Chapter 2 #2
Quan sucked his teeth. “Man, that ain’t nothing.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it ain’t.”
“Then explain it.”
He looked away. “I owed somebody a little money. It’s handled.”
“How little?”
Silence.
Dre whispered, “I’m going to go check the lights that may or may not kill us.”
He disappeared toward the back.
Smart man.
I stared at Quan. “How much?”
“Two thousand.”
I laughed once, but there wasn’t nothing funny in it. “Two thousand dollars is little?”
“I was gonna pay it.”
“With what?”
“I got plans.”
“Plans don’t pay debts.”
“You always doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Talking to me like I’m stupid.”
“I’m talking to you like you keep making stupid decisions.”
His jaw tightened. “I ain’t you, Eric.”
“I know.”
“You think because you got businesses and everybody respect you, I’m supposed to just fall in line.”
“No. I think because Mama already buried Daddy, she shouldn’t have to worry about burying you behind dumb pride and borrowed money.”
That hit him.
Good.
It was supposed to.
Quan looked down, the anger slipping for half a second. Underneath all that flashy nonsense, he was still my baby brother. Still the little boy who used to sleep on my floor during thunderstorms. Still the kid who cried into my hoodie when Daddy didn’t come home.
But love didn’t mean letting him destroy himself.
“I got it,” he muttered.
“No, you don’t.”
“Eric—”
“I’ll handle Marlo. Then you working at the shop.”
He looked up fast. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m not washing cars.”
“You not getting chased around chicken spots either.”
“This is why I don’t tell you nothing.”
“You didn’t tell me. The block did.”
Quan shook his head. “Whatever, man.”
He walked out before I could say more.
I let him go.
Sometimes chasing Quan only made him run faster.
Dre came back a few seconds later, holding a screwdriver he had no reason to be holding.
“He gone?”
“For now.”
“That boy got talent.”
“For what?”
“Making your blood pressure crip-walk.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Marlo came into Big Ray’s tonight with that drama. Monica was there.”
Dre’s face changed. “She got touched?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“But it could’ve gone left.”
“And you think that’s connected to Quan?”
“I know it is.”
Dre leaned against the bar. “You need to clean that up before the opening.”
“I will.”
“You want me to call around?”
“No.”
“Eric.”
“I said no.”
He studied me. “You trying to keep this quiet because of the lounge or because of the girl?”
I looked at him.
Dre nodded slowly. “Both.”
I didn’t deny it.
Monica had seen enough in that one moment to be careful. If she knew my brother’s mess was tangled in it, she might decide I came with too much. And I couldn’t even blame her.
A woman like Monica probably had already survived men who came with storms and called it love.
I didn’t want to be another storm.
I wanted to be shelter.
My phone buzzed.
I pulled it from my pocket so fast Dre grinned.
“Pathetic,” he whispered.
It was Monica.
MONICA, NOT HOSTILE: I’m home. Door locked. Wings secured. No poles were harmed.
I leaned back against the bar, smiling.
ME: Good.
MONICA, NOT HOSTILE: That’s it?
ME: You wanted a speech?
MONICA, NOT HOSTILE: No. I just expected another command.
ME: Eat before your attitude gets worse.
MONICA, NOT HOSTILE: See? Bossy.
ME: Intentional.
MONICA, NOT HOSTILE: Goodnight, Eric.
I stared at my phone.
Not Eazy.
Eric.
I liked that.
Maybe too much.
ME: Goodnight, Monica.
Dre was watching me with his lips pressed together.
“What?”
“You smiling like a man with a secret family.”
“Go home.”
“I’m already home. This lounge is my emotional residence.”
“You annoying.”
“And you in love.”
I pointed at him. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say married. I said in love. Beginning stages. Symptoms include smiling at texts, ignoring food, and wanting to fight anybody who breathes too hard near her.”
“I don’t even know her.”
“You know enough to stand between her and foolishness.”
“That was basic respect.”
“Basic respect don’t have you cheesing at your phone like Tyler Perry wrote your blessing.”
I grabbed my food. “I’m going upstairs.”
The lounge had a small office loft above the back, where I sometimes slept when the work ran late. It had a couch, a desk, a mini fridge, and not enough peace. I went up there, shut the door, and sat in the quiet.
For the first time all night, I opened my food.
Cold.
Ray had been right.
I reheated the wings in the little microwave and sat at the desk while the room filled with lemon pepper and regret.
My phone was beside me.
I told myself not to text her again.
She had said goodnight. Respect it.
I ate one wing.
Then another.
Then picked up the phone.
Put it down.
Picked it back up.
I was too grown for this.
I had been with women before. Plenty of women.
Dated some. Took some serious for a little while.
But it always turned into the same thing.
They liked the look of me. The businesses.
The reputation. The “Eazy” everybody knew.
The man who could get a table, fix a problem, pay the bill, make them feel protected.
But most didn’t care to know Eric.
The man who still checked locks twice because his mama used to make him do it. The man who kept his daddy’s watch in a drawer and wore it when he needed courage. The man who built businesses because he was terrified of becoming another street story people shook their heads about.
Monica looked at me like she was suspicious of both versions.
That was rare.
That was interesting.
That was trouble.
I clicked her contact.
Monica, Not Hostile.
I changed it.
Monica.
Then I stared at the blank message box.
I wanted to ask her out.
Not link.
Not chill.
Out.
I wanted to sit across from her somewhere with no chicken spot chaos, no near-fights, no Ray watching from behind the counter like a retired love detective.
I wanted to hear her talk.
I wanted to see if her eyes softened when she forgot to be guarded.
I wanted to know what made her laugh for real.
I typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Deleted.
Then my office door opened.
Dre stuck his head in. “You still up here drafting the Constitution?”
“Why are you still here?”
“Because you look like you need guidance.”
“I need privacy.”
“Same thing.”
He walked in and dropped into the chair across from me without invitation.
“What you typing?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“Let me see.”
“No.”
“Scared.”
I locked my phone.
Dre leaned back. “Just ask her out.”
“I am.”
“No, you thinking about asking her out. That’s different. Thinking is where men go to ruin simple things.”
“I don’t want to come on too strong.”
Dre blinked. “You? Eric Miller? Mr. I Said What I Said? Suddenly you timid?”
“I’m not timid.”
“You hiding behind punctuation.”
I stared at him.
He shrugged. “Women like clarity. Well, the grown ones do. The toxic ones like riddles and disappearing acts, but she don’t seem like that.”
“She don’t.”
“So be clear.”
I looked at the phone again.
Clear.
That was the thing.
Most men didn’t know how to be clear because clarity required intention, and intention meant accountability. You couldn’t “accidentally” make a woman feel safe. You couldn’t “accidentally” show up. You couldn’t “accidentally” love somebody right.
I unlocked my phone.
Dre sat forward, nosy as ever.
“Move,” I said.
“I’m witnessing history.”
I typed before I could overthink it.
ME: I want to take you out tomorrow. Not chill. Not link. Take you out.
I hit send.
Then I threw the phone on the desk like it had burned me.
Dre put one hand over his heart. “That was beautiful.”
“Shut up.”
“That was grown. Direct. A little sexy. I might use that.”
“You can’t use my words.”
“I can remix them.”
“No.”
My phone buzzed.
Both of us looked at it.
Dre whispered, “Read it.”
“I know how texting works.”
I picked it up.
MONICA: Tomorrow?
I smiled.
She dropped the “Not Hostile.”
Progress.
ME: Tomorrow.
The typing bubbles came up. Disappeared. Came back.
MONICA: You don’t waste time, huh?
ME: Not with something I want.
Dre slapped the desk silently and pointed at me like I had just hit a game-winning shot.
I ignored him.
Monica replied after a minute.
MONICA: That line probably works on everybody.
ME: I wouldn’t know. I only sent it to you.
No response.
Then—
MONICA: Where?
I sat back slowly.
That one word felt like a door unlocking.
ME: Let me plan it.
MONICA: That sounds suspicious.
ME: Trust me a little.
MONICA: I don’t know you enough to trust you.
I understood that.
More than she knew.
ME: Then trust that I’m trying to know you right.
The bubbles came up again.
This time, it took longer.
MONICA: Fine. But don’t do too much.
I smiled.
Too much was exactly what I planned to do.
Not in a flashy way. Monica didn’t seem like the type to be impressed by somebody throwing money at the table and calling it romance. She looked like the type who noticed effort. Details. Whether a man listened.
I could do that.
ME: Wear something comfortable.
MONICA: Comfortable cute or comfortable ugly?
ME: You do ugly?
MONICA: Don’t gas me. I’m trying to be humble.
ME: How’s that going?
MONICA: Terrible.
I laughed out loud.
Dre grinned. “She funny?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s how they get you.”
I looked down at my phone as another message came in.
MONICA: Goodnight for real this time, Eric.
There it was again.
Eric.
Not Eazy.
I typed back.
ME: Goodnight for real, Monica.
I put the phone down, but my mind didn’t follow.
Tomorrow.
I needed the rooftop cleaned. Music set. Food handled. Candles maybe. Not too many. Enough to say I tried, not enough to look like I was one knee away from embarrassing both of us.
Dre stood. “You planning already.”
“Yep.”
“You gone bad.”
“Probably.”
He walked to the door, then paused. “Just one thing.”
“What?”
“Handle Quan’s mess before it touches her again.”
The room got quiet.
“I know,” I said.
Dre nodded and left.
I sat there long after he was gone, the city noise humming beneath the floor, my cold wings forgotten again, Monica’s name glowing in my phone like trouble and blessing had decided to share a contact.
I had known her for less than a night.
I knew how that sounded.
Too fast.
Too soon.
Too much.
But I had lived long enough to know time didn’t always make something real. Some people stood beside you for years and never saw you. Some people crossed your path once and made something in you sit up straight.
Monica had walked into Big Ray’s for wings.
I had walked in for my usual order.
And somehow, under fluorescent lights, beside a drink cooler, in the middle of hood nonsense and lemon pepper grease, I felt something shift.
I wasn’t calling it love.
Not yet.
But I wasn’t stupid enough to pretend it was nothing.
Tomorrow, I was taking Monica out.
Not to impress her.
To show her.
There was a difference.
I picked up my phone one last time and looked at her contact.
Monica.
I smiled to myself.
“Yeah,” I said into the quiet office.
“I’m in trouble.”