Chapter ten
Day Ten
Sky
Zio pulled the car into a driveway lined with hydrangeas. The house was a brick ranch. It was immaculate, with a wraparound porch crowded with rocking chairs and ferns. It screamed "home". I could smell BBQ in the air.
I’d been too distracted by the playlist Zio had on and my phone to notice where we were going. I’d assumed it was a restaurant since he said we were going out to eat.
“Where is this?” I asked, leaning forward to peer through the windshield.
“My momma’s house. Her name is Brenda. My father is felix. HE’s on business this week.”
The words hit me like a bucket of cold water.
I froze, my fingers going numb on the clasp of my purse.
I looked down at myself. I was wearing a little black slip dress with the lace trim that Zio said made my back roll look like a masterpieces.
It was a get fucked, while tipsy, after the date dress. Not a meet-somebody’s-momma dress.
“I know you fucking lying,” flew out of my mouth before I could clean up the words.
“I’m not,” he said simply. He had a smile on his face that said he was very pleased with himself.
“Zio,” I said, my voice strangled. “Why would you do this? You didn’t tell me! Look at what I’m wearing. This is the fuck me dress Beyonce sang about.”
He cut the engine and turned to look at me, his face calm—infuriatingly so. “I’m telling you now.”
“This is an ambush!” I hissed, panicking, making my voice squeak. “Look at me! My titties are basically out. Your momma is going to think I’m a… a harlot!” I fumbled for the door handle, but it was locked. “Take me home. Right now. I’ll Uber. I don’t care.”
“Harlot, Sky?”
“I’m a fucking writer, I can say harlot. I know words! Hoe, whore, streetwalker, tart, seller of fucking pussy! All them, your momma gonna think I’m one.
“Sky, relax. She’s gonna love you.”
“She’s gonna think you picked me up from a street corner!”
He laughed at me, to my face.
Reaching over, I got a good handful of his beard and tugged. “I swear I’m biting a chunk out of your face today!” We struggled trying to get close enough to do it; he barely could restrain me. He was laughing so hard.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I jumped, a small scream catching in my throat.
I looked back and there was a lady—I assumed his momma.
She had Zio’s dark skin and was very pretty, with salt-and-pepper hair down her back.
She was dressed in a simple Whitney shirt and tights, her face was pressed almost comically close to the glass, a dish towel was in her hand.
Her eyes—Zio’s eyes—took me in with one swift sweep, from my fresh blowout to the dangerous amount of thigh my dress revealed.
She tapped the window with a knuckle like we couldn’t see her.
“Boy, unlock this door,” she commanded, her voice muffled but clear. “And you,” she said, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at me, “get out the car. Let me see my future daughter-in-law.”
Zio hit the unlock button with a sigh.
The door was wrenched open from the outside before I could move. Mrs. Brenda stood back, arms crossed, waiting. There was no escape. I climbed out, my heels hitting the concrete hard. I felt utterly exposed but tried not to cover myself to make it obvious.
“Hmm,” she said after a long, silent moment. She reached out and pinched the flesh on my hip. “Got these wide hips; my grandchildren gonna be big.”
I gasped and choked on my own spit. Who said I was having somebody big head ass baby?
Zio was laughing—actually laughing at my pain—as he rounded the truck to grab me.
His momma chuckled. “The food is getting cold and you’re out here having a fit. Come on.”
I stood there, rooted, until Zio slipped an arm around my waist, pulling me against him. “Breathe,” he whispered into my hair. “The hard part’s over.”
“I’m going to kill you,” I whispered back.
Inside the house was a sea of Black people.
I’m talking aunties in church hats, cousins with sagging pants and tight clothes, and uncles who smelled like Old Spice and cigars.
Collard greens, fried chicken, and loud laughter were in the air.
Somebody was singing along with Sam Cooke’s “Lost and Looking’” like the house wasn’t full of people.
I was introduced to what felt like everybody.
“Auntie Clara, this is Sky. My girl.”
“Cousin Marcus, this is Sky, my woman.”
“Cousin, Tasha—this Sky, my wife.”
“Try this, baby,” an uncle came out of nowhere, winking. “It’s the good stuff.”
Some dark liquor that was probably too potent for me was pressed into my hand in a red cup. I drank it. Someone took my empty cup and replaced it before I could protest. Then, I lost Zio.
One minute his hand was on the small of my back; the next, he was pulled away by somebody who wanted to talk restaurant business. I tried to follow him but got lost. One cousin handed me a blunt and talked about Zio as a kid.
I don’t know how much time passed, but by the time it did, I wasn’t okay. The brown liquor, weed and the heat of so many bodies made the room tilt. I needed air. I followed the sound of a sliding door and stumbled out onto a large, shaded patio.
There was a grill about tens yards away in the big backyard. I headed in that direction to at least get a rib and a piece of bread to soak up some of the alcohol and let the cool air calm my nerves.
I was halfway there when I saw Zio standing near the fence, his back to me. There was a woman dressed in her Sunday best—a tasteful floral wrap dress, expensive heels, and hair in perfect curls.
I looked down at myself.
My lace slip dress was hiked up, my thighs were sticky with sweat, and I could smell the Hennessy and weed coming off my own skin. I felt like the girl you fuck on a Tuesday night, not the one you bring home to a brick ranch with hydrangeas.
The woman was standing too close to Zio.
I watched her hand slide onto his forearm. She didn’t grab him like I did—possessive and hungry. She touched him like she already owned a piece of him. Like she was just checking on her investment.
I felt the liquor in my veins turn to acid.
I walked over, my steps unsteady on the flagstones, but I managed to stay upright.
I heard her voice, sweet and pleading. “…just think about it, Z. We had a plan. I know you needed time to sow your oats. You should be ready to settle down. I’m here now. We can pick up where we left off.”
I stopped a few feet away, swaying slightly. “Pick up what, exactly?” My voice came out louder than I intended, slurring and shit.
They both turned.
“Sky,” Zio started, moving toward me, but I held up a hand.
Willow looked me up and down, a faint smirk on her lips as she took in my dress and my clearly tipsy state. “You must be the… friend,” she said.
“I’m his woman,” I shot back, shoving a finger in her direction. “And what the fuck do you mean, ‘pick up where y’all left off’?”
Zio closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sky, don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I said, my voice rising. “Don’t interrupt your little reunion?
My bad. Y’all looked so cozy over here, planning y’all’s future while you left me in there doing shots with your uncle!
This the second time in a week I found you with a woman in your face.
You must want to square up with me, Zio”I was talking crazy, but I couldn’t stop.
Willow’s smirk hardened. She looked at me more intently, her head cocking to the side. “Why do you look so familiar?” she asked herself. Then her eyes widened. “Oh my God. You’re Sky. The author Sky. I follow you on Instagram and TikTok.” Her tone dripped with sweetness. “I love your books.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Nah, don’t change the subject. Fuck them books” Maybe if I wasn’t drunk and a little bit high, I would have simply said thank you.
“Chill, baby, I was about to tell her about you.”
I looked at Zio. “Chill? Whose side are you on? She should chill.”
Before he could answer, Mrs. Brenda’s voice came out of nowhere.
“Willow, baby, go on home. I told you to leave it be earlier. I told you he was bring that woman. Now you just starting messy.” She was standing in the doorway, her gaze fixed on her goddaughter. It wasn’t a request.
Willow’s smile tightened, but she obeyed, gliding past me.
Mrs. Brenda then looked at Zio. “You. Fix this. Take her upstairs.” Then her eyes landed on me. “And you, little high ass, smoking them weeds, put on one of my jackets before your coochie catches a cold. Then come to the kitchen to help us.” She disappeared inside.
I stood there. Zio reached for me, but I jerked my arm away.
He moved fast. One second later his hands were at my waist. He just lifted me clean off the ground and tossed me over his shoulder like a sack of grits, his hand smoothing down my skirt, holding it against my thighs.
The world tipped upside down. "Zio! Put me down! Put me the fuck down!" I beat at his back with my fists, my heels kicking air. I could hear people laughing.
"Stop fighting' me, Sky," he grunted, his arm like an iron bar across the back of my thighs, holding me in place. He started walking, calm as you please, right past the stunned people on the patio and back toward the sliding door.
He carried me up a set of stairs and set me down in a bedroom. The room swayed. Or maybe I did.
It was his childhood room, I could tell—frozen at the edge of manhood.
A faded poster of LeBron James in a Cavaliers jersey was tacked to one wall.
Trophies for basketball and culinary arts sat dusty on a bookshelf crammed with old Stephen King paperbacks.
Thick King Magazine centerfold magazine pages where taped to the ceiling.
The queen-size bed was made with a simple blue comforter.
"Are you done?" he asked when my eyes made it back to his.
“You set me up.” Him lifting me must have shaken the liquor loose in my brain. My words felt thicker and slower. “You bring me here… blindly… let me get drunk… and then you’re laughing in that woman’s face? The fuck, Zio?”
“Sky, you’re drunk,” he said softly. He guided me to sit on the edge of the bed. “Lay down. Just for a minute.”
The fight drained out of me, replaced by exhaustion. I wasn’t even mad. Just so fucking anxious. I acted stupid when I was anxious, that’s why I kept to myself most time. I looked up at him, my vision blurring at the edges, wondering how I could explain that to him.
“Lay with me,” I whispered. “Just ‘til I sleep.”
He kicked off his shoes, no hesitation. He lay down beside me on top of the comforter and pulled me against his chest. I curled into him, my face buried in the cotton of his shirt, breathing in his familiar scent.
“Willow don’t mean nothing to me,” he whispered into my hair, his voice a low rumble under my ear. “I told her it’s done. We aint seen each other in six years. She was just trying’ to get a rise out of you tonight. And baby,” he said with amusement in his tone, “she got it.”
I didn’t answer. I was already sinking into the warmth of him, the alcohol pulling me under. In the safe, quiet dark of his old room, with the distant sounds of his family laughing below, I drifted off to sleep.