Chapter 3
But it wasn’t just the layout I knew. I had memorized every sound.
The soft click of the fridge, the bathroom pipe’s knock before the water gurgled to life, and the slight drag of the front door when it needed a firmer push to close. Those sounds meant everything was how it should be. None of it caught me off guard until it did.
Living like this was something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I was broke, didn’t have a life, didn’t know who I was, and was too afraid to do anything but exist inside this apartment.
All I wanted these days was my man and to be happy, but neither was feasible.
The thought of finding him came up more often than I liked.
It would hit me at random. Sometimes, when I was sitting alone in the dark, and sometimes when I caught myself wishing for things I couldn’t explain.
I didn’t have any memories of us, but I knew what he meant to me, and that feeling didn't go away.
Every time it came up, I heard Mrs. Mary calling me selfish for even thinking about reaching out to him. She said I was only focused on what I wanted, not on what it would do to him. He was locked up with no release date, and I was out here living a life he couldn’t be a part of.
Contacting him, with no memory of what we had, wouldn’t bring him comfort. It would remind him of everything he’d lost and everything he couldn’t reach. He would have to look at me and know I was out here alone, without him, and that he couldn’t do anything to change that.
If something happened to me after that, he would grieve, knowing he couldn’t protect me or fix the problem. That wasn’t something I could put on him just because I wanted to feel close to him again.
So I stayed where I was.
Not because I did not want him, but because wanting him wasn’t enough to justify the mental anguish my presence would cost him.
As I paced the living room floor, trying to figure out why I was feeling antsy all of a sudden, a knock sounded at the door. I paused mid-step and turned toward it, but I didn’t move to answer.
Looking down at the gun in my hand, I flicked the safety off, then moved toward the door, one slow step at a time. I leaned into the peephole and looked out, but the hallway looked empty. However, a faint scuff of movement on the other side told me it wasn’t.
“What do you want?” I asked, getting straight down to business as I snatched open the door.
At the same time, my pistol was up, aimed at the space between the knocker’s eyes.
It was Tink.
The kid jerked back so fast his heel caught a crack in the concrete, forcing him to quickly right himself before he went down. The bags in his hand swung wide, and he pulled them to his chest so he wouldn’t drop anything inside.
“Ko—” His voice quivered as he looked from me to the barrel and back again.
I kept the gun where it was for a second, watching as his shoulders drew close to his ears.
“It’s me,” he added. “It’s just me.”
I lowered the weapon, but didn’t put it away. What for? His eyes stayed on it anyway.
“Boy, you almost got shot. I forgot I sent you to the store,” I said, moving out of the way so he could come inside.
“How could you forget that? I haven’t even been gone that long,” he replied, holding the bags out to me, but never moving to step inside.
I shook my head. “Come in and set the bags on the counter. I’m not paying you to do a half-ass job.”
“How is it half-ass? The delivery apps don’t bring your stuff in. They just sit it in front of the door.”
“That’s why I paid you, and not them. Now do what I said. Chop, chop.”
He didn’t move right away. Instead, his gaze flicked from me to the doorway, then back again, like he was trying to decide if he should come in.
After roughly a minute had passed, he finally walked past me, but kept a little distance as he crossed into the apartment.
The door dragged behind him when he pushed it shut. I listened to it without meaning to, waiting for it to sound the way it always did.
Tink set the bags down near the counter, but he didn’t wander off like he normally would. He stayed where he was, glancing around the empty space before his eyes came back to me.
“You good?” he asked, and I turned away so that he wouldn’t see the expression on my face.
“Yup, I’m fine.”
“You still didn’t tell me how you forgot you sent me to the store?” he said, watching me closely.
I shrugged as I reached into one of the bags. “I don’t know. I just did.”
The plastic crinkled under my hand as I dug through the bag, checking each item without really looking at them. Everything was there in the same brands I always asked for, stacked the same way they would have been if I had gone myself.
I set a container of chicken lo mein on the counter and opened it, more out of habit than hunger. Steam rolled up, carrying the smell with it, but it didn’t pull me in the way it usually did. I stood there with it open, staring down at it for a minute before I pushed the lid back into place.
Behind me, Tink’s shoe scraped against the floor, cutting through the quiet. “You sure you good?” he asked again.
“I said I was fine.”
He didn’t say anything else, but when I glanced over my shoulder at him, he was still watching me.
“You never forgot any other time I ran an errand for you,” he said finally.
I picked up another item from the bag and turned it over in my hand, pretending to read the label. “There’s a first time for everything.”
“When my momma says stuff like that, I know something ain’t right.”
I set the jar down and turned to look at him. “I’m not your momma, so when I say I’m okay, that means everything is fine, Tink,” I snapped, and he lifted his hands in surrender.
“Okay, okay. I believe you. Don’t bite my head off, woman.”
I glared at him for a second, then turned back to the counter. “You get everything I told you to?”
“Yeah.”
I checked anyway. One by one, I pulled things out and lined them up across the counter. When I got to the bottom of the bag, I paused, shoulders stiffening.
Another container of chicken lo mein was sitting there. This one, with extra chicken, peppers, onions, and heavy on the chili oil.
I picked up the container and turned it over in my hand as I tried to make sense of it. Something about it felt right, but I couldn’t remember why. I glanced at the one I’d already pulled out, then back at this one, my mind too fuzzy to see the big picture.
I didn’t order my food like this. I knew that. So why did it pull at me like this?
My thumb pressed into the lid as I forced my mind to clear, piece by piece. The extra chicken. The peppers. The onions. The insane amount of chili oil. I didn’t go that hard.
It took a second longer than I liked to come back to me, but when it finally did, it punched me right in the heart.
Booda’s name flashed in my mind, accompanied by the familiar scent of his cologne and the slurping sounds he made when he was sucking up noodles.
This was exactly how he ordered his chicken lo mein.
I looked up at Tink. “What kind of games are you playing? Why did you get this?”
“What?” He leaned forward, trying to see past me.
I moved to the side so he could get a look at the extra container. “That. I didn’t tell you to get that.”
He frowned. “Yeah, you did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did,” he said as he grabbed his phone out of his pocket to pull up our texts. “See.” He showed me the device. “You said get two.”
I stared at the container, then back at him. “Damn. I texted that?”
“Yeah. You don’t remember?” Tink asked.
I flashed him a tight smile. “I remember. I was just messing with you.”
“Um-hmm,” he replied, his brow furrowed and eyes narrowed in disbelief.
I could see the doubt etched on his face, mixed with a bit of worry and confusion as he stood there with his arms crossed. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, silently scrutinizing me as if he could peel back my layers and uncover the truth behind my forced smile.
Pretending not to pay him any attention, I set Booda’s order off to the side, separating it from the rest. “I’ll eat that later,” I said, mostly to myself.
Tink lingered by the counter, and I could feel him still trying to piece together what was happening in my head.
I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of seeing me unravel over a container of noodles, so I busied myself with putting everything away.
“You need anything else?” he asked after a minute, his voice careful.
“Nah. You good. I’ll hit you up if I need you again.”
He nodded and turned, heading for the exit.
“Tink,” I called out before he could reach it.
He stopped and looked back at me.
“Don’t come by unannounced. Call first.”
“I know,” he said, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. “My momma is having a birthday barbecue today. She said you should come.”
I kept my back to him as I stacked the containers in the fridge. “Nah. I’m good where I’m at.”
“You don’t seem good.”
“Maybe not, but it’s true.”
“Nah,” Tink replied, and there was something in his voice that made me pause. “You say it every time I come by. Every single time, Ko. And every time, you look a little more crazed than before.”
I closed the fridge and turned to face him. “You think I’m crazy?”
He shook his head. “Nah. I think you're paranoid,” he said, and I wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up.
The words he’d thrown my way hit harder than he probably intended, mostly because they were true. I could lie to myself all day long about why I kept the blinds closed, why I checked the locks obsessively, or why my hand stayed on a gun more often than not, but doing that would be pointless.
“And I get it. Something’s got you spooked. But hiding in here won’t help. Momma said the only thing we should fear is God. Man can’t do no more to you than what you can do to them. We all bleed the same.”
I turned away from him, not because I agreed, but because I couldn’t stand the look on his face. The concern. The pity. Whatever it was, I didn’t want it aimed at me.
“I’m not paranoid,” I said, lying, and I could tell Tink knew it too.
The paranoia had teeth. It had been gnawing at me for weeks, maybe longer.
I couldn’t remember anymore. Every shadow in the hallway felt like a threat.
Every sound outside my door sent my hand reaching for the gun.
Every moment I spent in this apartment was another moment I wasn’t moving, wasn’t thinking, wasn’t doing anything but waiting for something bad to happen.
And the longer I waited, the more certain I became that it would.
Tink chose not to say anything else. Instead, he twisted the doorknob and opened the door.
“What time does the barbecue start?” I asked, stopping him at the threshold.
Tink glanced back at me, surprise flickering across his face before he tried to play it off.
“Three. Why?”
I shrugged. “Just asking.”
He didn’t buy it. “You can come. Ain’t nobody gonna bother you there. My stepdaddy and his people some gangstas, but they don’t play about women. They’ll fuc—” he caught himself. “I mean, they’ll light this place up if anybody steps out of line with you.”
I let out a quiet breath through my nose and leaned my shoulder against the counter, crossing my arms.
“Okay. I’ll be there,” I replied.
“Aight.” Tink nodded, already halfway through the door. “I’ll let my momma know.” He paused with his hand still on the frame. “Don’t forget to lock your door.”
“I never do.”
He gave me one last look, then walked off, his footsteps fading as he headed down the hall.
I closed the door and pushed it shut until it dragged the way it was supposed to. Then I locked it.
Once.
Twice.
I stood there after, listening until the apartment fell back into its usual rhythm.
It should have been enough, but it wasn’t.
My gaze drifted to the counter, landing on the second container I’d set aside.
Booda’s order.
I walked over to it and stared down at it. The chili oil had started to separate, leaving a thin red layer pooling along the edges under the lid.
I shouldn’t have touched it. I knew that. Still, I lifted the lid.
For a second, I wasn’t in the apartment anymore. I was somewhere else, watching Booda lean back in his seat, chopsticks in his hand, talking through a mouthful of noodles.
“Extra chili oil,” he’d said once, sliding the container back toward the counter. “If it don’t make my nose run, they ain’t do it right.”
I shut the lid and stepped back from the counter, putting distance between me and the food.
I hadn’t seen Booda.
Hadn’t talked to him.
Hadn’t—
I stopped that thought before it finished forming.
“Fuck this shit. I got to get out of this house,” I said, practically running out of the kitchen.