26. The Empty Side of the Table
The Empty Side of the Table
T he afterschool program was buzzing when I dropped in.
Kids bent over robot kits and art projects, the smell of pizza hanging thick in the air.
I meant to just dap Malik up, drop off the extra sodas in my trunk, and bounce.
But when I pushed through the back door, I caught him leaning on the front desk, body loose but eyes giving him away.
His voice was low, soft in a way I didn’t hear often, a grin tugging like he didn’t want it there but couldn’t help himself.
The woman with him—brown skin, slim frame, locs pulled up neat, blazer over a soft blouse—kept her eyes down on a stack of folders.
Professional. But her mouth betrayed her, curving in a smile she tried to hide.
And the way her hand lingered on the edge of the desk, not pulling away fast, said enough.
Then she noticed me. That smile tightened like she’d just remembered she was on the clock and kids were running wild in the hall behind her.
Malik saw me a beat later. His jaw flexed, and he muttered something under his breath before pushing off the desk.
By the time he reached me, he was already shaking his head.
“You saw nothing,” he said, already moving me toward the door.
I smirked. “Right. Just two coworkers talking about… what, phonics and multiplication tables?”
“Man, don’t start.” He laughed once, short, embarrassed, then shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket like that could cover the glow in his dark face.
“Wasn’t starting,” I said lightly, pulling my coat tighter as the cold air slapped us on the sidewalk. “But you might want to tell your face to calm down before she files HR paperwork on you.”
He barked out a real laugh at that, hard enough to fog the air between us. “Her name’s Cierra. And relax—she’s not thinking about me like that.”
“She looked like she was.”
He paused mid-step, cut me a look, then sighed. “She’s good with the kids. Quick. Got this way of making you want to do better without saying it. And yeah… I like her. More than I thought I would. But she’s locked on keeping it professional.”
“And you?” I asked.
His shoulders lifted in a shrug, but the sound in his throat gave him away. “I’m not looking to play. Not with her. Something about her… feels different. Makes me think twice. Hell, makes me think more than twice.”
I let that sit. The honesty in it. Malik wasn’t the type to run from his own messes, but he wasn’t quick to name something real either. This—Cierra—was shaking something loose in him.
“Feels familiar,” I said finally.
His eyes cut to mine. “You talking about your girl?”
I didn’t answer, but I didn’t need to.
“I think she’s keeping something from me,” I admitted finally. “Something big. Might even be… pregnant-big.”
Malik’s whistle cut the air. “Shit. You serious?”
“I saw the signs. Food she didn’t eat because her stomach is turning, the way she’s been dodging. I could be wrong.” My throat worked. “But I don’t think I am.”
Malik leaned back, the cold air from the open door washing over us. “So what you gon’ do? Press her? Demand answers?”
I shook my head. “That’s not me. And it won’t work with her. She don’t respond to pressure. She responds to… space.”
He studied me long enough to make it uncomfortable, then smirked. “That’s why she likes you. You patient in ways most men ain’t. Don’t mean you don’t deserve to know, though. Just—when you do ask, make sure it’s from a place of wanting to hold her, not corner her.”
His words landed heavier than he probably knew. I clapped his shoulder, grateful. “You sound like you got some wisdom yourself.”
He chuckled, his eyes going soft like he was thinking about Cierra. “Man, I’m learning as I go. Maybe we both are.”
I huffed a laugh. “Cierra’s got you spun, huh?”
“She does,” he admitted, shaking his head. “And it pisses me off because she won’t let me past the damn front desk.”
“Maybe that’s her test,” I said, mouth twitching.
“Maybe.” He grinned, rueful. “But she’s worth it.”
The look on his face—the one that said he knew what he was getting into, even if it scared him—felt like looking in a mirror.
We clasped hands quick before splitting paths. “You good?” he asked one last time.
“I’ll be good,” I said. “Thank for listening, bro.”
By the time I stepped into The Green Room, the noise and smoke hit me like always, but the clean break of the first rack didn’t land right.
The bracket was wrong—no Whitaker beside my name.
No banter. No smirk when I scratched. Just me, holding onto Malik’s words and missing her in every angle of the table.
Tournament nights always gave me energy I didn’t know I needed—it was rhythm. Same way, equations steadied me in the classroom. Same way time was supposed to.
But none of that was helping right now because her name should’ve been inked right under mine. Tonight, the bracket looked wrong—empty without her.
“You showing up without your partner?” Tino leaned on the bar, mic dangling from his hand.
Uncle Leon sat two stools down, his face saying more than his mouth. “Thought for sure I’d see Rayna’s name. You two lit this place up last time.”
I gave them the kind of smile meant to pacify, not please. “She’s not been feeling well.”
Uncle Leon and Tino shared a look before going back to minding their business.
Yeah. I wasn’t buying it either. Rayna was the healthiest, most vibrant woman I knew, and suddenly her name needed to be placed on the Mt. Calvary’s sick and shut-in list? Didn’t sit right.
I told myself not to push. Not to wedge myself in where she wasn’t ready. Talking to Malik put everything in perspective for me, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t hard not to confront her even when I understood restraint very well.
But restraint had never felt this heavy. Because I missed her. I missed our rhythm, the banter, the way she teased when I botched a shot, the heat of her leaning into me when nobody was looking. I missed us.
The tournament kicked off. My first rack was smooth, muscle memory carrying me while my head stayed stuck on her. Every time I chalked the cue, I saw her—hips brushing mine when she lined up a shot, that smirk when she called a pocket no one thought she could sink.
The tease of her smile. That fat ass bent just right, showing the room what this game was really about—control, angles, patience, the kind of seduction you couldn’t fake. She bent physics to her will, turned geometry into desire.
Without her, the table felt wrong. Empty. Like lining up a break with no cue ball. Like momentum with nothing to carry forward.
She should’ve been here.
Between matches, I leaned on the bar, my bottle of water sweating in my hand. That’s when I saw the stick in my craw.
She walked in like the room belonged to her—pencil skirt, blouse tucked sharp, heels clicking like punctuation. Not trying to be sexy, but every step said she knew eyes followed anyway.
And mine didn’t want to.
I cursed myself. I’d mentioned the tournament in passing last week—filler talk while she hovered. She’d gone on about a charity walk with her sorors, wine in Shadyside after. Nothing about The Green Room. But here she was anyway.
“Quentin.” Her smile was warm, too warm. Her hand brushed my arm like she had the right and I fought to shake the feeling she left off. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”
I arched a brow. “It’s a tournament, Ms. Coleman. I’m always here.”
She laughed softly and leaned in. “Guess I wanted to see what all the hype was about. You and these pool tables.” Her voice dipped like an invitation. “I was curious.”
And there it was—her angle. Always circling, always pushing past the line I’d drawn. My patience was thinning fast. The only thing keeping me from telling her to leave me the hell alone was the fact we worked under the same roof. I wasn’t about to risk my job over her bullshit.
I opened my mouth to cut it clean, to put it where it belonged?—
But then I heard?—
“Well, it’s funny running into you here.”