Chapter 10 #2
He lifted his head but didn’t meet her eyes yet. “I been moving on autopilot for a long time. Smiling for cameras pretending I’m good...pretending I don’t hear the whispers…pretending I ain’t crumbling a little bit every time I walk off a course feeling like I failed a whole community.”
He finally looked at her.
Direct, unmasked…too damn honest.
“And I ain’t tell nobody that,” he admitted. “Not even my mama.”
Meadow’s eyes fluttered, heart thudding against her chest.
“So yeah,” His voice lowered. “I’m tired too. The kind of tired you don’t say out loud ’cause you know everybody gon’ say the same thing - ‘keep going.’ Like that’s enough to fix shit.”
She let out a soft breath of understanding. Listening to Zaire, Meadow didn’t feel an ounce of petty or sadness for him. If anything, she felt his strength… his strength to even voice the shit that rested in his head and his heart.
Zaire tapped his thumb against his knee. “I didn’t come here to fall apart. I came here to breathe…just breathe. That’s it.”
“Are you breathing?” Meadow asked, desperate to know her land was truly healing like Ray claimed, because in that moment she wanted Zaire to find himself wrapped up in her green.
He stared at her for a long moment, smiling at what he was about to admit. “You the first breath I done had in a while.” It slipped out before he could catch it but he didn’t regret it either. Meadow felt safe, calm, all the shit Black women were to Black men…peace wrapped up in melanin.
Meadow’s eyes widened, heat rising under her skin.
He didn’t flinch either, he wanted to stand on what he said.
He let it stand between them, heavy and unadorned, the truth neither of them were ready for but both of them felt.
Meadow swallowed. “You…don’t say stuff like that to people you barely know.”
“I don’t say stuff like that at all,” he corrected. “That should tell you something.”
Her breath caught again.
Zaire leaned forward slightly, looking right at her.
“We both tired as hell,” he recognized. “But for the first time in a long time…I don’t feel drained sitting next to you.”
A serene feeling fell over them as the sun peeked through her arched window. His eyes scanned her room again and he was ready to just do whatever it took to help calm her like her presence had done for him.
Zaire rubbed the back of his neck. “You don’t gotta talk…you don’t gotta be strong…you don’t gotta do nothing right now.”
He sat on the floor beside her bed, knees bent, waiting for her to join him no pressure, no expectation, just presence…just truth.
Meadow adjusted her body moving closer to him, their shoulders brushing.
Zaire glanced at her. “See…you still here…you still showing up.”
She let out a shaky laugh. “You really a hood fairy godfather therapist today, huh?”
He smirked. “You the one with a random heel on the floor…Cinderella…Marai…”
Her eyes widened at the name…it was the one from the story and he couldn’t possibly know that. Still, Meadow kept her thoughts and questions to herself not wanting to scare him anymore than he probably already was.
Instead, she nudged him with her shoulder. “Shut up.”
He nudged back. “Make me.”
Something clicked into place, not love…not lust, just the understanding that whatever this thing was…it was forming, slow and steady, right here on a messy floor in a room that smelled like her.
He tapped her leg before standing up.
He didn’t say a word as he walked around the room picking things up. Her heels first, gathering them from where they were tossed, lining them neatly against the wall.
Meadow blinked. “What…what are you doing?”
“Your room is loud,” he said calmly, still not looking at her. “Thought I’d quiet it down a little.”
She blinked again. “What does that even mean?”
“That fuckin’ question,” he grunted but continued doing what he was doing.
Zaire picked up a jacket off her bed and folded it with a neatness she didn’t expect from a man who kept a gun tucked in his waistband at sunrise.
“It means when your world feels heavy,” he finally answered her, “sometimes the space around you gotta be light.”
Meadow grabbed her throat trying not to choke on him.
He kept moving.
Collected her scattered jewelry and placed it all in a dish.
Stacked two books that had been half under the bed.
Straightened the lamp scarf so the light stopped flickering.
It wasn’t controlling…it wasn’t invasive…it was care.
Silent…Masculine…Needed.
Meadow watched him with her heart sitting in her throat. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” He looked over his shoulder at her. “But you drowning in real life shit right now, least I can do is give you a room you can breathe in.”
Her heart broke open at his tenderness, something she hadn’t realized she’d buried.
He nodded toward her phone on the bed. “Put some music on.”
She sniffed. “You got a preference?”
“Something that ain’t sad. Something like you was listening to when I caught you bent over the other day.”
“Zaire!” Meadow shrieked.
“I’m always a man, baby.”
“What does that even mean?” she whispered, almost laughing at her own question.
He smirked. “Means play something that makes them hips move.”
She rolled her eyes and picked her phone up. “Zaire -”
“And if you put on that whispering R&B shit I’m leaving,” he added.
She laughed and clicked on a playlist.
A smooth beat filled the room, bass heavy and warm, the kind that lived low in the body.
Zaire bobbed his head. “I love it when you listen.”
She rolled her eyes but covered her blushing face.
He turned back toward the stripper pole in the corner, tilting his head. “So you really be using that?”
Meadow’s cheeks warmed. “Don’t worry about what I do with my pole.”
“Oh, I’m worried,” he said, cleaning up a stack of folded clothes. “Poles like that don’t sit in nobody’s room for decoration.”
“Maybe it does.”
“No, it don’t.”
She grabbed a pillow and threw it at him. He dodged it and smirked.
“Show me something then,” he teased lightly, voice playful but respectful. “If you really like that.”
Meadow shook her head hard. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m sad.”
He nodded. “Fair.”
“And you’re a stranger.”
“Fair again.”
She looked at him. “Why you playing with me right now?”
Meadow needed to understand why Zaire was doing what he was doing and why he seemed so invested in her. It had to be a game.
“Because you holding too much,” he spoke softly, “and sometimes laughter hits lighter than tears.”
Her smile faltered, but didn’t disappear.
Zaire finished setting her space right — the room suddenly felt softer, calmer, like it belonged to her again. He walked back toward her and sat on the floor, his back against the bed, head tilted toward the slanted ceiling.
“You good now?” he asked gently.
“No,” she whispered, “but I don’t feel as…crushed now.”
Zaire nodded. “Good.”
They sat in silence for a few seconds, the music filling the empty spaces they didn’t know how to fill on their own.
Then Meadow turned her head toward him. “What made you come looking for me anyway? You didn’t even know where I went.”
Zaire exhaled through his nose. “Ain’t that what looking is?”
“Shut up, smart ass.”
“That and, pain got a sound even when it’s quiet.” He didn’t look at her when he spoke again. “And I know how to move toward pain, grew up around it.”
Meadow searched his face. “What does that mean?”
Zaire hesitated - just for a second. His jaw flexed… his eyes softened.
Then he said something he didn’t plan to say. It slid out of him like he’d been holding it too long. “You know what the 19th hole is?”
Meadow shook her head. “No. What is it?”
Zaire looked over at her. “It’s the part after the game, after all the pressure…after you done givin’ everything you got and it still ain’t enough or it was more than enough.”
Her eyes flicked to his.
“It’s the only place you get to breathe,” he continued. “The only spot where nobody’s judging your score or waiting on you to fail again.”
He paused long enough for his chest to rise slowly.
“It’s where the tired people go,” he whispered. “The worn-out ones, the ones that smile through losses and take punches the world don’t see.”
She could only nod, following his lips desperate to press hers against his.
Zaire looked straight ahead. “I been living in my 19th hole for a long ass time. This house… your mama…Ray…you…” His voice dropped lower. “It don’t feel as lonely up here.”
“You can breathe here,” Meadow whispered. “Even if it’s just for a minute.”
Zaire turned his head, their noses almost brushing. “And you?” he asked. “You breathing yet?”
She thought about it…thought about Magnolia…thought about the pain…thought about the room he’d cleaned without speaking. “A little,” she admitted. “More than I was.”
Zaire nodded. “Good.”
After spending the rest of the morning with Meadow, Zaire finally made it back to his temporary place of rest. He kicked off his shoes, pulled his shirt over his head, and sat on the edge of the bed, with his elbows on his knees.
Before he could think too much about anything, his phone buzzed across the nightstand.
It was a call from the Department of California Prison.
Zaire’s lips lifted into the first real smile he’d had since he left L.A. He cleared his throat and answered. “Yo.”
Life without his Dad had shaped everything.
Antwan had been locked up since Zaire was five, serving a life sentence that felt like a forever nobody in the family could argue with.
Growing up, all he had were supervised calls, short visits, and a mother doing the work of two parents while trying to keep her son from folding into the streets like the neighborhood expected him to.
Every tournament Zaire played in, every swing he perfected, every interview he answered, he carried the same prayer in his chest…one day, somehow, his father would see him play in person.
Not through a TV in the rec room…not through a phone call…not through secondhand stories his mother or uncles passed along.
In person…on real grass with only freedom and pride between them.
Some days that dream felt stupid and other days it kept him alive.
Antwan’s deep voice filled with static and warmth came through the line. “What’s up, young king? You alive out there?”
Zaire leaned back on the mattress, stretching out like a kid again. “I’m cool, just tired.”
“Ain’t no just,” his father replied. “You sound tired-earned. Big difference.”
Zaire chuckled. “You come up with that in group therapy or somethin’?”
“Nah,” Antwan said. “Came up with it while watchin’ my cellmate lose his damn high blood pressure meds for the fourth time this week.”
Zaire laughed, head falling back. The sound loosened something in him.
Antwan hummed like he was smiling too. “That’s better. I ain’t heard that laugh in a minute.”
“Yeah well,” Zaire admitted, “ain’t been nothing funny goin’ on.”
“Then make something funny,” Antwan told him. “Life don’t stop because it gets too loud for you. You gotta squeeze joy out wherever you can find it.”
Zaire rubbed his face, thinking of Meadow cleaning her cheeks with the sleeve of her hoodie. Thinking of Magnolia calling him Ray and touching his face like he was hers.
“I’m tryin’,” he admitted.
Antwan caught that shift instantly. “Where you at anyway? It don’t sound like home.”
“I’m in Juniper Falls,” Zaire said. “Staying with this family for a little while.”
“A girl?” Antwan asked, way too fast.
“It ain’t like that,” Zaire shot back, even though the denial didn’t come out as quick as he meant it to.
Antwan chuckled. “If you gotta explain it, it’s already like that.”
Zaire shook his head, smiling. “You making assumptions, cuh.”
“I don’t assume,” Antwan said. “I recognize my son. And I know how you get when a woman actually see you for who you are, not for that golf shit.”
Zaire didn’t say anything.
Antwan cleared his throat. “Z… you sound lighter. That’s all I’m saying. When’s the last time you sounded like that?”
Zaire let the silence answer for him.
Antwan exhaled. “Exactly.”
Zaire shifted on the bed, staring up at the wooden beams overhead. “How you doing, Pops?”
“I’m good,” his father replied. “Staying out the way. Working in laundry. Mindin’ my business. But I been watching your clips.”
“Don’t watch that last tournament,” Zaire said quickly.
Antwan snorted. “Son please, I already watched it…twice.”
Zaire covered his face. “Damn.”
“You ain’t lose because you weak,” Antwan told him. “You lost because you tired. There’s a difference. And don’t let nobody turn tired into failure.”
Zaire’s eyes burned.
He didn’t expect them to.
“You hear me?” Antwan pressed.
“Yeah,” Zaire whispered.
“And you hear me on a deeper level, right?”
He nodded, even though his father couldn’t see it. “Yeah, Pops…I do.”
“That’s my son.” Antwan paused, voice warming even more. “I’m proud of you, Z. Not for golf…for still fightin’ to be yourself.”
Zaire swallowed hard. “I’m trying.”
“You always try,” his father said. “That’s why you gon’ win when it count. Not now…not when they watching, but when it counts.”
Zaire rubbed his eyes. “Yeah…”
Antwan shifted the phone. “So tell me more about this girl you not claiming.”
Zaire groaned. “Man—”
“I’m just sayin’,” Antwan pressed. “You sound like you smiling while saying her name in your head.”
“I didn’t even say her name.”
“You ain’t have to, cuh.”
Zaire laughed again, covering his face. “Her name Meadow.”
“Ooh,” Antwan coaxed. “That’s a wife name.”
Zaire threw his head back. “Cuh, chill.”
“What?” Antwan argued. “Meadow sound like a woman with edges laid, a good attitude, and a cast iron skillet she don’t play about.”
Zaire couldn’t stop laughing. “She do got a skillet and attitude.”
“Aha! I knew it.”
“It ain’t like that,” Zaire tried again. “She just…be making it easier to breathe.”
Antwan stilled on the other end. The line went quiet for a few seconds.
“You hold onto people like that,” he skillfully advised. “Not too tight. Just…don’t push ’em off when life gets loud.”
Zaire nodded, his neck going taut.
“You hear me?” his father added.
“Yeah,” Zaire whispered. “I hear you.”
“Good, and bring me a plate when you come visit. I want whatever she cooks.”
Zaire smiled into his hands. “She can cook.”
“I knew it.”
They sat on the phone for another few minutes sharing light banter, teasing and updates. The kind of call that patched holes in the soul without being dramatic about it.
Finally, the automated voice cut in.
You have thirty seconds remaining.
“Alright, young king,” Antwan said. “Take care of yourself. And take care of that girl you not dating.”
Zaire snorted. “Bye, Pops.”
“Love you, son.”
“Love you too.”
The line clicked dead.
Zaire lowered the phone and stared at the ceiling again, chest warm and eyes a little wet.
He didn’t feel as heavy…didn’t feel as alone.
Meadow.
Her laugh.
Her messy room.
Her pain.
Her strength.
His dad was right.
He was breathing easier here.