Chapter 10 Monique
The room was quiet. Too quiet, despite the lively streets below.
Monique had showered—hot water didn’t quite ease the ache settling into her bones after her walk—and changed into a knee-length sleep dress made of the softest cotton. Now she sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, staring at the time.
Right on schedule, her phone lit up with a video call. Justin’s face filled the screen, too close.
“Dude, back up. I don’t need to see up your nostrils.”
Justin laughed and adjusted the phone. “My bad, Ma. Just making sure you weren’t kidnapped by pirates or whatever.”
“There are no pirates in Puerto Rico.”
“How do you know? You’ve been there one day.”
Today, she learned that San Juan was a walled city, a fortress. Justin’s imaginary pirates would have a hard time getting at her.
Monique smiled in spite of herself. “Where’s your sister?”
“Right here!” Jasmine’s face crowded into frame beside her brother’s. “Look at you, all dewy and relaxed!”
“I am not dewy.”
“You are,” Justin confirmed. “You look different.”
Monique stood, carrying the phone toward the balcony, pausing to enjoy how the light rippled through the glass. “Different how?”
“I don’t know. Less…” Jasmine paused, searching for words. “Less tight. Like you been holding your breath and finally let it out.”
Had she?
“So,” Justin said, his grin mischievous, “tell us about the cat in the video you sent.”
Monique’s face heated. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Liar,” Jasmine sang. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m not—it’s just warm out here. Eighty degrees at the end of December! Can you believe it!?”
“Uh-huh.” Jasmine smirked.
“So, what’s he like?” Justin had genuine curiosity in his voice.
Monique pressed her hand against the gauzy curtains on the glass doors, appreciating how they diffused the city lights. “He’s… quiet. Thoughtful. We went for a walk today.”
“A walk?” Justin rolled his eyes. “Sounds boring.”
Jasmine shoved her brother. “Sounds romantic.”
“It wasn’t like that. We just walked. Talked a little. Mostly just…” She trailed off, searching for words. “Mostly just existed… together for a little bit.”
Jasmine’s expression softened. “That sounds nice, Mom.”
“It was.”
“What else?” Justin pressed. “You see everybody else? Auntie Don being Auntie Don?”
Monique told them about lunch—Lanie’s parents, Cassie and Taurion, Sunny and Ricky. About Tommie being Tommie, dramatic and loving and too much. About Auntie Don’s hug that had almost broken her open right there at the table.
“And you skipped the dinner?” Jasmine asked.
“We grabbed something small. Just needed some quiet.”
“We?” Jasmine and Justin said at the same time.
“Me and Mo. Maurice.”
Her kids exchanged a look that Monique pretended not to see.
“I’m proud of you, Ma,” Justin said, his voice suddenly serious. “For going. For trying.”
Monique’s throat tightened. “Yeah, well. The jury’s still out on whether this was a good idea.”
“It was,” Jasmine said firmly. “Vacation looks good on you, Mom. You look alive, like you’re actually having a good time.”
Monique swallowed against the lump forming. “I should let you two get to bed. It’s late.”
“It’s still early here,” Justin started, but Jasmine elbowed him.
“Well, I’m tired. Traveling and everything else.”
“Have fun tomorrow. Send pictures.”
“I will. Love you both.”
“Love you too.”
The call ended, and Monique stood there holding her phone, not as tired as she said.
You look alive.
Was that what this feeling was? This lightness she’d carried since this morning’s coffee in the café? Since walking slowly through celebrating streets while the world rushed past?
Monique opened the balcony doors and stepped into warm night air. The city below hummed with music and laughter, New Year’s preparations in full swing. Somewhere, someone was testing fireworks. Premature celebration crackled across the sky.
Movement caught her eye. The balcony next to hers, Maurice’s balcony, was occupied.
He stood facing away from her, toward the city, his posture rigid. His hands were clasped in front of him, his head bowed slightly. His lips moved, yet no sound carried.
Monique watched, curious.
He looked… wrong. Stiff. Like he had in the café this morning before they’d started talking.
Was he praying? The thought came with certainty. Of course, he was praying. He was officiating Tommie’s wedding. He probably prayed all the time.
But watching him now, Monique couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. His shoulders were tense. His jaw tight. He looked like he was completing a task, not communing with anything divine.
He checked his watch.
Monique looked away, feeling like she’d intruded on something private.
When she looked back, Maurice had lowered his hands. He stood there for a moment, just breathing, then turned and flinched. He saw her.
They stared at each other across the small gap between their balconies.
“Hey,” Monique said quietly.
“Hey.” His voice was rough. Tired.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t.”
They stood in silence for a moment. Music drifted up from somewhere, a slow folksy tune, lyrical, romantic, and melancholy.
“You good?” Monique asked.
Maurice looked like he was going to say yes automatically. Then stopped. “I don’t know.”
The honesty surprised her. “You wanna talk about it?”
He studied her for a long moment. “You really wanna know?”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”
Maurice exhaled, looked out at the city, and then back at her. “You wanna come over?”
“To your balcony?”
“Yeah. Unless you’re tired.”
Monique should be tired. But—
“Give me a second.”
She went back inside, grabbed her room key, and stepped into the hallway.
Maurice stood in his opened door, like he’d already been waiting right there. “Hey,” he said again.
“Hey.”
He stepped back, letting her in. His room was a mirror of hers.
The same layout. The same furniture. The same view.
But it felt different. Emptier somehow. His backpack sat in the corner, barely unpacked.
No clothes draped over chairs. No toiletries scattered across the bathroom counter. Like he could bounce at any moment.
They went to the balcony, standing side by side at the railing.
“So,” Monique said. “What’s going on?”
Maurice was quiet for a long time. Then, in one rushed breath, he said, “You ever do something for so long that you forget why you started doing it in the first place?”
“Every day.”
He smiled slightly. “I pray. Four, five times a day. Have for thirty years. Oh-six hundred, twelve hundred, eighteen hundred, twenty hundred, twenty-two hundred. Like clockwork.” He folded a finger down with each number that he cited until his hand was in a fist.
“That’s… disciplined.”
Maurice unclenched his fist, opening and closing his hand. “That’s ritual.” His voice was small. “I—I think there’s a difference.” His fingers were in his beard now. She squinted. “Is there a difference?”
“What do you think?” she asked, though she thought she knew.
“Routine is just filling time. It’s checking boxes. Completing tasks.” Maurice’s hands fell to his sides. “Discipline is… maybe discipline is doing something because it matters. Because you want it to matter.”
“You said ritual, though. To me, ritual sounds a lot like your definition of discipline.”
“How would you define it, then?”
Monique thought about her own routines, her own rituals. The way she walked the same streets every day. The way she checked her body for new lumps, new pains. Always watching for change. The way she survived instead of lived.
She drew in a long breath. “Maybe it’s structure, stability with an expectation.”
He quirked an eyebrow for her to continue.
“Like you’re doing the same thing over and over but wanting something to change, hoping for a spark…”
They stood there for a long moment, just breathing, holding space for each other in a space and time that was just theirs.
“It keeps you going, keeps you alive, until you have the courage to change.”
A huff of a laugh surprised her. “Today I missed three prayer times. Just… didn’t do them. I kept waiting to feel guilty. Kept waiting for that wrongness to hit. But it never came.”
Monique understood that feeling. The absence of guilt where the world says guilt should have planted its flag. “Maybe it’s okay if you don’t want to pray,” she said quietly.
“How can it be okay? I’m supposed to be a man of faith. I’m officiating a wedding tomorrow night. I run a—” He stopped abruptly. “I’m supposed to have this figured out.”
“Nobody has anything figured out.”
“You sound sure about that.”
“I am sure.” Their earlier agreement to keep it light swan dived over the balcony.
I guess later is now. “Maurice, I’m sure because I spent the last two and a half years trying to figure out how to survive, if I even wanted to survive, and you know what I learned?
” Monique turned to face him fully. “I learned that sometimes you just have to admit that you don’t know.
That you’re lost. That the thing you thought was keeping you together was just keeping you busy. ”
Maurice looked at her with something like recognition where she expected pity or sorrow. “What was your thing? What kept you busy?”
“Being Mom, the provider, the one who didn’t need help.” She laughed bitterly. “I was the one who handled things, who got shit done. And then I got sick and had to figure out who I was without all the distractions.”
“Did you?”
“Not yet. I’m working on it, though.”
They stood in silence. Below them, someone shouted in Spanish, followed by laughter.
“Thank you for telling me all that.”
She shrugged. He shifted on his feet, nervous-like.
“I’ve never been to the beach,” Maurice said suddenly.
Monique blinked. “What?”
“The beach. Tomorrow. Tommie’s all excited about beach day, and I’ve never actually been to the beach.”
“How is that possible?”
“I’m a poor beige boy from Philly. Never left the city as a kid. And then…” He paused. “And then I was somewhere you don’t get beach days.”
Prison. He meant prison. “How long were you in?” The question came out before Monique could stop it.
Maurice didn’t flinch. “Twenty years.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.”
Twenty years was a long time. Not as long as some, but it might feel like a life sentence all the same.
“How old were you?”
“Sentenced at seventeen. Got out just before my thirty-eighth birthday.”
That meant that whatever went down, he’d been a child. Her chest tightened. He was what, fifty now? Fifty-one?
Monique did the math. He’d grown up in prison.
That’s… a lot.
“You know what?” She smiled at him big, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m proud of you.”
He didn’t react. Silence rushed forward, filling the space between. Something in his eyes shut down. He looked away. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. “Thank you for that.” He turned to her and gave her a small smile.
She smiled back. “So, tomorrow morning, sand and sun and fun. What do we have to do to get you hype?”
Maurice rolled his eyes, and his posture relaxed, finally.
Monique did an internal fist pump.
“For my first official day at the beach? Yeah. I’m not sure.”
“You nervous?”
“A little. I don’t swim. But mostly, it’s…” He gestured vaguely. “All of it. Being half naked. Being that exposed. Being watched.”
Monique understood that completely. “Yeah. I’m not looking forward to that part either.”
“Why not? A blind man can see how much everyone cares for you.”
She almost deflected. Almost changed the subject. But he’d been honest with her.
“Because my body’s not the same as it was. I’m not the same. Because I have scars. They’re my family, but they—people look at me, and I don’t know what they see anymore.”
Maurice was quiet for a moment. “I see someone who showed up. Who’s trying. Who kept pace with me today while the world rushed past.”
Monique’s eyes stung. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
They stood there, just breathing. And for the first time in longer than she could remember, Monique didn’t feel the need to hide behind snark and jokes.
He simply let her be.
They turned and gazed out over the city. The way the lights spread and then stopped, a few sacred, special ones bobbing in the dark distance, were hypnotic.
A yawn caught her by surprise, jaw-cracking and sudden.
Maurice smiled. “You should get some sleep.”
“So should you.”
“I will.”
“You gonna pray first?”
He considered the question. “Probably not.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Yeah. Because if you don’t want to, you shouldn’t have to. Even if you’re supposed to.”
Maurice looked at her like she’d said something profound instead of obvious. “That’s deep.”
“I have my moments.”
They walked to the door together. Monique stepped into the hallway, then turned back. “See you at the beach, Mo.”
“See you at the beach, Mo.”
She was back at her room in a step or two, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. Through the wall, she heard water running. Maurice, probably getting ready for bed.
Monique climbed under the covers, placed her phone to charge on the nightstand, and stared at the ceiling.
You look alive, Mom. Maybe Jasmine was right. Maybe this, whatever this was, was what living felt like.