Chapter 3
The resounding noise from the doorbell made Cyren flinch, although she should’ve been expecting it. She glanced at the screen of her phone while inching toward the front door.
“I’ma call you right back,” she told Gabi, who said okay.
Unprepared for this impromptu visit, Cyren cleared her throat to ask a question she already had the answer to. It was an automatic polite formality.
“Who is it?” she called out.
“It’s Heavy.”
Twisting the locks, she pulled the door open and had to remind herself to breathe. Heavy’s presence hit her, immediately. Something about him shifted the air, making her more aware of herself than she’d been all day. Cyren didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing, but she welcomed it.
“Hey,” he greeted, smoothly. “How you doing?”
“I’m doing fine,” Cyren replied, despite the way she’d just been caught off guard minutes ago.
Heavy nodded. “That’s what’s up. Ms. Nia here? I wanted to give these to her and Skylar.”
“Not right now,” Cyren answered, stepping to the side. “But you can bring them inside for them.”
The moment he entered, a subtle wave of his cologne followed.
The woody-musk scent, with a hint of citrus, was clean yet warm.
It hit her senses in a way that made Cyren pause internally, locking in the fragrance.
She loved a man who smelled like a grown-ass man.
And looked like one, too. Cyren closed the door behind him, and her gaze flickered over his frame now that he was closer.
Damn, he’s fine.
This was the second time the word had been used today, but Heavy had rightfully earned the praise.
His skin was a shade or two lighter than Cyren’s, but not by much.
A rich, deep brown hue with a smooth, subtle glow; reminiscent of chocolate left beneath warm sunlight just long enough for it to sweat and soften.
Cyren appreciated the healthy, well-maintained quality of his skin. It matched his overall appearance.
A charcoal-colored short-sleeve shirt stretched across his broad chest and thick, tattooed arms. He was more on the sturdier, solidly built side and had to be at least six inches taller than Cyren’s physique. His black cargo-style pants fit him just right.
The black KC fitted he was rocking, was pulled low, shadowing his eyes just enough to add to the calm, unreadable look he carried.
Cyren admired his mustache-and-goatee combo, which she felt was truly slept on.
It suited him and added to the grown-man appeal he already had going.
His chin hair looked to be well-groomed and moisturized, while his locs were freshly styled in two-strand twists that fell past his shoulders.
Her eyes were trained on his cushiony, naturally dark, brown-tinted lips, wondering if they felt just as soft as they looked. So caught up in how fine he truly was, she almost missed his question.
“Where can I put these?” Heavy asked.
Cyren cleared her throat softly, pulling herself back into the moment. “Oh, um. The kitchen is fine,” she said, turning slightly.
As she headed for the kitchen, Cyren became hyperaware of him behind her.
Not in a way that made her uncomfortable, but just aware.
She could feel the space he took up, commanding it as if it belonged to him.
It had been a while since she’d seen him in person, and even though they weren’t strangers, they weren’t familiar either.
Heavy had always been around in some capacity.
He checked in on Aunt Nia and looked out for Skylar, but his visits were never consistent.
Life had him moving differently, tied into things that didn’t always allow for pop-ups and casual visits.
Showing up today was imperative, even if his timing had been off…
or on, considering how you looked at it.
Cyren wasn’t used to being alone with him.
On the few occasions they had interacted, it had always been with her aunt or cousin at home.
Their exchanges had been quick, passing conversations and polite exchanges.
One thing she could say was that he’d always been respectful and that hadn’t seemed to change.
Heavy stepped further into the kitchen, setting the oval-shaped vase carefully on the island.
The flowers were fresh, full, and vibrant.
Not something thrown together at the last minute.
He hadn’t been sure what to get them, because truthfully, nothing would suffice for the pain he was sure they felt.
Cyren’s eyes lit up as she stepped closer, leaning slightly to take them in.
“These are gorgeous,” she said, genuine appreciation in her tone. Her fingers hovered near the petals but didn’t touch them. “Were you trying to figure out how to get them inside?”
Heavy glanced at her, brows dipping at her question. “Nah. Why you ask that?”
Cyren leaned away from the island. “Because you were sitting out there for a minute. I didn’t think you were going to get out.”
“I was taking a phone call.”
It wasn’t a complete lie. He had been on the phone when he pulled up.
The phone call only lasted for some minutes before Heavy began scrolling through his phone, looking at memories of him and Dre.
When swiping through their pictures became too much, he stared at the front door like a part of him expected Dre to come walking out, laughing and talking shit, asking why his ass was just sitting there instead of coming inside.
His jaw had tightened at the thought, and he needed a second to gather himself. No matter how much Heavy tried to shake it, his mind kept circling back to the last conversation they had. It was one-sided, with Dre having been pronounced dead on the scene, and Heavy would never forget it.
Flashback
The sound of gunshots, especially in the hood, was unmistakable. People could tell the difference between triggers being pulled and fireworks going off, and although this was a celebration, Los and his people had just turned it into a crime scene.
The noise didn’t belong. Not on a day like today.
It cut through the gym and the halls before anyone could process what they’d heard.
For a split second, everything kept going; the music kept playing, and tennis shoes squeaked across the court.
The shots echoed, bouncing off the walls, breaking through everything that had just been normal.
Conversations stopped mid-sentence, as people flinched and took cover.
Others turned toward the doors, confusion spreading faster than understanding.
Heavy didn’t wait for either to settle in. He had just spotted Mr. Joe near the entrance when the first shot rang out, and whatever favor he needed from him vanished from his mind that quickly.
“Yo! Everybody good?” Heavy’s voice cut through the rising noise and now chaotic crowd, but he didn’t wait for an answer.
His eyes darted around as he shoved past bodies that were either frozen or moving too slowly for his liking. The beat of his heart increased as he made it outside. Everything felt off, and the cries from someone nearby confirmed what he didn’t want to believe.
“Dre! Oh, my gosh. Someone call the police.”
Immediately, Heavy’s ears locked in on the cries and his eyes on the driver’s door of Dre’s car. His feet moved before his brain had time to comprehend what he’d just heard. His steps slowed for the briefest moment, like something in him was trying to reject what he was seeing.
“Dre… nah. Nah, bro,” Heavy’s voice cracked.
He dropped down fast, grabbing him, trying to hold him up like that would fix anything. Deep down, he knew it wouldn’t, but he wouldn’t stop trying.
“Aye! Aye, stay with me. You good. You hear me? You good.” His words came out rough and urgent, like saying them fast enough could make them true.
Heavy pressed his hand down, trying to apply pressure any and everywhere, but there were too many holes. Too much blood. Nothing he did felt like enough.
“Somebody call 911!” he barked, his voice booming through the crowd. “Stop just standing around!”
People had gathered around, and he couldn’t figure out what the fuck for. His eyes moved everywhere at once, looking for help, for anything, for something that could change what was already happening.
Heavy leaned closer, his grip tightening as he tried to keep Dre with him. Dre’s head shifted slightly, like he was trying to focus. Like he was trying to hear him.
“Look at me,” he said, quieter now, but no less urgent. “Stay with me, bro. Don’t do this.”
Dre gave him a lazy, blood-stained, barely there grin before gasping for air. Those were the last breaths he’d ever take. Heavy froze and then shook his body.
“Aye…” he said again, his voice breaking in a way it never had. “Dre… come on. We had plans, man.”
And without a heads-up or gentle warning, those plans changed.
The touch to his arm broke Heavy’s trip down memory lane.
Cyren stood in front of him, her deep-set brown eyes locked onto his like she was trying to reach wherever he’d just gone.
There was something soft in them, but Heavy could tell they had been tainted by pain.
The intimate, unparalleled kind that allowed him the pleasure and torture to hold a conversation without words.
He noticed Cyren’s eyes didn’t match the glow of her smooth skin.
They lacked a key component that Heavy had been robbed of, too.
Love. Each of theirs a different kind, but still painfully missing.
There was an understanding in the silence, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
They didn’t have to. Heavy held her gaze for a second longer, then blinked, remembering where he was.
“You okay? You kinda spaced out for a second,” Cyren said.
Heavy gave a not-so-reassuring nod. “Yeah... my fault. What were you saying?”
Realizing she was still touching his arm, Cyren dropped her hand and put some space between them. She’d lost all train of thought.
“Nothing really. I’m sure my aunt and cousin will love these.”
Focusing on the flowers was better than that damn elephant who wouldn’t leave the room. Had he’d known she was there, too, he would’ve gotten her something.
“Yeah. I ain’t know they weren’t here. Probably should’ve called first. They been gone all day?” Heavy asked.
She’d heard Skylar moving around at some point, but she couldn’t recall the time. Nia was still at work, or somewhere. Cyren hadn’t quite figured out her work schedule. The days meshed together and passed by so quickly.
“My auntie has. Skylar was here earlier.”
“What you got planned for the day?”
Cyren’s eyes shifted his way, hesitating with her answer. “A meal is first on the list,” she said, chuckling. “Other than that. I’m not sure. I just... I need to get out of the house.”
“I feel that. We should do something.”
“We?” There was so much wonderment in that one word, and dare it be a hint of disgust? As if doing anything with him was against the fucking law.
A short explosion of air flew through Heavy’s nostrils. “Damn. My bad. You don’t speak French?”
Cyren caught the scoff along with the joke, thanks to the smirk on his lips, and she giggled. A nigga who can crack jokes and make me laugh? Might as well hand him my panties now.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I just...” Vulnerability had seemingly attached itself to her over the years.
Heavy didn’t interrupt her thoughts as she gathered her words, slinging them together in a messy, complicated flow of an explanation. He didn’t need one, but he listened.
“I’m used to doing everything alone, and I wasn’t expecting you to ask me that. So, sorry if I came off rude. It’s just...” Cyren sighed. “It’s been a long day. A long couple of years, actually.”
“It’s all good,” Heavy replied, catching the concern in her eyes, as if she’d hurt his feelings. “I was just throwing it out there. No pressure, though. I’ma head out and let you get back to your day.”
Cyren silently cursed herself out. She didn’t want him to let her get back to her day. At least not by herself. He’d thrown the idea out there and now needed to bring it to fruition.
“We can go,” she called out to his back, not realizing he hadn’t even given her a destination.
Heavy pivoted. “Go where?” he asked, smirking.
Shrugging, Cyren smiled. “I don’t know. Somewhere. You suggested it, and I don’t want to be alone right now. I can tell you don’t either.”
He didn’t smirk this time. Heavy felt like Cyren saw straight through him and the flawless facade he tried using to mask numbing anguish. She was right. He didn’t want to be alone either. Not today, for once, and they had yet another thing in common.
“A’ight. I’ll wait for you to finish getting dressed,” he said, ignoring but in a way still acknowledging the latter part of her sentences.
“Okay,” Cyren replied, softly and thankfully. “I just have to grab a few things, and I’ll be ready.”
Heavy chucked his head upward, and she walked out of the kitchen.
Their proximity allowed him to catch her sweet smell of juicy peaches and the softness of vanilla.
It made him salivate before he could stop it.
It didn’t help that she had the meanest walk, either.
Heavy’s eyes were glued. One, because he was a man.
Respectfully. Two, because he loved women, specifically Black women, and all they stood for.
The ones who were worth a damn to capture his eyes at least.
The natural sway of her hips and confident stride in her walk had him entranced as she glided down the hall.
Cyren had perfected her walk as a young girl, mastering her femininity with every switch.
Nicole checked anyone who dared to have something to say or try to label her baby as fast. Wasn’t shit fast in her house, but her hands, and she’d lay them on whoever to protect her daughter.
Cyren walked as if she owned every inch of ground her feet touched. That switch in her hips was confidence and power installed and built up by her mama. She’d never dim it or shrink for someone else’s comfort.
Amused and interested now more than he had been ten minutes ago, Heavy shook his head. His mind drifted to a conversation he and Dre had when he’d first come home.
“Didn’t she have a child?” Heavy asked.
Dre nodded, spotting a familiar face across the way. “Yeah. Lil’ cuz stays out of town.”
At the time, Heavy couldn’t remember her name, and Dre hadn’t offered it.
“Lil’ cuz, ain’t so little anymore. Damn.”