3. Nova Rae Zore #3
His paper list lay folded near the bread box laid near the bags he placed on the counter.
Diapers, milk, formula, bleach, wipes, cereal, rice, oil.
Square checkboxes filled with dark ink where he’d already handled it.
My lists bend and loop and trail off the page.
His sits straight. I hated how much that steadiness calmed the room.
“You don’t gotta walk to the store no more,” he offered, voice low, even. “Leave the list. I’ll run it whenever you need me too.”
“That’s not your weight,” I deflected, jaw tight.
“I don’t mind carrying it,” he returned, gaze steady, no push in it.
My hand went straight to the chain under my tee again. I pressed the ring until the edges bit. Warmth from my skin met cold that never fully leaves gold. That was the point: feel both. Promise and cost at the same time.
Thunder loosened in the distance. Not gone. Just farther.
I lifted Aaliyah from the floor. Her curls damp at the edges, cheek hot from play, milk on her breath.
She tucked in, heavy, trusting. My shoulder fit her like it had been built for that only.
I swayed without music. Old habit. Her lashes lowered, rose, lowered again.
“You ready for bed, mama?” I murmured into her hair.
She answered with a soft grunt, thumb finding her mouth.
He rose again, gathered the cups, ran water through them. He didn’t ask where anything lived. He watched once and found the cabinet without opening the wrong door. He handed me a towel. Our fingers brushed. Heat flashed through my palm and slid away before I could name it.
Ro at the grave swelled up without warning.
Wet leather. Rain knocking my collarbone.
His eyes catching mine under the tent—hurt and pride in the same stare, both refusing to step aside.
I tasted iron then. I taste it now, faint, a memory that keeps its own key.
His mouth had moved around my name like he hadn’t used it out loud in a long time.
“Nova”. No question on it. Just fact and claim.
The ground shifted that whole hour. I’ve been bracing my knees ever since.
“I’ll take Thursdays, Saturdays,” Saint continued, stacking bowls, moving easy. “Some Sundays. If the block crowds late, don’t open your door. I’ll be posted.”
“You don’t have to pencil us in, Saint.” I muttered, keeping my voice small so it wouldn’t carry. “We aren’t truly your responsibility.”
He dipped his chin. “You’re covered. That’s all. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Covered. The word landed in the room and found a chair.
Ro used to cover a different way—loud, chest out, presence first. He’d park the bike wrong on purpose to block my building’s entry, make trouble choose another door.
It worked until it didn’t, until the heat he drew never cooled.
Saint’s version sat quiet. The hallway doesn’t change when his boot hits the step. The street just behaves.
The storm’s center slipped past us. The rain had softened.
The windows stopped shivering. Aaliyah’s breath went heavy on my neck.
I shifted her weight and felt the pull in my back from a morning spent lifting what needed lifting.
My thighs ached in that good, lived-in way.
I snagged a paper towel and wiped the corner of her mouth. She grunted again, satisfied.
“Let me take her,” he offered, hands open, not reaching.
I shook my head. “She falls faster like this.”
He nodded once and backed a step to give me space. He watched my feet so he wouldn’t crowd them. That small attention pressed against the inside of my ribs.
I slid Aaliyah into her crib. The Rugrats nightlight threw its small multi-colored square across her sheet.
The stuffed rabbit I washed yesterday was already back under her arm.
I tucked the blanket to her chest the way Grams taught me—two smooth strokes and a kiss to the forehead.
Her thumb settled where it belonged. Peace poured out of that little chest like the apartment took orders from her lungs.
I stood there longer than necessary. I had to cover my baby. My palms pressed to the crib rail. The vow throbbed under my sternum in time with hers. The air thickened, electric, like the whole room bent under Heaven’s hand.
“Father God, I thank You for the breath in my baby’s chest tonight. Cover her in Your wings as she sleeps. Let no evil, no fear, no sickness come near her. I plead the blood of Jesus over her mind, her body, and her soul.
Let her dreams be filled with light, not shadows. Let her ears only hear Your voice when the world tries to speak lies. Make her strong but keep her gentle; make her wise, but let her heart stay pure.
I declare Psalm 91 over her: that she dwells in the secret place of the Most High and abides under the shadow of the Almighty. Lord, send Your angels to stand guard at her crib, at her window, at her future.
Let her grow into the woman You designed her to be—fearless, loved, and rooted in You. I give her back to You every night, because she is Yours first.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
I finally waltzed back into the kitchen.
I couldn’t get enough of that gorgeous swirl of all the good things Ro and I’s personalities housed.
Saint had the trash bag untied and knotted new, the can wiped out, a fresh liner clipped clean.
He’d pulled my wet dish towel through his hands and draped it open across the oven handle so it could dry right.
The precision of it read like a word: order.
The danger in me answered back: careful.
“You want coffee for the road?” I asked, voice quiet. “I can make it quick.”
“I’m straight,” he dismissed, mouth easing. “It’ll just make me drive too fast.”
“You always drive slow,” I pointed, brow lifting.
“I just look slow,” he corrected, a ghost of a grin. “Difference between steady and lazy.”
“Hmm,” I answered, noncommittal.
He reached in his jacket and set three-hundred-dollar bills on the small table by the door.
Not a show. He did it like he’d do it whether I looked or not.
He propped a small black umbrella by the door.
The handle was scuffed. Not new. “In case it leaks tomorrow. You know Lyon Crest can’t hold water. ” he noted.
“Thank you,” I breathed, the words finding me before I could approve them.
He adjusted the list with one finger, squaring it with the counter edge. “If you think of something later, write it. I’ll grab it before work.”
“What nights?” I probed, needing details to hang my nerves on.
“Thursday, Saturday for sure,” he recounted. “Sometimes Sunday. I’ll flash brights twice if I see anything off. You don’t have to look—just know I’m there.”
I slid my thumb under the chain again. The metal warmed to my skin, the ring pressing like another heartbeat. “I keep my door closed.”
“Good,” he confirmed, no extra note in it. “Keep it that way.”
A beat. We both listened to the building settle.
The freezer motor cut on, low hum. A pipe tapped as it cooled.
Somewhere down the hall, a kid laughed in his sleep—one burst, then quiet.
The radio moved into a commercial, then dropped into old Mary J, voice thin through the cheap speaker, still true.
He shifted toward the door. “Anything else before I cut?”
“Saint,” I called, softer than I meant to.
He paused, hand on the knob. He turned half, not enough to push me with his presence. One eyebrow lifted in question.
“Thank you,” I finished. “For groceries. For… the rest.”
“You don’t owe me a speech,” he replied, shoulders easing.
“I know,” I countered. “I wanted to say it.”
His mouth tilted, almost a smile that didn’t show teeth. “Alright then.”
I opened the lock. He stepped into the hallway. The air out there wore wetness and dust. He adjusted his jacket, pulled the collar once, and glanced over my shoulder at the dark room—Bible open, lamp low, baby breathing. He nodded toward the end table. “You reading tonight?”
“Maybe,” I wavered. “Sometimes the words read me back too hard after storms.”
“They still land,” he reminded, voice quiet. “Even when you don’t finish.”
I didn’t answer. My throat closed a notch. He tapped the frame twice, a small signal that meant nothing to anyone but me, then moved down the hall. His boots kept even time on tile: three floors, one door, stairwell.
I shut the door. Turned the lock. Set the chain. Leaned into the wood until it pushed back.
In the front room, the lamp threw a soft spill across the rug. The Bible’s thin pages glowed at the edges. I stood in the doorway and breathed in the house. The wipers out front stopped. The block quieted. The storm loosened its hold.
I picked up the Bible and set it back down. I didn’t need it open to know what I would whisper. My mouth already knew the shape of it. I pressed the ring. “He that dwelleth in the secret place…”
Thunder grumbled weak somewhere else, not ours anymore.
My brain tried to hand me a picture of the grave again—Ro standing at the mouth of the hole, rain slicking his lashes, jaw locked, breath coming out in short, hard bursts.
The look he gave me then walked into this room without knocking.
The weight of it hit me in the sternum. Three years gone.
One glance and everything I built was learning how to shake again.
Back then he burned. Even his quiet burned.
He loved in declarations and engine noise and the roll call of birthdays.
He had a memory for dates and a mouth that put them in the air like prayers and warnings.
Dre. Boo. Tasha. He wore the dead like a vest. He wore me like a brand.
When we were right, I felt it in my bones.
When we were wrong, my heart took the bruise.
Saint doesn’t bruise me. He sands the edges down. He turns the heat down without touching the dial. That ought to be good. But peace pressed too close to my chest feels like betrayal if I let it sit too long. I don’t know what to do with a quiet that doesn’t demand I earn it.
I checked the chain lock on the door again. I do that when my mind starts running. The metal clicked under my fingers. The sound helped.
I made the circuit I always make when my body won’t calm—kitchen sink off, stove off, fridge closed, counter clear, Bible positioned, diaper bag zipped.
Each small order stacked on the last until the room agreed to stand still.
I rinsed the rag he folded, wrung it, hung it clean on the oven handle like he did. The line of it made my breathing even.
Aaliyah rustled once. I went to her, pressed my palm to her back. The rise and fall steadied me. She murmured and found her thumb again. Covered.
I moved to the window and parted the blind with two fingers. The SUV out front sat dark now, rain beads sliding down the hood in slow lines. I knew he’d be on the corner in five minutes running a perimeter in his own head. He didn’t announce it. He just did it. He always does.
Across the street, Lopez’s neon beer sign stuttered and held.
The sidewalk wore puddles in every cracked square.
A stray dog shook water and trotted under the awning of the bodega.
Two boys in oversized hoodies jogged by, heads down, shoes slapping wet concrete.
The block wasn’t asleep. It was resting.
I let the blind fall and walked back to the table.
The list waited. I wrote “garbage bags” under oil and rice, then “bandaids” because Aaliyah’s knees keep finding corners.
I added “light bulb” because the hallway flickers and I like to have spares.
My handwriting slanted against his. I squared the paper with the counter like he had. It sat better like that.
The radio eased into quiet. DJ Xtra dropped the beat. Then Amerie’s “Why Don’t We Fall in Love” rolled in, summer still trapped in the chords even though the rain tried to drown it. I turned the knob a hair lower and let the beat find the empty spaces between the beeping of the fire alarm.
My knees remembered the morning. My thighs remembered three days. My chest remembered the tent. My mouth remembered vows spoken where plastic chairs squeak and names echo longer than they should.
I whispered again, not to win over the room, just to keep my insides from running. “A gentle and quiet spirit is precious in Your sight.” I don’t know if I am gentle. I know how to be quiet. I hold that line like a rope.
The ring warmed. It always does when I press it like this.
I breathe until the heat from it turns into air I can use.
I breathe until the part of me that wants to lean into the steady that Saint offers steps back from the edge.
I breathe until the picture of Ro at the grave softens enough to fit on a shelf where it belongs—not gone, not bleeding.
My phone on the counter lit and buzzed once?—
Lani: You straight? Food for tomorrow if you want it.
Me: I’m good. Save me a plate
She will anyway. She knows my lies and feeds me through them.
I clicked the lamp off. The apartment changed temperature when the light left. Not colder. Just honest. The night outside had finished its tantrum. The hallway settled. A car door closed two buildings down. The fridge kicked on. Small sounds. House sounds.
I went to bed, chain still around my neck, ring warm at the center of me—small weight, heavy meaning. If only he knew how deep our souls ran together. I lay on my side facing the crib so I could watch her breathe. I stretched my palm out to touch the edge of the mattress and anchored there.
Peace tried to creep up the blanket. I let a little of it in. Not enough to replace fire. Just enough to sleep.
“I’m a wife,” I reminded the dark. “I keep my vow.”
The room held. Outside the windowpane, water dripped from the roof in a slow count. Down on the curb, a shadow shifted and then settled—quiet watch posted. I knew who it was. The pull didn’t vanish. It didn’t need to. I named it and left it at the door.
My wedding ring stayed warm against my skin. The last of the rain thinned to oblivion. The radio leaked the tail end of a chorus and fell to hush. I whispered, “God give me strength like only You know how to do.” And with that my eyes fluttered shut until my mind finally rested.