Ante Up
THIS CHAPTER HAS A SOUNDTRACK
julian
present day
I was up at four-thirty to shower before my morning run. My brothers called it wasteful, saying I was going to sweat anyway so what was the point. The point was I don't start anything unclean.
M.O.P.'s Ante Up was already rattling my speakers by the time I stepped out of my bathroom, the beat hitting raw and loud.
The exact opposite of me in my pressed shirts and precise schedules.
Maybe that was why I kept coming back to it.
Some men needed quiet in the early hours.
I needed something that shook off anything soft and reminded me what I was built for.
I brushed my teeth, moisturized and dressed for the trail: Nike Tech, black Vapormax, cologne anyway, out of habit, because I didn’t skip steps.
The mirror in my room ran floor to ceiling, and I gave myself a once-over.
Six-three, two-twenty-five. A low fade and a beard my barber kept sharply lined every week, because if you were going to wear a beard you kept it right or you shaved clean.
I ran ten miles a day, six mornings a week, lifted four days, and it showed: big through my shoulders and chest, lean everywhere the miles burned it off.
The trail behind my house started with a half mile of gravel before it opened onto pavement. That first stretch was my warm-up, the crunch under my shoes reminding me to lock in. After that, it was nothing but miles of road, music in my ears, and the rhythm of my breathing.
DMX’s Ruff Ryders Anthem. Then Shook Ones. Then Paid in Full. After that, a steady rotation of old-school hip-hop kept me hyped and focused mile after mile.
Running took my mind somewhere board meetings couldn’t follow, where your body is too occupied to be bothered by the thoughts that won’t quiet down otherwise.
And I ran because the standard for me was maintenance and prevention.
The discipline of never waiting for a problem to announce itself before I handled it.
Annual bloodwork, a cardiologist whether my heart had given me a reason or not, every number tracked against the last. Bodies failed without warning.
I’d learned that once, in a way I didn’t want to revisit. So I didn’t wait for mine to warn me.
By six forty-five, the miles were behind me, my lungs were burning clean, my muscles were loose, and I felt the day open up.
Back home, I got back in the shower, then stood in my closet scanning my suits.
I pulled out a double-breasted navy fit with gold thread so fine you only saw it if you were close or it caught in good light.
I slid a gold watch onto my wrist, stepped into my shoes, grabbed my wallet and keys, then stopped at the photograph that lived in my hallway.
My parents on their wedding day, my mother in cream with me growing in her belly, looking at my father like he'd invented gravity.
My father looking back at her like he was the luckiest man in the world and he knew it.
I pressed two fingers to the glass, straightened my tie and left.
The group text lit up before I made it to my car.
SIMONE
Don’t forget final suit fitting for my wedding is today. 6pm sharp.
ZION
almost forgot
TRE
You and Raschad gonna let me do the toast?
SIMONE
No.
I’ll be there. On time.
SIMONE
? ? ?
The drive to WadeHouse took about thirty-five minutes.
I kept two places in Lennox Falls for specific reasons.
My house on Belmead was home: gated, quiet, three streets from Simone and six from Zion and Taryn.
My condo downtown was logistics: a ten-minute walk to WadeHouse, useful for late nights and early meetings.
Women saw my condo, or a hotel. Never my house.
My assistant Glory was already at her desk when I walked in, coffee extended before I reached her.
“Good morning, Mr. Wade.” She fell into step beside me.
“The artist review moved to Friday. Germany pushed back Thursday's call, they want eleven our time. Simone asked me to remind you about the suit fittings. And…” She paused just long enough to signal the next item was different.
“A call came in late yesterday from Billboard. Features editor.”
I kept walking as I listened.
“They’re doing a Power issue. They want to run a piece about WadeHouse, calling it The Dynasty Next Door. Full scope, the family and the business. Interviews with the four of you. A photo shoot for the cover and inside spread. She asked whether to coordinate through you directly or your PR team.”
“Tell them we're honored and our team will reach out to set parameters before we confirm anything. The family story is the business story. We don't separate them. Set up a meeting with Zion, Tre, Simone. Bring Taryn to help lead the photo shoot.”
Glory made a note. “Yes, sir.”
I sat down at my desk, opened my laptop, and allowed myself a few seconds of satisfaction and pride at the Billboard news, then got to work for the day.
I was reviewing numbers for a mixed-use development on the outskirts of Lennox Falls I was considering investing in, when my phone lit up with a call from my Uncle Reggie.
“Unc,” I answered.
“Hey, nephew. I called to talk to you about Simone’s wedding.”
I sat back in my chair. “Mhm.”
“Your father…” he exhaled. “He's not coming.”
I didn't say anything. I wasn’t surprised.
“Says he doesn't want to cast a shadow over her day. Thinks he'd be a distraction and…” another exhale. “Says he doesn't deserve to be there.”
“Then we agree. He’s right.”
“Julian.”
“He's right, Uncle Reggie.”
There was a long silence, then he cleared his throat.
“He sent something with me.” I could hear him shift.
“Your mother's engagement ring. He wants Simone to have it.
And he sent a message. Said to tell her he loves her.
That she's her mother's daughter. That she got her grace from Niecy, and that he's proud of her.”
I didn’t respond.
“He wants you to be the one to say that to her, since you’re walking her down the aisle,” he said. “Or me. But he thought it would mean more—“
“Coming from someone not him?” I kept my voice even.
Reggie didn't answer. I thought about Simone at the altar, marrying a man who showed up for her every single day.
And I thought about what it would cost her to receive a secondhand message from a man who stopped doing the same.
A message delivered by proxy on the day she was supposed to feel only joy.
No.
“I’ll take the ring,” I said. “I’ll give it to her. At the right time, in the right way. But his message? No.”
“But Julian…”
“No. If he has something to say to his daughter, he can pick up the phone. Or better yet, he can stop being a recluse and show up. If he won't say it with his own mouth, Unc? It doesn’t get said.”
The silence on the other end was the kind that meant Reggie had a different opinion, but had learned when not to offer it.
“All right, nephew,” he conceded. “I’ll bring you the ring.”
“Thank you.”
We hung up and I sat there for a minute, clearing my mind, then I went back to evaluating the mixed-use property.
It was a little after nine at night, and I was packing up to leave the office when my phone buzzed:
SAbrINA
It's been a while, Julian. You've made your point. You free this weekend? Maybe dinner?
Once a woman started asking for dinner, I knew the shape of what came next. Dinner became meet my friends, became where is this going, became everything I didn’t have to give. Two, three months typically, and then the terms we’d agreed to stopped being enough for them.
To be clear, I didn’t move through rooms looking for my next conquest like my brother Tre.
I wasn't driven by need. Months could pass without a woman in my bed and I’d be fine.
When I did entertain, it was on my terms. A clear conversation that made expectations and intentions known from the start.
Despite that, they almost always seemed to think that somehow, I’d eventually change my mind and want to establish something serious with them.
Sabrina had outlasted that because she presented herself as a female version of me.
She was articulate and accomplished and understood arrangements because her world ran on them.
She ran her own business as a lifestyle coach, Bree the Brand, selling courses, booking speaking engagements, hosting podcasts, and building a following of thousands of women who wanted to “move through the world with intention.” She was sharp, self-made and self-possessed. I respected that.
We’d met at a private dinner three years back and the conversation had run efficient.
It ended clean the first time. Then she called six months later and I answered, which in hindsight was a mistake.
You don’t reopen what you’ve closed. After that there was a rhythm to it.
A few months, other women in between, always clear.
And, every year at our charity fundraiser she’d outbid the whole room to win me at the bachelor auction, like a line item she’d budgeted for.
I didn't look too hard at a woman who'd paid to put herself back in my orbit on a schedule.
I’d thought we were on the same page, but she’d just been running a longer play. Performing ease with terms she’d never really accepted, waiting for time and proximity to do what she wouldn’t ask for out loud, because she knew I’d end it. She thought she’d become the exception.
There was no exception. Never had been and never would be.
The last time we were together was months ago. She'd been on the edge of my bed, fastening an earring, when I came out of the bathroom at my condo. She caught my eyes, then her stare traveled from my face, down my body, then back up.
“You know,” she said as the second earring went in, “it’s genuinely inconsiderate to look like that when you're trying to get someone to leave your bed.”
I grabbed a t-shirt out of a drawer and slipped it on. “Sabrina.”