30. Break & Belly
Break habit is a religion in this family.
Shawna floated in on a laugh, hand tucked into Andre’s elbow like she’d finally found a man who kept pace.
Jada slid by with a bakery box—cinnamon buns she refused to admit she made—and Malik posted near the bar with his new girl, Cierra, who had a smile dangerously close to content.
Uncle Leon had the rag over his shoulder and that proud-uncle squint he put on whenever I chalked a cue.
Tino spotted us and banged the mic stand once just to watch Quentin wince.
“Whitaker Electric in the building!” Malik hollered, clapping Daddy on the back. “Don’t think I forgot—you still owe my kids that wiring workshop.”
Daddy chuckled, eyes warming. “Put it on the calendar. Rae’s teaching it with me. Safety, tools, and how math shows up when you don’t think it will.”
That tugged somewhere low in me—legacy sweet as current. The thought of some ninth grader in Malik’s program holding a tester pen steady while I said trust your line made my chest go soft.
“Couples on Two!” Tino bellowed. “Whitaker-Hale versus Duke n’ Santi. Baby on Board advantage goes to the belly!”
Laughter rippled. People love a running joke; tonight I was the whole punchline and the show. I patted my bump like we had our own team sponsor. “Tell ’em, Nugget,” I whispered. “Mommy’s still got angles.”
Quentin’s hand slid to my belly without thinking—always without thinking. A reflex. A claim.
Weeks ago, outside his school, he’d pulled the same move right as Ms. Big-Head Coleman sat in her cherry-red coupe, watching like she was parked in the wrong soap opera. She drove off tight. I gave her a big ol’ wave, like she was the crossing guard and I was thanking her for keeping him safe.
Quentin chuckled, low and steady, shaking his head like he was half in awe and half exasperated. “You really don’t know how to let a thing go, do you?”
Quentin had already told me months ago that he threatened to march to the administration if she didn’t quit popping up unannounced, laying hands on him like he was a Costco sample. These days, she barely mumbled a hello. But I still had a few points to drive home.
“Why would I?” I shot back, smirking. “Some souvenirs are too funny to throw away.”
He kissed the side of my head, still smiling, but his palm stayed firm on my stomach. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you love it,” I said, leaning back into him.
“Rayna Whitaker,” Uncle Leon called, pretending to wipe the counter while watching me like a hawk. “You breathing alright?”
I gave him a look. “You babysitting my lungs now?”
He dipped his chin at my belly. “I see who’s babysitting your everything.”
Daddy chuckled, then slanted me that look only a father earns. “If you feel funny, you sit. You hear?”
“Sir, yes, sir,” I said, and he grunted, satisfied but listening.
Mama slid over with a patient smile and murmured, “Bend your knees when you lean, baby. Save your back,” then kissed my cheek quick before I could pretend not to need it.
Daddy’s fingers brushed her wrist on his way past, like a habit his body remembered.
They didn’t make a show of it; they didn’t have to.
Truth was, I’d been feeling… tugs. Little squeezes that ma de me pause. Not pain. Just pressure. Braxton Hicks, I told myself. I wasn’t about to say that out loud with this many eyes on me.
Duke and Santi swaggered up, matching hoodies, the kind of couple that finished trash talk for each other.
“Congratulations,” Santi said sincerely.
“Thanks,” I said, meaning it. Her eyeliner was lethal; her vibe, softer than her jaw.
Duke winked at Quentin. “You about to carry, my guy. No way she bending properly.”
Quentin’s mouth curved. “You say that like she ever needed proper.”
Game one and we were on Two, the table with a slight lean you had to respect. I’d always loved her for that—honesty built right into the slate.
I chalked. Tried a practice bend. Okay, so the belly did announce itself. I couldn’t live in that flat, predatory lean I used to; I had to widen my stance, drop the back knee, let the bump be part of my geometry. Nugget thumped like they were in on the math.
Quentin hovered at my shoulder. “You good?”
“Back up off me, professor. You make me nervous.”
“You don’t get nervous,” he said, but he shuffled half a step away and slid his glasses up—his tell, not mine. Watchful, careful, letting me lead.
I tapped the rail twice. Breathing stayed even. The break went like I asked it: crack, scatter, two balls down early. The room thrummed. My people thrummed louder.
Pregnancy changed your center of gravity, yeah—but it also sharpened your focus when you had something to prove.
My shot selection got surgical and rude.
I took the seven off a soft kiss, used the nine as a brake, turned a cluster into a promise.
When the lean tried to tease the cue ball into a bad neighborhood, I fed a hair of right English and watched it heel like a good dog.
“Okay, Mama,” Shawna hollered. “Show out then!”
Andre whistled; Jada covered her grin like she wasn’t screaming on the inside, and Keisha whispered something to Darren that made him clap once and look proud in a way big brothers never fully hide. Behind them, Mama lifted her chin at me—‘that’s my girl’—without saying a word.
Quentin cleaned what I left with that quiet four-count under his breath—glasses off, shoulders easy, pace that never begged. It wasn’t just calm. It was deliberate. He played like an answer key he’d written himself.
Between games, Malik drifted by. “You sure you ain’t tryin’ to have a Juneteenth baby on purpose?”
“Shut up,” I laughed, then… paused. A tug took me by surprise, low and tight. I breathed through it easy, in on four, out on six. Quentin noticed. He always did.
“Squeeze?” he asked, voice soft enough to not wake a bird.
“Nothing,” I lied. “Don’t start.”
His eyes said he’d started two weeks ago and hadn’t stopped—counting intervals without a watch, cataloging my winces, building a map to the hospital in his head he’d never need to unfold.
Game two ran hotter—Duke found rhythm, Santi jawed me into a long bank I took out of spite.
We traded saints and sins. My back ached once, then forgot.
I moved when I could, rested when I had to, and any time I bent over the table, Quentin’s palm grazed the top edge of my bump like he was scanning a barcode only he could read.
Between racks, Daddy came up, handed me his water without a word. I drank because I’m no fool. “This kid better love you,” I told him.
Daddy softened at the eyes. “They already do.”
On the other side of the room, Tino worked the crowd like a DJ of arguments. “Reds on Five! Don’t be shy now—Juneteenth only comes once a year; your jump shot don’t.”
“Say a history fact then,” somebody yelled.
Tino spread his arms. “Here’s a fact: Black joy stays undefeated in this bar. Rack ’em.”
We surfed that joy all the way to the semis.
The babies in Steelers hoodies fell asleep against Keisha’s chest, sugar-crashed on cinnamon buns.
Cierra, who I grew to like a lot, filmed me on her phone like she was archiving evidence.
Jada whispered with Shawna, eyes cutting between me and Quentin like she was low-key collecting vows.
Behind them, Mama and Daddy traded a look that said they’d already picked a balcony cabin and weren’t telling nobody which deck.
Santi hugged me after we sent them home. “Bring that baby back and let us hold it,” she demanded.
“After the ring,” Duke added with a grin.
“Mind your business,” Quentin said.
By finals, my belly had ideas. Not pain, just—presence. A rolling tension that made me go quiet and breathe on purpose. Malik noticed. He always had a mouth for noticing. “Uh-oh.”
Keisha smacked him with a napkin. “Hush. ”
Uncle Leon sidled close and pretended to polish a glass that didn’t need it. “You at ten minutes yet?”
I let out a slow breath. “We are not counting right now.”
“Mm-hmm,” he said to the glass.
Our opponents were Deja and Coop—sweet assassins from Wilkinsburg who smiled like they were going to church and then robbed you in the parking lot. Deja, locs wrapped in a scarf patterned like joy, winked at me. “You sure, sis? We can reschedule this family reunion.”
“Nah,” I said, chalking. “We finish what we start.”
Quentin touched my shoulder. Not to stop me. To say I’m listening. To say I’m with you.