on his toothpick. “She’s a good girl.”

“Shut up, Immanuel,” their father said. “I’m talkin’ to your brother. What is it, Prophet? She pregnant? Because …”

“She’s not pregnant.”

“Then I don’t get it.”

“She’s going to be my wife,” he said shrugging.

“Why would you want to do that?” His father was still in his BART uniform, having just come in from work and sat down to dinner with them when Ibrahim broke the news. The dinner Ibrahim had cooked, because he was basically the only one who bothered, and it made sense to cook for everyone if he was going to do it at all.

“The usual reasons.”

He wasn’t about to profess his love in front of his brothers and father. Not because he wanted to deny it, but because it might cheapen it. Or they might.

“What’re those?” his father scoffed. “What … reasons are those?”

“You tell me why I shouldn’t,” Ibrahim said. “Because you got some other big plans for my life? Something you think I need to be working toward? You tell me, Pops. What’re your plans for me?”

“It ain’t about what plans I have for you. You old enough to plan for yourself. But this …”

“Is part of my plan. Jada is part of my plan. The plan doesn’t work without her.”

“What is it? The bullshit job I know you got with Nasim … the one you think I ain’t know about? That your plan? Custodial work and four babies in five years? Tell me, Ibrahim. What is your plan?”

“Not this,” he said, looking around him. “Not this.”

“So you gon’ fuck your whole life up …”

“Pops.” Isaac spoke for the first time. “It’s his choice. He’s grown. We need to let him make it.”

“The fuck we do! Who is this girl, anyway?”

“Dee’s cousin,” Manny chimed in.

Their father laughed explosively. “Oh, so that oughta turn out real good. Dee’s cousin!” He shook his head. “You a fool. But I guess your brother’s right. You a grown fool. So, you do what you gotta do, I guess.”

Then he shoved back from the table and walked out of the kitchen.

Isaac tipped his chin at him, and Ibrahim gave him a brief smile.

“Thanks for …”

“He’s right though, man. You can’t take care of a family cleaning bathrooms. You feel like you need to get married, that’s one thing. But you need to get back in on this game and make some money.”

Manny was nodding his agreement, and Ibrahim felt suddenly like he was looking at his brothers, their kitchen, this house, and even his old self, the person he used to be, from the end of a long telescope. His body was there, but his mind and his focus had already drifted far, far, away.

~~~

Jada found him sitting on a wall just outside the auditorium, one knee drawn up to his chest, gazing upward toward the sky. As she drew closer, she didn’t speak at first, but just watched him. He probably didn’t hear her approach over the rhythmic pounding of the music, audible even outside.

Sometimes, when she caught sight of Ibrahim when he didn’t know anyone was looking, he seemed infinitely unknowable and alone. Not lonely though, because he never seemed to truly crave the company of other people. There was no ‘crew,’ nor an omnipresent best friend and not even a roster of names he mentioned repeatedly, unless they were the names of his brothers.

Ibrahim was as self-contained and self-sufficient a person as she had ever met. Of all his traits, this was the one that scared her. Jada didn’t think there was anything strange about it, she just wondered whether someone who seemed to need no one would ever need her.

And she wanted him to, because she was already beginning to need him.

“I feel like you’re not having a good time.”

Ibrahim turned at the sound of her voice.

He smiled as he looked her over, taking in the view of her coming toward him, the length of her yellow chiffon prom dress swirling around her. The pale color was one he had personally picked, when, a few weeks ago, she presented him with pieces of fabric in different colors and asked which he liked best.

He said he chose it because the yellow reminded him of that hot day, long ago now, when they had both tagged along with Dee and Manny to watch flashy cars perform stunts. She had preferred a green fabric herself but went along with his choice because she liked the idea that he chose it based on a memory of her.

“Just getting a little air. It’s kinda close in there.”

They were two hours into her senior prom and Jada had been winding around the room squealing and dancing with her girlfriends when she noticed he was gone. Ibrahim had danced some of the slow dances with her but spent most of the night sitting at one of the tables, watching her and smiling whenever she glanced over at him which was often. But if he didn’t see her looking, he didn’t smile. He looked sad.

When she looked up and discovered him gone, Jada immediately went searching. He had been quiet for the past several weeks, speaking even less than he normally did, which had never been that much to begin with. It might have worried her, made her question his feelings or something, except that he was as attentive as he had always been, and even a little overprotective.

Each night when he called, he had taken to asking her if everything was okay. Not, ‘are you good?’ which was how he usually greeted her, or even, ‘how are you?’ but ‘is everything okay?’

It sounded like he had concerns for her safety, which was crazy, but she couldn’t shake the feeling.

At a block party they had gone to the week before with Manny and Dee, he kept an arm around her waist almost the entire time, which she loved of course, but which was unlike of him. That time, she had been the one to ask him if everything was okay and he responded with a tense, tight smile.

Yeah, he said. Of course.

But she could tell he didn’t want to be there, or more to the point, didn’t want her to be there. He had only agreed to go in the first place because it was Dee’s idea of taking her out to celebrate her graduation.

Later in the night when the party was breaking up and dozens of people were milling around outside getting into rides and such, someone’s motorcycle backfired. Ibrahim had grabbed her hard, almost wrenching her arm as he pulled her against his chest, both arms around her from behind, hunched over her in a reverse bearhug.

Jada felt his heart skipping against her back just before he realized what it was and let her go.

Ibrahim, she’d said, looking up at him. You okay?

Even she could tell from the sound that it obviously wasn’t what he feared it might have been.

Yeah, he said. Yeah.

Then she knew for certain something was off, but he didn’t tell her, and she had no time to ask because right after that he said it was time to go.

Now, he held her hand and pulled her closer, so she was leaning back against the wall and between his now-spread legs, his arms draped over her shoulders.

“What’re you out here thinking about?” she asked holding him by both wrists.

“I was thinking about how tomorrow isn’t promised,” he said.

Jada turned to look at him.

“That’s a depressing thought to be having at a party. Why were you thinking that?”

Something entered his eyes then flitted away just as quickly. Something that he was choosing not to share. Someone he knew, probably?

Jada was fully aware now of what his brothers were mixed up in. And Ibrahim had implied that even his father might not have completely clean hands. So, when she heard about all the shootings happening around the city, she often wondered whether anyone he knew even in passing might be among the dead. But it seemed too grotesque to ask such a thing, and she wasn’t sure he would acknowledge it if he did know someone who had died. That part of his life and past, he was always very close-lipped about.

“I was thinking about how Klara can’t work anymore, and …”

“That’s the old lady we went to visit that time, right?”

“Yeah. She’s been laid off, and now she can get unemployment, and maybe even SSI, but when I went to see her the other day, I could tell she was still scared. About not working, and what that’ll feel like. She said ‘now, I guess I just wait to die.’”

Jada listened.

“And it made me wonder, when had she even lived, y’know? She took care of her husband and kid, her husband died and then she had this crappy job. But even so, losing the crappy job makes her feel like her life is over. I mean, what kind of way to live is that?”

And when she didn’t respond to that either, Ibrahim shook his head and kissed her lightly on the lips.

“Sorry. You’re right. That’s depressing.”

“No,” Jada said. “It’s fine.”

“It made me think, ‘why wait?’ I mean, we probably both got a list a mile long—I know I do—of things I want to do and have before I feel like I can go to your father and say, ‘now I’m ready, Mr. Green. I’m ready to marry your daughter. I have a plan in place.’ But sometimes …”

His voice trailed off and Jada felt her stomach flutter.

“But sometimes …?” she prompted.

“Sometimes, I wonder whether we should just go ahead and do it.”

“Do … what?”

“Get married.” He looked directly into her eyes, searching and studying and reading them.

“Okay,” she said.

Ibrahim gave a startled laugh. “What?”

“I said, ‘okay’.” Her voice shook a little, but not from uncertainty.

Before, what he offered was that they to plan make a later plan to get married. Now he was saying they should just plan it.

“You would say ‘yes’.”

It was a question without being a question.

“I am saying ‘yes’. Why? Are you trying to take it back?” she demanded.

This time his laughter was more relaxed. Happier.

“No, but …”

“But what, Ibrahim? Do you want to marry me or not?”

“Yeah! But …”

Jada took a step back and folded her arms. “But, what?”

“I can’t even legally drink yet. We don’t have a place to live …” All the objections seemed to be occurring to him as he spoke.

“Okay, then we’ll get married when those things are no longer true,” she said. “And what else?”

“What else?” He looked confused.

“What are some other reasons we can’t do it right now?”

“You have school. Nursing school.”

Jada had just gotten into the nursing program she had been waiting to hear from. She could get an associate’s in two years, a bachelor’s with direct entry in three, or stay for four.

“But we could still do it. Even before I finish school.”

“And you’d want to do that?”

Why did he still sound so surprised?

“Yes,” she said for the third time. “Because I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he said.

Jada smiled.

Ibrahim was not impulsive in his thoughts or deeds and Jada had never believed he would be so with his emotions either. She may have fallen in love with him, but he had grown in love with her.

“Took you long enough.”

“What?”

“To say it. I don’t know. And maybe to … feel it.”

“Nah, baby.” He pulled her closer. “It didn’t take long for me to feel it. It just took me a minute to recognize it.”

42

Then

“They can’t believe it. When I told them, they thought I was messing around.”

Jada was lying on her back, head in his lap and legs draped over the arms of her parents’ sofa. They were alone in the house, something her parents had only recently begun permitting now that a wedding was in the offing, but still never for very long.

It was Sunday, and they had a church meeting to attend for about an hour and were due back soon. From the moment he walked in, Jada had been all over him and Ibrahim had been the one to slow it down, pulling her back out into the living room to watch television since kissing and grinding on her bed was probably not the road to continued abstinence.

Jada was telling him about breaking the news to Lisa and Chloe that she was engaged, and their shocked reactions.

“How ‘bout Kyle? How’d he react?” he asked.

“Didn’t tell him directly, but I’m sure the news will make it to him soon enough. I’m sure he won’t care. He’s getting ready to leave for college.”

“Did you like it? With him, when y’all had sex?”

“I didn’t say I had sex with Kyle.”

“So, who was it?”

“Ibrahim.”

“Anyone I would’ve met?”

Jada exhaled. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“So, yeah. Kyle. Right?”

She said nothing.

“Okay, so just tell me this. Did you like it?”

For a moment it looked like she might break, then she just exhaled once again.

“I mean … he was the only one, right?” he confirmed. “This mystery dude?”

“Yes, he was the only one, and yes I liked it,” she said, speaking quickly. She sat up and turned to face him.

Ibrahim looked at her. He bit his lower lip and nodded.

“Are you trying to start a fight with me?” Jada asked. “Because this is what you sound like when you’re trying to start fights.”

“I don’t try to start fights.”

“Rarely, but yes, sometimes you do. And when you do, this is exactly what it sounds like.” She stared at him with her chin lifted.

And this was what it looked like when she saw him coming and was preparing to take him on.

“I don’t want to fight,” he said, then thought for a moment. “That’s not true.” He shook his head. “What I mean is … I don’t want to fight with you. But I definitely want to fight the dude who’s been with you in a way I haven’t been with you yet.”

That made her smile.

“Well, you know whenever you want to …”

“I want to now,” Ibrahim said, kissing the side of her neck and hearing her breath catch in her throat. “I want to so bad you don’t even know … But nah, not till I can take care of you, in all the ways a man needs to take care of his woman. Not just physically. But spiritually, materially … emotionally.”

“So then … we’re more than halfway there,” Jada said, leaning her forehead against his.

Ibrahim’s heart wrenched in his chest when he looked at her sometimes. He would have to take care of her. Once they were married, it would be all him. No more sending her home to Mommy and Daddy to keep her safe. Where he went, she would go. Where and how he lived, she would live. She would trust him with her very life. And he would have to step up.

“I know, baby. But more than halfway’s not good enough. Not for us.”

~~~

They were married on a rainy Thursday in City Hall.

Jada wore a thirty-dollar white dress she found on sale in the mall, and the white pumps from her high school graduation. Ibrahim wore a rented morning suit and new brown shoes. He kept clearing his throat nervously while he said his vows.

Her father cried noiselessly through the ceremony and her mother smiled because she was just the kind of woman who loved weddings. Dee was her maid-of-honor and Ibrahim’s brother, Manny stood up for him. Afterwards, they went to brunch, just the two families. Her parents, and Ibrahim’s brothers and father, eating waffles and pancakes in a chain restaurant where the coffee was tepid and the eggs rubbery.

It was awkward because hardly anyone knew each other, and Ibrahim’s father, Levi, was less than friendly. Only Dee and Manny seemed to know how to start and keep a conversation going, and even theirs was tense because they were fighting again. Ibrahim’s eldest brother, Isaac, was a practical stranger to her and it was only when she met his eyes across the table—so much like and yet so different from her new husband’s—that Jada hadn’t realized how much Ibrahim had kept his family away from hers.

If they had been in town, Jada would have had them there, but Lisa and Chloe had by then gone back for their second year of college out of state, as had Kyle and almost everyone in her friend group. Jada knew her father was disappointed she hadn’t made the same kinds of choices. He was still ambivalent about the marriage, even though she had completed the first year of her nursing program. It didn’t dim her happiness, though. Ibrahim was her future, and she was sure she made the right decision.

After brunch, they were alone, and Ibrahim drove her to their new apartment. It was in a complex they had chosen together and was a tiny one-bedroom but in a quiet, safe neighborhood, one that people said was “up and coming.” There were trees visible from their large living room window, and one could almost believe that they were in the country.

“We’re home,” Ibrahim said when he unlocked the front door.

There was very little furniture, all of it secondhand, and the entire place smelled like paint. And they didn’t know it then, but they would later have a few frustrating moments when they realized that they lacked basic household items, like a can opener and an iron. Neither of them had lived alone before, nor had to set up a home, so there had been plenty of omissions.

But right then, everything felt perfect to Jada.

When the door was shut behind them, she stood in the living room. Her mother had helped her decorate it, and it had come out nicely, considering how little they had to work with. She wasn’t interested in the living room though. Not now.

Turning, she tossed her small clutch and modest bouquet onto the sofa. From the moment they crossed the threshold, her entire body felt like it was vibrating with the need to be touched.

Ibrahim’s fingers at the nape of her neck made her jump and then Jada found that she couldn’t move as he pulled the zipper down and slid her dress off her shoulders. By the time it puddled at her feet she was trembling, visibly, obviously trembling.

“Baby,” Ibrahim said. “Look at me.”

She turned to face him so she could do as he asked and saw the question in his eyes, and the concern.

“You okay?”

Jada nodded, three quick nods in succession.

Ibrahim put his hands on her forearms, as if to steady her.

“Then why …?”

“I just … I want you, that’s all.”

His face relaxed. And he smiled.

~~~

When he led Jada to the bedroom, Ibrahim’s heart was beating hard in his chest. Like this was something he had never done before. That’s what it felt like. Maybe he had Bree to thank for that. For getting him to think about what it meant, what it really meant when a woman gave her body to a man, and what it might cost her every time she did.

Or maybe he should have thanked Raj and all his talk about spiritual connections and the sacredness of the sex act between a husband and wife. Probably, he should thank them both.

Now, Jada was standing in front of him, wearing her wedding undergarments. She watched as he undressed, walking backward and sitting on the edge of the bed. When he was only in his boxers, the corners of her lips turned slightly upward, and he could see in her eyes that what she said in the living room was true. She wanted him.

“I can’t believe you’re my husband,” she said quietly.

It sounded like she was half talking to herself, so Ibrahim laughed, which relieved some of the heaviness in the room.

“You’re cute,” he said, advancing toward her.

Sliding his fingers beneath the straps of her bra, he slid them down her shoulders and reached behind her to unfasten the clasp and when it fell to her lap, tossed the bra aside. He looked at her for a moment, for the first time ever seeing her breasts fully bared.

Hands on her shoulders, he exerted gentle pressure, so she lay on her back.

“Can you believe I’m your wife?” Jada asked lifting her head briefly to look at him. “That you have a wife?”

“Yes,” he said, reaching for the waistband of her panties, and pulling them off.

Ibrahim heard the soft but sharp intake of breath when she realized she was fully naked. And suddenly, there was no more talking.

Raising herself onto her elbows, Jada watched him as he took her in, his hands on her ankles, spreading her legs. She swallowed, and he heard the rhythm of her breaths, shallower and faster just from him looking at her. He took everything in—the length and shape of her legs, the arches of her feet, the smoothness of her skin and flat concavity of her stomach. The way her nipples turned to small brown pearls and her breasts heaved.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, pressing his lips to her inner thigh.

Jada jerked at the contact, and fell back fully, allowing her elbows to collapse as though she could no longer bear to look. The trembling was back as he kissed one thigh and then the other, moving closer to her core. When he got there, he paused, and studied that part of her as well.

“So beautiful.”

At the first touch, she arched off the bed, so he had to hold her in place, his forearms keeping thighs immobile. She was like silk against his tongue and tasted sweet. Pressing closer, he went deeper, and Jada began a moaning repetition of his name.

He felt when she was about to orgasm, and slowed a little, wanting nothing to obscure the sensation. When she came, she stopped thrashing, but jerked a few times, went very still, and finally, issued a soft, long, aahhh.

“Ibrahim …”

She said his name with a note of wondrousness, like he had unhung the stars placed one directly in her hand.

~~~

It had only just gotten dark when Ibrahim finally fell asleep. Jada got up from bed naked and sprinted across the hall to the bathroom to pee before remembering that she didn’t have to sprint. She could walk the entire apartment in the buff. Because it was her apartment. Hers, and Ibrahim’s. They were married and this was their home.

Smiling through her pee though it stung a little, Jada chewed on the corner of her pinkie finger. She was too excited to sleep. Just from the novelty of being in bed with Ibrahim, nothing at all between them, just skin to skin. When he first drifted off, she had watched him for a while, then leaned over and pressed her face into his chest, inhaling him.

She peeled the sheets back and studied every inch of his body, unable to stop herself from occasionally touching. His chest, his abs, his thighs, even his feet. Ibrahim had really gnarly feet. She almost laughed at the discovery of this imperfection, and wondered why she hadn’t noticed them before, like when they went to the beach.

Probably because she had spent most of that afternoon staring into his eyes like a besotted fool. But what she felt then, in comparison to what she felt now was child’s play.

Getting up from the toilet, she wiped, gingerly and then washed her hands, staring into the bathroom mirror. Her wedding makeup was smudged, her hair a godawful mess and her lips slightly swollen. But she looked the same.

How, she had no idea, because everything had changed.

She wasn’t Jada Green anymore. She was Jada Carter, Ibrahim’s wife. And she wasn’t the girl he met just over two years ago, she was a woman.

Going back into the bedroom, at first she tried to be quiet so she wouldn’t wake him. But seeing him like that, lying naked among the sheets, sprawled like a starfish, still only accustomed to sleeping alone, it struck Jada that she didn’t need to defer or respect his space, or even his need for sleep.

She would do those things of course, later. Because it was considerate to do that for one’s spouse. But she didn’t need to, because now he was hers. To have, and hold.

Shoving aside the sheets, she looked at his sleeping penis, flaccid against his thigh. Without stopping to think, she crawled closer, took it in her hand, lowered her head and closed her lips around it. Unlike Lisa, she had never done this for a boyfriend. It felt strange.

Ibrahim moaned softly so she tested the taste with her tongue, moving it around the head and then the shaft. Ibrahim moaned a little louder, and she took him in deeper.

The sounds he made were gratifying and made her feel powerful, like for the first time, she owned him just as it seemed he had always owned her.

“Jada …”

The sound of him gasping her name spurred her forward. Improvising and testing his responses, she sucked, licked, lightly scored him with her teeth and lowered herself as far as her gag reflex would allow. She noticed how much harder he got, and the slightly salty, slick taste that coated her tongue. She was so engrossed in this novel, erotic activity, it startled her when Ibrahim pulled back and abruptly out of her mouth.

“Baby,” he said, still gasping. “Nah. Not … not … yet.”

Seeing the look on his face, the dazed desperation in his eyes, Jada felt ridiculously proud of herself.

Ibrahim hooked his arms under hers and pulled her atop him, holding her waist and positioning himself between her legs. He was sleepy-eyed and tired, but he was powerless too, and could not resist doing what he did next.

Jada looked down, craning her neck to watch as he slowly entered her, mouth open in wonder. There was the same tingling pleasure, but this time was different from when he first entered her hours ago. This time Jada felt the moment of their joining not only as something physical, but as something spiritual, the closest she had ever come to the Divine.

43

Now

“Jada.”

He sounds surprised to find her still up.

The jingle of Ibrahim’s keys in the door was just as much of a surprise to her, since she wasn’t expecting him home until Monday evening.

It is well after midnight and as he comes into view, Jada studies his face, his posture, his attire. He is wearing the same jeans he left in, but a different shirt, maybe borrowed from Kaleem. She hasn’t seen him in more than twenty-four hours, and though that isn’t a long time in the grand scheme of things, it feels much longer.

Sitting on the sofa, legs curled beneath her, and hands clasped around a mug of tea, Jada had long accepted that tonight, sleep would arrive only after a hard-fought battle. She has been sitting here since nine-thirty, just … thinking.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi.” Ibrahim takes a seat in the armchair opposite her.

“How are you?” she asks.

Her husband looks momentarily taken aback by the question. Maybe he expected a fight.

“I’m good,” he says. “Better.”

“Your friend you went to see,” she begins carefully. “Was it … I thought that maybe because I mentioned her name, you might have thought of her. You were close at one time, so I wondered …”

Ibrahim looks confused now. “Baby, I don’t who you’re …”

“Breonna. I mentioned her on Saturday morning, and then the next thing I knew you were calling me from some ‘old friend’s’ house. So, I wondered.”

Ibrahim’s head drops and he runs both hands over his face, downward until only his mouth is covered.

“I mean, I’m not accusing you of …”

“Breonna’s dead, Jada. She’s been dead for well over twenty years now. She was gone before we even got married.” He looks down as he says this.

Jada sits up, more alert now.

“What?”

She doesn’t know why this news takes her aback. She never even knew the girl, really. But there has always been a sense of her having once been important, significant in ways that Jada couldn’t quite put her finger on.

“Yeah. I was with my dude from way back. Raj. He went to Stanford.” Ibrahim grins. “And I guess he was … my higher education.”

“What does that mean, your higher …?” Jada shakes her head. “I don’t remember you mentioning him.”

The oblique reference, and the implication of an inside joke she isn’t privy to irritates her.

“Maybe I didn’t. He moved. Went to MIT before you could meet him. We didn’t really stay in touch too much while he was there.” Ibrahim shrugged. “Should have. But we didn’t.”

“And all of a sudden you got in touch now? How?”

“I was running with Kaleem and I remembered, just out of nowhere that his neighborhood is the same one where I used to clean. One of the ones where I used to clean, anyway.

“Raj worked in one of the buildings. We had some pretty deep conversations. He helped me. I like to think I might have helped him, too, with some things.”

“What kinds of things?”

“He’s from an Indian immigrant family … Has a strong sense of duty, interesting ideas about love and marriage and women … He was conflicted, I think. About what kind of life he wanted. An Americanized life, or something more, I don’t know, traditional according to his background, or ...”

Narrowing her eyes, Jada puts down her mug.

“And you helped him decide?”

“Nah. I don’t think so. I listened while he talked through his decision and decided for himself.”

“And which did he choose?”

“The traditional life. Married a girl his family arranged for him. Had two kids.”

Sagging back into her seat, Jada looks at him. “You never breathed a word about any of this while it was happening. This friend. Nothing.”

“Maybe because he was helping me, too.”

“With …?”

“You.”

“Me?” Jada says. “You needed … help with … me?”

“Same help as I gave him. Someone to talk things through with while I decided.”

“What did you need to decide, Ibrahim?”

She feels betrayed. She never needed help deciding about him. He was always a certainty. From the moment she saw him, she was sure. She didn’t wonder ‘if’, she wondered only ‘how’ and ‘when’. Even though her parents were ambivalent, she never was.

“I don’t know, Jada. If it would be … selfish to allow myself to love you. The way I always knew you loved me. Something like that.”

Jada expels a sharp breath. She doesn’t know what to say.

“I knew you loved me,” he continues. “Long before I could make myself admit that I loved you too, I knew you loved me. And I wanted you … I wanted you so, so bad. But I didn’t know if I deserved you. Or that I could give you what you deserved.”

Jada shuts her eyes and shakes her head.

“When you say that … it just drives me insane. I don’t know what you …”

“Marrakesh,” he says.

“What?”

“You were the girl who wanted to go to Marrakesh. And to Paris. You wanted to be a nurse. You probably could have married a doctor. You …”

“Will you stop!” Jada gets up from the sofa, hands on top of her head. “I don’t care about any of that. I never did! Not once I had you. What I wanted most was you!”

Ibrahim falls silent. He allows her an outburst without telling her, as he often does, ‘That isn’t how we speak to each other, sweetheart. That’s not us.’ Often did. Not does. They don’t have outbursts now so there is no need for him to chide her. They are quiet and careful.

Until now. Until this weekend.

She had loved the vision he had for them. The image in his head of the perfect Black family. Husband at the head, wife and children following. Upright, respectful, gracious and dignified. Everything in order. But soon it seemed the only place he allowed for passion and improvisation was in their bedroom. In all other things, Ibrahim could never stand disorder. And he had never forgiven himself for being the one who—in his mind at least—made a mess, of their family life.

“I have to tell you something,” Jada says, taking a deep breath. “And it may make you angry with me that I never told you before.”

“Then why are you telling me now?”

“Because I think you’re walking around with this idea that you screwed up. Got us off plan or something. I guess I just want you to know that …”

“Then just tell me.”

She can see the dread in his eyes. She knows what he thinks she is about to say. But it isn’t that.

“I got pregnant on purpose. With Kaleem. That wasn’t an accident.”

Ibrahim looks dazed for a moment like the words are incomprehensible. And once comprehension enters his eyes, he seems puzzled.

“When I said I didn’t know what happened? That maybe I missed a pill? I lied. I’d missed more than one. More than two or three. I missed months’ worth of pills. I was throwing them away and pretending to take them.”

They had been married only a year when she started talking to him about babies. She had been patient though she ached for them almost right away. Not just to have an infant of her own, but she wanted his babies. The love they made had been everything she imagined it would be, it had been more than she imagined it would be. And she wanted it to be fruitful.

She remembers thinking those precise words. She wanted their lovemaking to bear fruit, and it felt awful to prevent that from happening, like she was subverting the course of nature.

But Ibrahim wouldn’t even entertain the conversation.

We’re not there yet, sweetheart, he’d say. The time isn’t right. Not right now.

The right time for him might have meant a house with a large yard first, a new job for them both where together they were bringing in six figures to the household. It would have meant waiting maybe until she was thirty and he was thirty-one. She didn’t want to wait.

So, she stopped taking her pills but pretended she did. She actively deceived him, and told herself that because he was her husband, it wasn’t as though she was trapping him.

And when she finally got pregnant, after nearly six months of trying, she pretended to be as surprised as he was.

“You lied to me?” Ibrahim’s voice is a croak.

“Yes.”

“All this time?”

“Yes.”

“Jada.” His voice breaks. “Why?”

She opens her mouth to speak but he holds up a hand. He shakes his head and his expression is one of anguish.

“You wanted it … that bad?”

Jada hears herself issue a cry. Of relief. Of release.

“Yes,” she says yet again. “I wanted it that bad, Ibrahim. Badly enough to lie to you. I wanted a family with you.”

“But we would have had one.”

“Eventually. Yes. But you were the head of our house. You were my husband and I wanted to follow where you led, and you didn’t want …”

“When you got pregnant you had to drop out of nursing school. Go into medical billing and coding. Because you didn’t follow. You decided to lead. On this, you led. You just let me think I was leading.”

Nodding, Jada goes to sit once again. “Yes,” she said. “You’re right. And I’m sorry.”

Ibrahim exhales. He looks at the ceiling. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.” He sounds resigned. “You were my wife. You wanted children. I should have …”

“Oh my God, that’s not why I told you!” Jada explodes. “Not so you can add it to your running list of imagined failures. Ibrahim, you’re not hearing me!”

“What don’t I hear?”

“That you were the man of my dreams. And that I wanted to bring a baby into our home and make it even happier than it was. I didn’t care what you did for a living, or what I did for a living. I wanted my husband’s children! You were so busy chasing perfection that you didn’t realize we already had it. We already had it.”

Ibrahim says nothing, but when he looks at her, Jada sees that his nostrils are slightly flared, his eyes wet.

“Everything I ever wanted, I had it with you,” Jada continues. “I loved our life together. And I wanted your children,” she says again. “It was just that simple.”

“And when I got locked up …”

Jada shook her head. “When you got locked up, I was even more certain I’d done the right thing. Because you were gone, but I had Kaleem. I had a part of you with me. And that kept me going until you came back.”

“And that’s all you needed? Was our son?”

Hesitating, Jada takes a deep breath. “No, that wasn’t all I needed.”

She prepares to tell him the rest.

When she does, there will be nothing more to tell. She will have released every one of her secrets, and maybe after that … Well, she doesn’t know what will happen after that.

“Isaac started coming by,” she says with a deep breath. “Starting the night you got sent up, your brother started coming by. And he kept coming. For a long time.”

Ibrahim stands. The shock is in his eyes. They go dark, and he squares his shoulders.

“Tell me.”

44

Now

“He came the first night. After Kaleem was asleep and everyone else left, I was alone. I think I sat there and realized for the first time what it was going to be like, not having you home. And then …” Jada pauses to shrug. “Isaac was there.”

“What do you mean he was there?” Ibrahim asks. He feels his shoulders and neck grow tense, telltale signs of mounting anger.

“He came over, Ibrahim. That’s what I mean.”

“And then?”

She shrugs again.

“Jada. And then?”

“Then nothing. He sat with me. He sat with me and we didn’t even really talk. I cried, and he let me cry.”

“And then what?”

“He just touched my hand, and said he was sorry, and left.”

“But he came back you said.”

“I know you were closer to Manny, but Isaac is more like you. I always thought that. He’s quieter. More reserved …”

“How many times?” Ibrahim asks.

Jada is sitting now, but he is not so he looms over her. With that question, she looks up.

“You realize we’re just talking about visits, right? That all he did was come over and sit with me.”

“How many times?”

“He came a few times a week for the first … For almost a year.”

“A year.” Ibrahim sits next to her and exhales sharply. “Where was my son when Isaac was coming to our home?”

“Usually asleep. He came late, usually after Kaleem was already in bed. I think he knew your feelings about … about what he did. Him and your father. And he wanted to respect that. He knew you didn’t want him as a role model for our son.”

Ibrahim laughs and shakes his head. “He wanted to respect that? So he moved in on my wife.”

“He didn’t … move in on me.”

“So, if it was all innocent, why’d he stop coming?”

“I asked him to.”

“Why?”

“Because I …” At this Jada looks at him, and her next words are halting. “I was getting … attached. Dependent.”

“You started to have feelings for him?”

“No. Not like … Yes, but …”

“Yes?”

“Let me finish!”

He wants to stand again, feels the almost irrepressible urge to get up and move around but forces himself to remain still and to let his hands rest on his thighs. He forces them to unclench.

“Isaac reminded me of you. He has the same calm; you look more like him than you did Manny. He listened. Sometimes, just knowing that he was there, sitting in the next room watching television was like having you back. He’s smart like you are. Not impulsive. He … calmed me. It was like having you.”

“How much of me did you have through Zac?”

“I told you, it wasn’t like that.”

“Then why’d you ask him to stop coming? Something had to have happened.”

“One night we were sitting next to each other. Kind of like you and me are sitting right now. But we were watching a movie. And I fell asleep.

“I guess my head wound up on his shoulder. I was sleeping. I was … I thought for a … It felt like you. I turned my head and I was about to … He put a hand on my shoulder. He said my name, and I opened my eyes. And realized it wasn’t you.”

Jada stops and gives a deep sigh.

“I almost kissed your brother. Because for a second, he felt and smelled like you. And it scared me because for those few seconds it felt so good to have you back. I knew if he kept coming by, it would only be a matter of time before I reached for him while awake. And maybe that time, or sooner or later, he wouldn’t push me away. So, I told him not to come back.”

Leaning forward, Ibrahim rests his elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them, and looks down at the carpet.

“I didn’t want him, Ibrahim. I wanted you. I hurt … I missed … I ached for you. And Isaac helped me through the roughest part, in those earliest days. But by the time I sent him away, I knew I could be strong enough to do it on my own.”

He feels her hand on his back, it moves upward, and rests at his nape.

That soft hand at his nape was one of the things he missed most when he went inside. He and Jada didn’t sleep spoon-fashion. Or hardly ever. They slept facing each other, limbs intertwined and faces close together.

In the earliest days of their marriage, almost disbelieving that they were together, they sometimes fell asleep staring at each other wordless in the dark. And Jada’s soft hand, reached across and rested at his nape, occasionally stroking but mostly just … there, as soft as a whisper.

It was a long time before he was able to make himself fall asleep without it.

“He just left? He never tried to come back, or talk you into …”

“No,” Jada says. “He never did. He respected you, Prophet. And he respected what we had. I’m sure he respects you still.”

Ibrahim turns to look at her. Her hand is still at his nape. She hasn’t called him ‘Prophet’ in God knows how long. He wonders what has summoned the moniker now.

“Sometimes,” Jada lowered her voice, so she was almost whispering. “Sometimes, I think … I think you don’t even fully realize the man you are.”

“And sometimes I think you think too much of the man I am.”

“I don’t,” his wife says with certainty, shaking her head.

“You know, when you brought up Breonna?”

He sees her go still for a nanosecond before speaking again.

“I want to … I want to tell you something about her. About her and me. And about how she died.”

“Okay,” Jada says, but she sounds reticent.

Still, he cuts no corners in describing who Breonna had been to him, and who she had almost been. Or in telling her about how it was when he came back from jail that first time and realized how he had wronged her.

Nor does he shirk from explaining how he wronged her again, abandoned her to a violent boyfriend because he was seeing a different, more sanitized life in the horizon and falling for the pretty private-school girl who had written him beautiful letters that first gave him a glimpse of what might be possible.

And finally, he tells her how he failed Breonna one last time, letting her lie dead in a drug house for hours, allowing his brother the time to clear out all traces of their family’s wrongdoing.

“Even when she was dead, she had no one to look out for her. Even when she was dead, I …”

“Prophet,” Jada says. It is the first time she has spoken since he began telling his story. “What could you have done differently?”

He shakes his head.

“Called the police?” she asks. “Turned your father in? Gotten Manny arrested? Could you have done that?”

He shakes his head again.

“Then what?”

“That wasn’t the only way I failed her. You don’t understand. I got a gun …”

Jada pulls back slightly, in surprise.

“I got it and all I could think about was her boyfriend, Kwame. He did it. Everyone knew he did. I was heading over there. And Nasim stopped me …”

He describes the trip to Nasim’s grandmother’s house. The pie, the meal, the hug she gave him as he left. How he wanted to disappear into that warm hug because it was the hug of mother.

“And then Nasim dropped me off at home. So I was free to go again. I could even have gotten Manny to come with me. He knew what I wanted to do. Hell, he even would’ve done it for me. Manny was like that.” Briefly, Ibrahim’s eyes sting.

Jada waits for him to continue, and he feels that she is almost holding her breath.

“I went to my car where I’d stashed the gun. I got in. I had the keys in my hand. And then …” He stops.

“What?” The word comes out on a puff of her breath. “And then what Ibrahim?”

“You paged me.” He looked at her.

“I did?”

“I was about to put the keys in the ignition and my pager went off. I was two seconds from leaving and you paged me. I ignored it because I was going to do this thing, and I needed to be in the right headspace to do it because I’d never done anything like that before, but Bree deserved that. She at least deserved that much.

“And I started the engine and you paged me again. And now I’m getting pissed. Because you always did that, paged me like three times in a row like you didn’t believe I was going to call you back or something. And on the last page, just as I was pulling off, you added 911.”

“I remember that now,” Jada says, her mouth falling open a little. “It was the day you came over when I was home, and you were acting all weird, and just wanted to lie down for a minute you said … And then you left abruptly, and I was worried, so I paged like it was an emergency. Just to make sure.”

Ibrahim nods.

“So, I got out of my car and went to call you back real quick. I was going to tell you I was busy, but that I’d hit you up later. But when you answered the phone, you said …”

“I said, ‘Baby, are you okay?’”

Ibrahim nods. “You said, ‘Baby, are you okay?’ You never called me ‘baby’. I always called you that, but you never did. I heard your voice, saying that, in the way you said it. And I knew I couldn’t go.”

He looks at Jada and she is shaking her head.

“I’m glad you didn’t. Do you honestly wish you had?”

“They arrested Kwame a couple days later. But …yeah, sometimes I … You should have seen her face, Jada. She was only eighteen. He beat her so bad …” His voice breaks. “She just wanted me to love her, and …”

“And you did. Didn’t you? You loved her. She was your friend. I remember you saying she was a complicated, you-wouldn’t-even-understand kind of homegirl, or something like that. I was angry because I’d seen her at your house and you could have denied her, or said she was no one, but you didn’t. You loved her, Ibrahim. And I bet she knew you did.”

He looks at her, wanting it to be true.

“Back then, you were so kind, so gentle. That’s what I think I loved about you. You were like … It was like you were surrounded by all this … ugliness, but it didn’t touch you. You had a stillness, a calm and a gentleness that I could see in your eyes, and that’s what I fell in love with.

“I can’t imagine you were anything other than kind, and gentle with Breonna either. So, of course she loved you. Of course she wanted you to love her. And I believe you did.”

Jada puts a hand at the side of his face, and she is looking at him like she truly sees him. And maybe for the very first time, Ibrahim feels truly seen.

45

Now

Ibrahim opens his eyes around four a.m. as is his habit. He sits up, and next to him, Jada mumbles in her sleep, turning onto her side, facing him once again. She moves closer and he puts his arms around her, studying the planes of her face.

There are tiny laugh lines bracketing her mouth, but none around her eyes. In a decade or so, those will appear. Her still smooth neck, and stomach and legs will begin to show signs of aging. The same will happen to him. And in another decade from then, they may both slow down a little. Their grandson—and the other children Kaleem and Asha will certainly have—will be adults, or almost adults.

But for now, he and Jada are young enough to do the things they want to do and have the freedom to do it.

If you want to start a business, or work in one of mine, we can make that happen, Raj told him before he left. But I think you should consider something else first.

Like what?

Don’t make my mistake. Don’t build a livelihood while your marriage crumbles. I can give you also a gift of time. Time off to spend with your wife. A little bit in resources so that it isn’t irresponsible.

It pays to have rich friends, Ibrahim had joked, not sure he could accept the gift.

Think about it, Ibrahim, Raj said seriously. Talk to her about it.

He hasn’t talked to Jada about it yet, but he will.

Last night was about something else entirely. It was a confessional for them both, a purging of the old things, to hopefully make way for something new.

Sitting up carefully, Ibrahim goes in to take a shower and just as he is about to dress for his customary walk to Free Range, another thought comes to him. He puts on his running gear, pulling out the expensive trainers Kaleem gave him and sliding them onto his feet.

Before leaving the house, he writes Jada a short note letting her know where he is gone, and then he slips out.

He runs the first mile listening to his breath the way he taught his son to do. He gauges the pace of his heart the old-fashioned way, not using any of those fancy gadgets that he knows are on his cellphone.

His cellphone.

He left it again. Force of habit.

But he doesn’t turn back because he has left that note and if he makes good time, he will be back long before Jada wakes up to get ready for her shift at eleven, early enough to make her breakfast.

Raj’s offer is attractive because if he gets his friend’s help, she can take a leave of absence. With his felony conviction, getting a visa to go overseas might be tricky, but they could see the United States at a minimum. Get out of Oakland and explore some of those places they talked about when they were kids.

I want to see the summer turn to fall, and then to winter, Jada told him. I have this picture in my head. Of me playing in the snow like a little kid.

Ibrahim smiles.

That was a modest wish, but one he has never fulfilled. Nor had she the time and money while he was gone to fulfill it for herself. He can do that for her now, if he takes Raj’s offer.

It still doesn’t feel good, having to consider taking something of that magnitude from a friend. But if he is honest, he will admit that it hasn’t been the first time. His life so far, his journey, as hard as it sometimes seemed, had been eased by the help of friends.

The letters from a pretty girl he barely knew, named Jada Green helped him not grow hard while he did his first bid. Her softness, transmitted to him through her words, and on the perfumed pages, kept him focused on the possibilities of life on the outside, and not the cycle of despair and drama on the inside.

And then there was Nasim who though he was taking one path, saw that Ibrahim was better suited for another. Who loaned him his car so he could get out of the smallness and strictures of their neighborhood, and found him a shitty job that would turn into something that for a long time helped him support his family.

Raj, who had introduced him to a world of new ideas and listened to him in a way he hadn’t been listened to since his mother died. Who looked past his menial work, and his apparently limited future and said, ‘In you I see something else. Something just around the corner. Something much different than you are now.’

And finally, Klara, who once when he—a scared and stressed-out new father—showed up at her door having run seven miles to get there, invited him in for a Polish pastry and strong coffee. Who listened to his litany of worries like a mother might and when he was done offered him thirty-thousand dollars from her savings.

We buy out Samuel, she said. You and me as partners. Samuel is not as smart as you. You will make his business big success.

But what’s in it for you? he’d asked, floored by her generosity.

You pay me, she said. My same salary as when I used to work, and little more on top. Till loan is paid.

And that was how Ibrahim had become a business-owner, with a stable and annually increasing income, and even plans to expand until …

Now, he was running past the corner. That corner. The one where he rounded the store with his son and saw a crowd gathering, where he heard the shouts and screams. And beneath it, the muffled grunts of someone being struck. Two men fighting, he thought.

Until a break in the crowd revealed something much worse.

A man—familiar to him as a small-time dope dealer—was holding the muzzle of a gun and using the handle to beat a woman. A girl, really. She looked like she was no more than twenty. She was on her knees, just outside the open door of a luxury car. With each blow, her head whipped forward. She was dazed and trying to crawl away when the man grabbed her by the hair.

Kaleem, he said, turning to his son.

He looked him in the eyes, the kind of look he always gave him when he wanted him to know that there could be no hesitation or argument. He had to do as he was told.

Go home. Now.

The beating had probably begun while the girl was inside the car, and the man stopped and dragged her out, so he could really let her have it. There was no ambivalence in his posture as he rained blows on her. He wanted to hurt her, badly.

In that moment, Ibrahim thought of his friend by then long gone, who had suffered much the same fate. Who had been beaten so badly that when she found a safe place to lay her head, and nurse her wounds, she had closed her eyes and never opened them again.

He had seen evidence of her pain back then and done nothing about it. Though he was never present for her beatings, he and so many others suspected they were happening and did nothing.

Looking over his shoulder to make sure his son was gone, Ibrahim moved closer.

Yo! he’d yelled, stepping into the fray, just feet away from the man and the girl.

Everyone turned to look at him. The man holding the gun looked up. He paused, his weapon still poised above his head.

On the ground, the girl looked up through blackened and already swollen eyes. She was heaving, audibly, like someone who had run a long hard race, blood and drool dripped from the corner of her busted lips. Her eyes weren’t relieved, or even pleading when she looked at Ibrahim. They were resigned. She had been through this before. Ibrahim smelled something acrid, but familiar. She had wet herself.

The fuck you want, nigga? the man said to Ibrahim.

Ibrahim knew from the smirk on the man’s face that he was sure Ibrahim would back down. He was so high on the power he had over the girl on the ground, so confident, that he didn’t realize how vulnerable he was holding the gun the way he did—muzzle pointed at himself and handle out.

Ibrahim took it before he had a chance to even react. After a moment of surprise, the man lunged toward him. Ibrahim didn’t think, and he didn’t hesitate. He pulled the trigger.

There were probably screams. Ibrahim didn’t hear them. He heard only the deafening roar of the gun. And he saw people scatter, some of them stumbling as they tried to get away, others, standing stunned, with mouths open and hands on heads. Riveted, fascinated by the sight of the man, now lying on the pavement, his face and half of his head blown off.

~~~

The house looks remarkably the same. It is a little more ramshackle and in need of a fresh coat of paint, a few shingles on the roof are in disrepair, and the front gate is slightly rusty. But it is mostly the same.

While he stands there surveying it, Ibrahim can almost picture Manny come spilling out of the front door, laughing and clowning.

What you talkin’ ‘bout, young ‘un? he says.

He grins so widely his eyes almost disappear. He is handsome, young, and feels immortal.

Swallowing the tightness in his throat, Ibrahim takes a breath and goes up to the metal gate pulling it open and then walking up the path to the front door.

He stands there for a moment, then clangs on the security door. After the third time, inside, someone mutters a curse. It is barely becoming light out, after all.

The door opens, and Isaac is standing there. He is older now, of course. And he looks it. His lips are dark, almost black from smoking too much. His face is grizzled with a graying beard, somewhat unkempt, and his body is soft and loose in his stained undershirt and faded tartan boxers.

It takes him a moment to realize who he is looking at.

“Goddamn,” he says.

His teeth are tar-stained, a far cry from the bright-whites the Carter boys were known for. Isaac is no longer handsome. He looks like a man who has seen hard, hard times.

“Prophet. That you?” Zac fumbles with the security gate, unlocking and then opening it, pulling Ibrahim, sweaty as he is, into a tight embrace.

Ibrahim embraces him back and waits patiently until Zac is ready to let go.

“Come in, come in.” Zac steps aside.

“I can’t,” Ibrahim says, shaking his head.

He doesn’t feel ready quite yet.

“A’ight.” Zac looks hurt, but he nods. He swallows hard. “I understand. How’s … Everything a’ight with the family?”

“Yeah, yeah. But ahm … I just … I wanted …”

He can’t get over how Zac looks. And behind him, he sees that inside the house doesn’t look much better. He wonders where their father is. Whether he still works for BART. Or is he too old now?

Maybe he still rents properties to dope boys. Ibrahim doesn’t know. Isn’t sure he wants to know.

“You wanted … what, Prophet?”

Zac just sounds sad now. Sad, and accepting of whatever is to come, with no expectation that it will be anything good.

“To say thank you.”

Zac’s mouth opens slightly and his eyes narrow.

“What for?” he asks finally.

“For offering comfort to my wife. When I went in. All those years ago. She told me you were there for her. So … I just wanted to thank you.”

Zac gives a wry smile. He shakes his head.

“That was a long … Well … Yeah,” he says. “You welcome.”

Ibrahim turns to go back down the path but Zac calls to him and he turns.

“I hope you … I hope you come back sometime, Prophet.” His voice is thick. “Come back and so we can pour one out. For Manny.”

Ibrahim nods.

He may come back. Maybe. As he goes through the gate, offering one last acknowledgment in the lift of his chin to Zac, it no longer seems improbable that he will.

~~~

He runs past Free Range but does not stop, though Thea is outside and waves at him, her face surprised. Next to her, her boyfriend Martin is working, opening the umbrellas to prepare for the coming heat. It is Monday, but business will still be good as the young professionals and stay-at-home mothers start arriving around seven, babies and toddlers and fat wallets in tow, ready to spend their money on five-dollar lattes and ten-dollar goat cheese omelets.

“Look at you! You’re moving again, Ibrahim!” Thea yells.

“Yes,” he calls back.

He is breathless now but exhilarated from the run.

The sun is rising in the horizon, but the light is still soft, and golden. He’ll have to call Kaleem as soon as he gets back and brag about all the miles he covered. He thinks it was about seven, maybe eight. That’s a long way, and not too shabby for a man his age.

He is almost home. Jada will be awake and waiting for him.

Also by Nia Forrester

The ‘Commitment’ Novels

Commitment (The ‘Commitment’ Series Book 1)

Unsuitable Men (The ‘Commitment’ Series Book 2)

Maybe Never (A ‘Commitment’ Novella)

The Fall (A ‘Commitment’ Novel)

Four: Stories of Marriage (The ‘Commitment’ Series Finale)

The ‘Afterwards’ Novels

Afterwards (The Afterwards Series Book 1)

Afterburn (The Afterwards Series Book 2)

The Come Up (An Afterwards Novel)

The Takedown (An Afterwards Novel)

Young, Rich & Black (An Afterwards Novel)

Snowflake (An Afterwards Novel)

Rhyme & Reason (An Afterwards Novel)

The Mistress Novels

Mistress (The ‘Mistress’ Trilogy Book 1)

Wife (The ‘Mistress’ Trilogy Book 2)

Mother (The ‘Mistress’ Trilogy Book 3)

The ‘Acostas’ Novels

The Seduction of Dylan Acosta (The Acostas Book 1)

The Education of Miri Acosta (The Acostas Book 2)

The ‘Secret’ Novels

Secret (The ‘Secret’ Series Book 1)

The Art of Endings (The ‘Secret’ Series Book 1)

Lifted (The ‘Secret’ Series Book 3)

The ‘Shorts’

Still—The ‘Shorts’ Book 1

The Coffee Date—The ‘Shorts’ Book 2

Just Lunch—The ‘Shorts’ Book 3

Table for Two—The ‘Shorts’ Book 4

The Wanderer—The ‘Shorts’ Book 5

À la Carte: A ‘Coffee Date’ Novella—The Shorts Book 6

Standalone Novels

Ivy’s League

The Lover

Acceptable Losses

Paid Companion

The Makeover

Out of Circulation

30 Days, 30 Stories

About the Author

Nia Forrester lives and writes in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania where, by day, she is an attorney working on public policy, and by night, she crafts woman-centered fiction that examines the complexities of life, love, and the human condition.

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Email: authorniaforrester@gmail.com

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Blog: NiaForrester.com