Chapter 2 #2
Grief enveloped me and masqueraded itself in the smell of hand sanitizer and latex gloves.
It hung in the air like an invisible fog—sterile, sharp, and suffocating.
I sat in the cold hospital waiting room wrapped in my mama’s old Self Ridge State University hoodie and a quilt of regret stitched together with betrayal, heartbreak, and exhaustion.
My knee bounced restlessly, as if it had somewhere better to be, trying to outrun the day before it could pull me under.
The fluorescent lights hummed ominously overhead like a swarm of angry bees, casting a stark-blue hue that drained the life from everything and everyone beneath their glow.
The waiting room felt like a grim purgatory, a sterile limbo where time stretched endlessly, leaving an air of palpable dread hanging in the stale atmosphere.
My hands felt raw and chapped from all the scrubbing I’d done, the skin red and tender as if I had been washing away more than just dirt.
I kept reapplying cocoa butter every five minutes, desperately hoping that the thick, rich cream could somehow soften the ache inside me, smooth over the harsh reality I faced, and allow me to escape into a happier existence.
But the trauma lingered, far more than skin-deep; it was anchored deep within my bones, in the marrow, ancient and utterly unshakable.
Something had shattered inside me, splitting my heart wide open like a fragile piece of glass. I could feel the cracks spreading further, threatening to break me apart completely. And now, faced with this… What could possibly come next?
First, I found my fiancé bent over like a used napkin, moaning, while my cousin worked a strap as if she were competing for gold in the Ass Olympics.
Now, I was sitting here trying to breathe through the possibility that my mama might not make it out of this hospital bed alive—all because some fool couldn’t keep his drunk ass hands off the steering wheel.
God, why are You letting everything come crashing down around me at the same time?
I hugged myself tightly, as if trying to keep from unraveling. A long, shaky exhale escaped me… the one a soul releases when it’s holding back a scream. It tasted like metal and mourning.
Earlier that morning, before the nurse stepped out and called my name, not understanding the weight it carried, I stood in my bathroom attempting to wash away the last twenty hours from my body as if they were dirt rather than devastation.
The water had been scalding, just how I liked it when I was trying to boil my emotions into silence. I stood there until my fingertips wrinkled and my vision blurred, steam curling around me like grief with no exit strategy.
I shaved, exfoliated, and deep-conditioned my hair, not because I was going anywhere, but because I needed to control something, anything. When the world felt like it was spinning off its hinges, sometimes all you had was a clean scalp and smooth legs to remind you that you’re still alive.
I applied cocoa butter so thick it could block bullets, demons, and bad decisions. I didn’t bother with makeup, just lashes and lip balm. Even in heartbreak, I was determined to show up looking like someone who didn’t fold under pressure.
I stepped through the sliding doors of Self Ridge Memorial Hospital with my heart punch-drunk and still limping from the emotional Mayweather I’d just survived.
The cold, white lights slapped me in the face like they knew I didn’t have any sleep.
The linoleum floors felt too clean for the dirty-ass thoughts swirling in my head.
I barely had on real clothes; just sweats, a yellow, stretched-out tee, and my Crocs in sport mode like my favorite author, Mel Dau, always preached about. I didn’t even lotion my damn ankles. I looked like abandonment with nice edges.
But I was there. My mama needed me. And broken or not, I always showed up when it counted.
I gave the nurse my mama’s name and she directed me, Jonell, and Leila toward Trauma Recovery. I nodded, numb, barely clocking the nurses, the machines, and the slow drip of some stranger’s IV.
I didn’t even hear them coming.
“Baby girl…”
I turned, and there they were, Daddy and my big brother Jason, walking side by side like they’d been carved from the same shadow.
Daddy, big, broad, and as dark as ever, looked like he could body slam grief itself.
Jonathan Jacobson, the original hood legend, was my first lesson in strength and the reason I never tolerated disrespect from anyone.
He didn’t say much. He just looked at me as if he knew I was hanging on by a thread and pulled me into a bear hug, like I was still ten years old.
“She’s stable now,” he said in a low, rough voice, like gravel beneath tired boots. “She’s really banged up, though. The doctors have her sedated… It’s just a matter of waiting and seeing now.”
Wait and see.
I hated that phrase. It felt like a curse masked as patience. Like sitting in a burning room, praying the smoke would clear before my lungs gave out.
“I’m tired, Daddy,” I whispered. My voice was small, cracked, stepped on by the weight of it all.
“I know, baby girl,” he said, still holding me tight as if he could keep the world out. “I understand.”
Before I could sink any deeper, Jason’s voice cut through the weight like sunlight breaking clouds.
“Come here, my jewels,” he said, reaching for Jonell and me, pulling us into his arms like he was trying to fuse us back together with his own strength.
He held on tightly, long enough to remind us he wasn’t letting go of either one.
He’d been calling us his jewels since we were kids; he always said Mama gave birth to treasure, and it was his job to guard us since we were so precious and rare.
He called me Diamond, because I was rare, unbreakable, and too precious to be dulled by anything this world threw my way, had a heart of gold, and saw the good in everybody.
Jonell was Ruby because she carried her strength quietly, deep red and steady, shining even when she thought she didn’t.
When he leaned back, his eyes locked on mine.
“Diamond, stop stressin’. Mama built differently.
Her ass too damn stubborn to fold and leave us too prematurely.
Same fight she put in you, she still got in her.
She ain’t about to check out before she gets her damn grandbabies she always fussing about any fucking way.
She called me and Leila just a day ago talking shit, talking about, ‘I’m ready when y’all ready now.
Get on that, or more so, get on ya wife, with her wild ass.
’ Y’all the same breed, warriors to the bone. ”
Tears slipped down, but he had me laughing too because that was Jason’s silly with slight hood logic.
Then he turned to Jonell with a crooked grin. “Ruby, quit hiding behind that tough face. Mama gon’ be alright… gon’ be here to continue to be proud of both of y’all. Watch. Even though I’m her favorite.”
When he finally let us breathe, his eyes found Leila. He slid into her arms like it was the only place that made sense. “Lady J,” he murmured, dropping a kiss on her lips.
She cupped his face, searching him harder than anyone else dared. “How you really holding up, love?” she asked, soft but sharp because Leila never took half-answers.
Jason didn’t say much. He just pressed his forehead to hers, holding her gently by the waist.
That was when Daddy stepped forward again, pulling me close a second time. Big, broad, and dark as ever, he didn’t bother with words; he never needed them. He just wrapped me up like he could muscle grief into submission before it ever laid hands on me.
That was when I first noticed him.
He stood across the room by the vending machine, accompanied by a little boy with curly hair who was tugging at his sleeve. Next to them, an older woman watched with eyes filled with a sadness that seemed to stem not from just one bad day, but from years of quiet heart-wrenching pain.
He was tall. His physique was a testament to dedication, sculpted by countless hours in the gym.
He had deep mahogany skin and a low, close-faded haircut that reflected his discipline.
His beard was so neatly groomed that it appeared styled by angels.
He possessed an attractiveness that made you question your vows of celibacy, swearing off men, and your commitment to therapy all at once.
He had the prettiest light-brown eyes I had ever seen in my life; they reminded me of the cereal Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
It wasn’t just his looks; it was his presence. Calm and protective, a man who had weathered many storms yet chose to shield others from the downpour. A true lighthouse guiding us through life’s chaos with grace and strength.
In that brief moment, our eyes met, and my heart fluttered with a curious ache. I could barely catch my breath as I spotted the badge gleaming on his hip.
SRPD.
Self Ridge Police Department.
A city cop.
He wasn’t like those down at the county jail.
He was one of the big heroes—the street responders.
He was like who I was about to go to the police academy to try to be.
They were the ones who arrived when gunshots were fired or when mothers went missing.
They risked their lives by walking into dangerous situations, hoping to come out unscathed.
The way he stood there, calm and steady, made it clear that he had seen a lot yet still chose to show up and face whatever came his way.
His son whispered something to him, wide-eyed and wearing a Spider-Man hoodie. He leaned down to listen, smiling softly in a way that made one feel safe, even if the world was falling apart.
Then the boy looked up and shouted, “Daddy, look! She’s pretty like a supermodel!”