2. Josiah Brooks #3
“Of course she did,” I said.
Melody stacked three picture books on my shelf. “Mama said Lyric need a few more.”
“She already has books everywhere,” Juice said.
Lyric smiled. “Books need places.”
I smiled. “They do, Songbird,” I said.
Melody pulled out a navy-and-gold hardback and slid it toward me.
“Daddy sent you this. He said read the chapter on leadership twice because you’re hardheaded.”
“Tell Dr. Whitfield I appreciate it,” I said.
“He also said don’t let it collect dust. Read it,” Melody stated.
Juice leaned toward the book. “What’d he send me?”
Melody reached into the tote and pulled out a planner with a leather cover. “Mama said this is for the man who blames traffic every time he forgets something.”
I laughed while Juice sighed.
“First of all, Mama Renee too deep in my business.”
“Because your business be wandering unsupervised, hun,” Melody said.
Lyric started to climb down, but Juice caught her loose shoelace before her foot hit the floor.
“Hold up, baby.”
“I can do it,” Lyric said.
Crouching in front of her, he said, “I know you can. I’m just faster, and I don’t trust concrete with my favorite girl.”
He tied the lace, patted the toe of her sneaker, and stood. “Royal footwear secured.”
Lyric looked down, pleased. “Thank you, Daddy.”
“Always, baby girl.”
Lyric wandered over with one of her books tucked under her arm, turned a page, then looked up. “Uncle Siah?”
“Yes, Songbird?”
“Can fish drown?”
Juice groaned. “Here we go.”
“She asked me that at breakfast,” Melody said.
“I said ask your Uncle Siah because he likes complicated things, and he’s a genius when it comes to science,” Melody replied.
I crouched in front of Lyric.
“Some fish can suffocate if their water doesn’t have enough oxygen.”
Her eyes grew wide. “Water got air?”
“Tiny air,” I said with a smile.
She gasped and looked at Juice. “Daddy, water got tiny air.”
Juice nodded solemnly. “That’s why I drink juice.”
Melody swatted his arm. “Justice, baby, please.” She laughed.
“What?” Juice asked. “I’m teaching survival.”
Lyric looked back at me. “So fish need good water?”
“They do.”
She thought about that for a second, then nodded. “People too.”
The room grew still.
I rested my forearms on my knees. “You’re right, Songbird.”
Lyric smiled and tapped the book against my shoulder. “I know.”
Juice laughed. “She definitely got that confidence from me.”
“Absolutely not,” Melody said.
She glanced at the clock on the office wall. “We better let y’all get back to work.”
Lyric frowned. “Already?”
“You’ve got books to take to Nana,” Melody reminded her.
“And apple juice,” Juice added.
Lyric brightened immediately.
I laughed and lifted her down from my desk.
She wrapped her arms around my neck one more time before letting go.
“Bye, Uncle Siah!”
“See you soon, Songbird.”
She grinned, gathered her books, and reached for Melody’s hand.
Juice grabbed the tote before Melody could. “I got it.”
“I know you do,” Melody said with a smile.
“I can reach it.”
“I know. Humor your daddy.”
She sighed dramatically. “Okay.”
He kissed the top of her head, closed her door, then walked around to Melody.
She looked up at him before she even got in.
“What?” she asked.
He smiled. “Nothing.”
“Justice.”
“I just like looking at my wife.”
Melody rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away. He brushed his thumb across her cheek before leaning in for one last kiss. “Drive safe.”
“Always.”
He stood beside the car until she turned onto Ridgeway and disappeared from sight. When he came back inside, his smile had settled into something quieter.
“You’re blessed, fam,” I said.
He looked toward the street one last time. “Yeah.” No joke. No grin. Just gratitude. “I know.”
My eyes drifted to the empty office where Lyric’s laughter had filled the room only minutes earlier. Juice caught the look.
“You’ll have it.”
I looked at him. “What?”
He nodded toward the road Melody and Lyric had disappeared down. “That.”
A smile found me. “I’m not rushing Big G.”
“I didn’t say rush Him.” He bumped my shoulder as he walked past. “I said don’t stop wanting it.”
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
Onyx:
You at the shop? Need to holler at you about a favor.
I stared at the message then typed back.
Pull up.
Juice leaned over my shoulder before I could lock the screen. “There go the community Avengers.”
“Don’t start,” I said.
“I ain’t starting. I’m observing,” Juice said.
“You’re nosy.”
“Same gift, different ministry.”
I shook my head and moved toward the bay, but something from the last few minutes stayed behind my ribs. Lyric’s voice. Melody’s smile. Juice’s hand resting at the small of his wife’s back. A tote bag full of books. A child’s drawing with my arms stretched wide enough to cover the whole page.
Some men wanted legacy in buildings, bank accounts, and names carved into plaques.
I wanted that too, maybe.
But standing in my shop with sunlight cutting across concrete and family still echoing through the walls, I knew legacy also sounded like a little girl yelling your name like she was certain you’d answer.
And I wanted someone to come home to who believed that about me too.
Onyx sent back a thumbs up, followed by one more message.
Twenty minutes.
That gave me enough time to put my hands on something that could take the weight.
I slid my phone into my pocket, grabbed the service ticket from the printer, and walked into the bay where the men had gone back to work.
Darnell had finally figured out how to stack conduit without threatening my blood pressure, Marcus was labeling breaker panels for the afternoon jobs, and Juice had found his way back to Miss Claudette’s foil plate like the pork chop had been calling his government name.
I gave instructions as I passed, not loud, not long, just enough for everybody to know where their hands needed to be.
Hayes estimated clean up before two. Material list double-checked before it went out.
North van loaded with the panel strapped on the left side instead of shoved behind the ladder like common sense was on backorder.
Juice watched me from beside the workbench with gravy on his thumb and amusement in his eyes. “You ’bout to go fight that bag, ain’t you?”
“You ’bout to finish eating on company time, ain’t you?” I asked, not slowing down.
“This is a working lunch,” Juice said.
“It’s ten-thirty.”
“Working brunch,” Juice said.
Behind the main bay, past the storage shelves and the locked cage where we kept copper because thieves knew the price of everything and the value of nothing, we had a smaller room most clients never saw.
Half training space, half overflow storage.
A heavy bag hung from a reinforced beam in the middle, black leather worn smooth from years of my fists finding it before my mouth said something it couldn’t take back.
A speed bag sat near the far wall. Gloves lined a shelf beneath old photographs.
Pops in one frame with his arm around my shoulder.
Juice beside us, cheesing like he’d invented joy, both of us young, lean, and still smelling like summer sweat and outside.
I shut the door, but it didn’t latch before Juice caught it with his boot.
“Nah,” Juice said, slipping inside with the foil plate still in his hand. “Somebody gotta supervise Superman before he turn into Clark Kent with anger issues.”
“I don’t have anger issues,” I said, reaching for my wraps.
“You got anger with manners,” Juice said.
“That’s called discipline.”
“That’s called a well-dressed threat.”
I pulled the first wrap tight across my palm.
The cotton dragged over my knuckles, familiar as scripture, and the motion settled something in me.
Around the wrist. Across the palm. Between the fingers.
Back over the knuckles. Pops had taught me that before he ever let me throw a real punch.
He said a man who didn’t protect his own hands had no business trying to defend anything else.
A foolish man damaged the tools God gave him, then called it sacrifice.
Pops didn’t raise me for foolishness, even though I’d wandered close enough to it to smell smoke on my clothes.
Juice leaned against the storage shelf and watched me wrap the second hand. “You been thinking about Kacey since we passed the rec.”
“You been thinking for me again?” I asked.
“Somebody has to check the equipment,” Juice said.
“My mind ain’t equipment.”
“Could’ve fooled me. You maintain everything else but act like your head don’t need no service call,” Juice said.
I looked at him.
He lifted both hands, the foil plate balanced in one. “I’m just saying.”
“You’re always just saying.”
“And you’re always just avoiding,” Juice said.
I slid my hands into my gloves and tightened the straps with my teeth.
The leather creaked. The bag hung still in front of me, patient and honest. It didn’t lie.
Didn’t flatter. Didn’t betray. It gave back exactly what you put into it.
I tapped it once with my left hand, then twice.
Light. Testing. Pops never let us start swinging wild.
He’d stand in the driveway after work with his tie loosened and his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, looking like a deacon who could still put somebody on the pavement if Heaven permitted.
He’d hold up those mitts and make me and Juice move our feet before we moved our hands.
“Your first fight ain’t with the man in front of you, Son,” Pops would say. “It’s with the fool inside you who wants to prove something.”
At sixteen, I had a lot to prove and no wisdom worth bragging about.