Chapter 8
The air in my parents’ house always smelled like something warm had been prayed over—cinnamon, sage, maybe grief slow-cooked down into resilience.
Mama was posted up in her recliner wrapped in her favorite throw blanket, sipping chamomile tea with honey and holding the remote like it was gospel.
Daddy was in the kitchen humming old Al Green, cooking neckbones and cabbage like it was Sunday instead of Wednesday.
“I see you got your glow back, baby girl,” he said without looking up, stirring the pot with one hand and pointing his wooden spoon like a sermon with the other.
“Daddy, hush,” I mumbled, blushing like I was sixteen again and caught sneaking in late.
He turned then, lifting an eyebrow. “Don’t hush me. You out here grinning like a damn Cheshire cat, looking joyful as hell. That ain’t somethin’ you can buy, baby girl.”
I chuckled and slid onto a stool at the counter. “I came to check on Mama.”
“And you should,” Mama called from the living room, “but don’t act like you ain’t here to tell us about that fine police officer who laid that fool Kam out like ya used to do ya new clothes the night before school.”
I damn near choked on air. “Mama!”
“I ain’t lying,” she said, patting her knee like she was ready to spill gossip over pound cake. “He loves you. You can see it in how he looks at you like you the last prayer he wanna say at night before bed, chile.”
Daddy cleared his throat and turned the heat down. “Long as he ain’t like that last fool, I support it. I never knew what you saw in Kam anyway, but I ain’t say nothin’ ’cause I wanted you to feel grown.”
I swallowed hard. “I didn’t either. Not really. I just… didn’t wanna be alone.”
Daddy wiped his hands and kissed the top of my head. “You ain’t never alone, baby girl. We your people.”
My phone buzzed just as I was about to respond.
Detective Fine Shyt:
Pull up on me later Gorgeous for the Self Ridge Fair. Me and EJ want our favorite lady with us.
My heart did that dumb little flutter thing.
I texted back a simple,
Say less. I’m yours.
He responded not even ten seconds later.
Detective Fine Shyt:
As long as you know
I stared at the screen for a moment, lips curving into a full-on smirk before I had to bite it back.
Because feelings weren’t just catching me slipping; they were grabbing me by the collar and snatching me forward.
The Self Ridge Fair was already alive when we pulled up.
Elias drove like he read my mind, radio low, hand resting heavy and warm on my thigh, his hoodie slung across my shoulders like a silent claim.
The fair stretched across the field like a celebration God handcrafted for summertime joy and petty redemption.
Neon lights blinked against the dusky sky, cotton candy spun in the air like pink halos, and the sound of kids laughing mixed with the creak of old Ferris wheels and the slap of dominoes at a vendor table.
It was a sensory baptism. Kids screamed on rides that looked like they were one screw away from a lawsuit. Old heads grilled turkey legs while flirting with aunties in biker shorts. Gospel from the praise tent blended with trap music from the funnel cake stand. It was a literal hood heaven.
EJ held Elias’s hand like it was sacred, eyes wide like he’d just walked into paradise. Elias leaned down, beard brushing my temple.
“Let me win you something soft to sleep with,” he whispered, voice dark velvet, “even though I plan on taking that job myself.”
Before I could laugh, EJ tugged on his hand. “Daddy, that one! The guns! Can we, can we?”
Elias smirked, tugging me closer before nodding toward the shooting booth. “Light work.”
He winked, then kissed my forehead so soft it had my stomach fluttering like loose balloons in the summer wind. “Go ’head and pick out what you want, gorgeous.”
And Lord, have mercy—he was killing me without even trying.
That cream Henley stretched across his chest like it was tailor-made just to snatch my focus, the top button undone enough to show a tease of a tattoo.
The sleeves were pushed up, forearms flexing, veins spelling out trouble in cursive.
Dark wash jeans sat on his hips like they had permanent residency, and those honey-colored Timbs hit the pavement with a rhythm that screamed hood but holy at the right time.
Father God, if temptation had a uniform, Elias Jamal Edmonds was wearing it tonight.
“Biggest one,” I managed to say, trying to sound calm while my insides were melting down.
EJ was bouncing beside him. “You got this, Daddy! Knock ’em down! Pew, pew, pew!”
Elias rolled his shoulders like he was about to walk into a championship game. The carnie handed him a rifle, and he handled it with the kind of smooth precision that reminded me, detective or not, he’d been raised where aim mattered. He squared up, jaw tight, eyes narrowed.
The bell dinged. Pop. Pop. Pop. Targets flipped over like soldiers falling in line.
The crowd clapped. EJ hollered. “That’s my daddy! He don’t miss, Miss Pretty!”
Elias smirked, dropped the rifle like it was nothing, and strolled back to me with a massive yellow sunshine bear tucked under his arm. Its bright fur glowed in the neon lights like it was made just for me.
“Something loud enough to match you,” he teased, pressing the bear into my arms.
I laughed, hugging the soft fur to my chest. “You’re ridiculous.”
He leaned close, voice dropping low. “Nah. I’m observant. You love yellow, gorgeous. Now you got sunshine even when I ain’t around.”
My throat tightened. He didn’t just see me; he knew me.
But EJ wasn’t done. His eyes darted to the basketball booth. “Bet you can’t make those, Daddy!”
Elias raised a brow, lips tugging into that cocky grin that always did me in. “Bet I can.”
He slid a few bills across the counter, rolled the ball in his palms like it belonged there, and squared up, shoulders back, knees bent, pure rhythm in motion. My chest tightened as I watched him, his hood discipline wrapped in detective poise, looking like a man born for the spotlight.
First shot, swish. The net barely moved. Second, clean. Third, same story.
EJ hollered so loud people turned. “Three! I told you he don’t miss, Miss Pretty!”
Elias winked at me, then flicked the last one with casual arrogance. Swish again. The carnie handed EJ a giant blue kangaroo, complete with a little joey tucked in its pouch. EJ squealed, nearly dropping his lemonade trying to hold it.
“I’m naming him JoJo!” EJ announced proudly, hugging the kangaroo tight.
Elias crouched, steadying his son’s grip. “That’s protection right there. Just like me and you.”
I clutched my sunshine bear, heart swelling so full it felt like it might split. My man. My baby boy. They looked like a promise I didn’t even know I’d been praying for. And in that moment, I felt whole.
We met up with Leila and Jason by the lemonade truck, arms full of stuffed animals like we were smuggling joy.
Leila was dressed in her “cute but combative” fit: black shorts cuffed high, combat boots that clacked like they’d stomped somebody before, and lip gloss that gleamed under the neon lights, warning the world: I’m saved, but I’ll still square up if the Spirit moves me.
Jason stood at her side, sipping his lemonade like a man who had accepted his role as her bodyguard-slash-bail money planner.
Just when I thought the night was stitched perfectly, my man, my baby boy, my people, the clouds shifted.
Literally. The moon dipped behind gray, and the devil herself strutted across the midway in a two-piece romper that fought for its life against her thighs and lashes longer than the wait line for turkey legs.
Taleah.
My cousin, my chaos, dressed in Fashion Nova clearance. She strutted over like she had an RSVP. She didn’t. But mess never needed an invitation.
“Well, well, well,” she sang, hips rolling like bad credit. “If it ain’t the city’s favorite rebrand. New man, same tired wardrobe.”
My mouth opened, but Elias was quicker. His hand slid around my waist, warm and heavy, grounding me and threatening the whole fair at once. His voice was smooth but laced with barbed wire.
“Watch how you talk to my queen, fuck nigga.”
I blinked and choked on air. “Baby… that’s a girl.”
He didn’t even flinch, just dragged his eyes over her from wig to wedges, then back to me. “Shit. Does this nigga know that?”
The way the crowd erupted, I swore, even the lemonade truck man coughed to hide a laugh. Taleah’s laugh came out brittle, a cracked windshield pretending it wasn’t already spread.
Leila clapped like she was front row at a roast. “Bruh, you on its ass!”
Taleah rolled her neck so hard her lash glue quivered. “You out here acting brand new ’cause you got a detective with a beard and a badge. Meanwhile, you still built like a sad brunch mimosa. Cute but watered down.”
The audacity. I tilted my head, adjusted my bag strap like I was setting up the mic for a TED Talk in Petty Studies 101.
Smile sharp, voice sugar-laced, I said, “See, if you wanna get cute, I can get gorgeous. But unlike you, I don’t need synthetic bundles and a borrowed man to feel relevant.
Sweetheart, don’t come for me unless I send for you.
I will never be pressed behind a man who wanna be a bad bitch behind closed doors but a street nigga outside.
Baby, that boy so confused, he order both pronouns with his meal. ”
The oohs ricocheted like gunshots.
Somebody yelled, “Aht, aht! She cooked you, sis!”
Another hollered, “Damn, brunch mimosa? That shit was weak as hell!”
And then Kam’s new girl appeared like she wandered out of her last delusion barefoot.
“You still talking? I thought you moved on. Kam doesn’t even want Taleah like that. She chang—”