3. Nova Rae Zore #2
“It’s alright,” I soothed, “we good.”
She returned to the spoon, pushing dirty rice in a neat line, then sweeping it back. She liked the sound it made. I did too.
When she finished, I wiped her face with the corner of the towel, folded the towel in on itself to hide the mess, and buckled her out of the chair.
We did our walk to the living room—her on my hip, me stepping over the one floorboard that creaked loud enough to wake the neighborhood.
I set her down among the blocks, turned on the lamp, and listened as the storm shaped itself into something with shoulders.
Back in the kitchen, I reached for the chain without thinking again. The ring sat warm against skin. I pressed my palm over it. Breath in. Breath out. The bulb hummed. The rain came harder.
I stood at the window and slid two fingers under the curtain to check on how bad this storm may get.
Streetlight halos looked softer through the rain.
The chain-link fence around the small yard glistened bead by bead.
A car idled at the corner and then moved on.
The storm tightened its grip and loosened it again in waves.
“Lord,” I began, barely above the rain, “You said You hide Your own under Your shadow.” The words rode my breath, no performance in them. “Hide us.”
Thunder cracked outside suddenly throwing me back into old habits.
I whispered the Psalm, words slipping under my breath while I stirred.
“Yea though I walk through the valley…” The verse climbed out of me like muscle memory.
I didn’t even realize I’d said it out loud until Aaliyah’s little laugh stopped for a second, her block pausing mid-bang as if she’d heard it too.
Aaliyah’s attention reverted back to her toys. I heard the plastic clack of two blocks finding each other. She hummed one note the way toddlers hum when they invent a song without words. Thunder cracked, clean this time, and she flinched. I walked back, bent to her, and touched her tiny shoulder.
“We covered,” I told her, and touched the ring again so I believed it too.
I directed my attention back to the task at hand, opening the drawer and pulling out the small paperback Bible, cover worn at the corners, pages soft from hands.
I didn’t read out loud. I didn’t need to.
Verses lived in my mouth even when I forgot to speak them.
He that dwelleth in the secret place… my lips moved, soundless.
A gentle and quiet spirit is precious… I didn’t feel quiet, but my voice obeyed.
The rain gathered and let go. The building gave one deep groan; the kind of sound old wood makes when pressure changes.
The hallway bulb outside my door blinked twice and steadied.
Water found the seam at the window and drew a thin line down the inside edge.
I wiped it with my thumb and stayed in the prayer.
“Order this house,” I whispered. “Order this heart. Order the hours.”
The radio thinned to static for a breath, then returned, Ashanti slipping into the bridge. Aaliyah’s block song grew louder, then softer, then included a giggle that tumbled into a hiccup. I laughed, quiet, and let the next line of Scripture rest in me instead of chasing it to the end.
A knock. Not loud. Two beats, then a beat, then still. I looked at the clock. 7:48. I set the Bible down on the counter by the stove and wiped both hands on the towel.
The Bible that was open on the end table in the front room caught my eye—Psalm 91underlined, page soft from touch.
I hadn’t touched it tonight. I didn’t want it to catch me mid-thought and ask for an answer.
The knock repeated, same rhythm, measured.
I moved to the door, pressing my eye to the peephole.
Ezra Calloway—Saint—stood under the dim hallway light with a paper grocery bag in each arm, rain dots laying dark on the shoulders of his coat. He looked at the door, not the peephole, like men do when they’re used to waiting quietly. He didn’t shift his weight. He didn’t call my name.
I slid the chain off and opened the door two inches. Warm cooking air met the cool hallway and made a brief curl of steam.
“Hey,” he rumbled, voice low. “You good?”
My eyes fell to the bags. The top showed the white of a diaper pack, the blue stripe of milk, cilantro peeking over the cardboard crease.
“You came out in this,” I answered, opening the door the rest of the way.
“Groceries don’t care about weather,” he returned, stepping inside and angling his body so the rain stayed out. He waited one second for the nod before moving past the threshold. Shoes off without asking. Bags to the counter without thump.
Aaliyah’s hum rose at the new sound in the room. She tottered to the door, eyes big. Saint crouched, the paper bag squeaking as the bottom settled. He offered his hand without touching her. Aaliyah considered, then grabbed his finger with determination.
“Evening, little boss,” he greeted, voice a shade softer. “You fed?”
“She ate,” I answered, lifting the towel to clear a corner of the counter. “You didn’t have to?—”
“I did,” he cut in, not sharp, just final.
He set the second bag down and began to pull items out with the same care he used for words.
Eggs. Milk. Diapers. A small bag of greens tied with a knot.
A new light bulb in a cardboard sleeve. He laid everything where it belonged like he’d been in this kitchen before and remembered the map.
I watched him replace the bulb over the sink. It warmed on the first turn and brought the room a shade brighter. The storm pressed a palm to the window and slid it down.
“Thank you,” I spoke, finally, because the room asked me to.
He nodded once and didn’t make it larger. The radio melted into commercials. The building somewhere above us coughed its old pipe cough. Aaliyah pulled herself to standing on the doorframe and wobbled, then caught balance, proud.
“Grams come by today?” he asked, as if it were natural for him. He’d only met Grams a handful of times, but she drew everyone in like that.
“No, she called.” I answered. “It’s been a long few days.”
He took that in and set the empty paper bags flat under the sink.
He rinsed his hands, not touching the faucet with his fingers—knuckles only.
He reached into his pocket and, like he’d planned it hours ago, produced a small screwdriver.
He tapped the left cabinet door hinge, tightened it by a half turn. The door closed smooth.
“Always the hinge,” he muttered.
I didn’t say anything. It felt good to watch something align without me doing it.
From the cradle of the storm, a siren started and then turned down another street.
Aaliyah tried out a new word that wasn’t a word yet and clapped at herself.
Saint angled his body, so he wasn’t blocking my view of her, then stepped back from the counter and looked at the window seam I’d wiped with my thumb.
He reached into the second bag and set a folded dish rag on the sill, just enough to catch the line of water if it returned. He didn’t explain. He didn’t need to.
“Want something to eat?” I quizzed, because hospitality is a muscle I keep in shape even when my heart is tired.
“If you sit with me,” he allowed the hint of a smile at the corner like he knew I’d try to serve him standing.
“Aaliyah runs the table,” I countered.
“She does,” he agreed.
The radio climbed back from ads. Rain softened one notch and then strengthened in the next breath. Aaliyah babbled to the rhythm of her own tapping. I felt the ring against my sternum heat again. I pressed my palm to it.
“Lord,” I told Him without moving my mouth, “keep order.”
Saint waited for me to sit. I did. Silence spread between us like another place setting.
His eyes stayed on Aaliyah where she curled against my hip, but the weight of him filled the room anyway.
The radio dipped low under the hum of the fridge, rain sliding down the glass in tired streaks.
He pulled a chair out and waited. I nodded at the spoon.
He fixed a plate. He ate quiet. Fork on ceramic, soft scrape, no rush.
Aaliyah crawled under the table to knock the chair leg with her palm, a game she invented for herself.
He shifted his foot so she wouldn’t bump her head.
He watched her, then looked up at me when he felt me watching him.
I touched the chain under my shirt and let the words slip under my breath where only heaven could hear them:
“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves those crushed in spirit.”
The scripture wrapped soft around the edges of my chest, like a quilt pulled up on a cold night. Comfort without noise. Comfort that reminded me why I kept my vow.
Saint didn’t move. Didn’t press. Just finished the last of his plate, shoulders loose, the quiet between us turning into a kind of shield instead of a trap.
He stood from his chair and went to wipe the area he’d sat in without a word.
The rag moved slow, picking up crumbs I’d missed earlier, grease rings disappearing under steady circles.
He didn’t huff. Didn’t perform. Just worked until the wood looked new again, then folded the rag and set it at the sink like a period at the end of a simple sentence.
Aaliyah babbled from the floor. “St—” Her little hand reached. He bent without thinking and let her clutch his finger. She giggled, breath fogging the air between them. Something in the room shifted—quieter at the edges, less jagged. I felt it in my ribs before I admitted it.
I turned to the sink, hot water steaming up, plate after plate slipping slick through my hands. Grease still hung in the kitchen—fried chicken, a sliver of onions, butter softening on the stove’s back eye.