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“Man, stop askin’ questions you don’t want the answer to.”

“That’s not an answer, Juvie.”

He kissed the back of my hand, eyes still on the road. “I know. Just trust me, ard? I got you. Some shit don’t got nothin’ to do wit’ you.”

I wanted to keep pushing, but the way he said it, soft but final, made it clear the conversation was already over, whether I liked it or not. I let it go. I let myself believe it wasn’t that deep. Maybe it was his daddy’s. Maybe it was nothing. The thrill of being young and in love blinded me. The engine humming and his warm hand in mine settled me enough to get my heart to stop racing.

We pulled up to the party ten minutes later. Cars parked everywhere, people outside, and music pouring out of the building had me ready to party. Juvie came over, opened my door, and pulled me close. He grabbed my hand, kissed my knuckles again, and grinned down at me in that stupid green wig.

“You know you gotta call me Puddin’ tonight, right?”

I laughed and let him pull me toward the party, but some little part of that night stayed with me. I didn’t know it then, but that was the first secret Juvie ever kept from me. It wouldn’t be the last.

I’d been at the old house in L.A. for three days. Ni was in Phoenix wit’ her mom, which was cool, ’cause I didn’t want to be bothered. Juicy had been curvin’ the fuck outta me. If I texted her, she wouldn’t respond. Her assistant, Jela, handled all communication. The right thing was to leave her alone. But it wasn’t that fuckin’ easy. Our shit was unfinished. She never asked me why I left, and tellin’ her why would put her in even more danger than she was already in, wit’ her bein’ on Yusef’s radar.

Yusef left me the fuck alone, but he damn sure had niggas circlin’ the house at odd ass hours. Mufuckas couldn’t even be discreet ’bout it. If them niggas came up in here, I had somethin’ hot waitin’ for them.

I had Meek thumpin’ through the speakers on this Peloton in the home gym. This shit was kickin’ my ass, but I was pushin’ through. I’d been at it for almost forty-five minutes—goin’ so hard that sweat from my head was stingin’ my eyes. My lungs felt like I swallowed sandpaper, and my legs felt like somebody had an open flame under them. I glanced at the leaderboard, seein’ how many people were ahead of me.

“Eleven outta five thousand? Hell nah.”

When the instructor said it was only one minute left, I slapped the knob forward until the screen flashed 10.5. My sneakers pounded against the deck as I picked up speed. My heart rate monitor on my wrist flashed red: 181 beats per minute. Tomorrow, I wouldn’t be worth shit, but I was for damn sure finishin’ in the top three.

“Shit!” I hissed, watchin’ myself pass people on the leaderboard.

The nigga on the screen was screamin’ ’bout ten seconds. Once it was over, I turned the speed knob down, breathin’ heavily, and walked that shit off. Even the cool-down hurt like a mufucka. I snatched my towel and wiped the sweat off my head and face.

As I walked through the house, I realized how empty this shit was. No family pictures. Nothin’ personal where somebody would know who lived here. Everything looked staged. Ni decorated the fuck outta this house, but it still wasn’t a home. I climbed the stairs, three at a time, goin’ straight for the shower. The bedroom looked like a hotel suite. Nice, but still no soul in it. I showered in silence, but I took that time to pray.

Sometimes I ain’t know if God heard me. There were days when I’d be on my knees in this same shower in the dark, pleadin’ wit’ him for change. Nothin’ changed, though. It didn’t stop me from prayin’, but my prayers got angry. We ain’t supposed to ask Him why, but I couldn’t help it. When that hurt piled up, when the losses hit one after another, you start to feel like you ain’t worthy of His love. But on the other side of all that shit, I was still alive. I took care of my family, and I was at the end of some shit most people would have checked out from a long time ago.

After I got dressed, I made it to my office. It was the only place in this house that breathed. Pictures of my granny and my muva sat on my desk. Trophies and plaques lined the shelves. But my vinyl collection was my favorite thing. My granny bought me my first vinyl when I was sixteen. Aretha Franklin was her favorite singer, so she made sure I had it. Weekends at my granny’s were lit. Friday night Spades. Saturday nights were for get-togethers, and Sunday was for God. She’d be up at 5:30 sharp no matter what she did the night before. And if you didn’t get up the first time, she’d take a belt to your fuckin’ back.

I stood in front of my vinyls until I found the one I was lookin’ for. Today was for Mommy. She’d been on my mind non-stop, and I couldn’t think of a better way to sit wit’ her than to play somethin’ she would love. “Fantasy” by Earth, Wind, and Fire dropped the year she was born, but if you know Janette, she’d beat some music into you. It was Mommy’s favorite song.

My record player was a gift from my pops on my seventeenth birthday. It was the last happy birthday I could remember. I asked Juicy to be my girl that day too. My cousin Jante clowned when I told him that I was spendin’ my birthday wit’ her. But I didn’t give a fuck ’bout none of that. I was determined to get her, and I did.

I placed my vinyl down on the table, dropped the needle, and sat there, lettin’ the record play out. Most days, when I thought about my muva this deep, my throat would feel like it was ’bout to close. But today, I could almost hear her voice singin’ this shit loud as hell. Dancin’ around the living room, callin’ me Boo Bear and shit. I bobbed my head, smilin’ at the memory playin’ in my head like a movie.

“Damn, Mommy… I miss you.”

The last time I heard her sing this song loud was during a cookout at Granny’s house. I hadn’t made it official with Juicy yet, but I wanted Mommy and Granny to meet her. Two other girls didn’t make the cut, so I was nervous as hell. Juicy wasn’t nervous, though. Her lil’ tough ass walked in there in all her cockiness, and they loved her. She had her all in the kitchen wit’ my aunties and shit. Called her Pretty Girl Savi from day one. She told Juicy how I’d been talkin’ ’bout her for days and smilin’ at my phone. Had a nigga tied up. Juicy used that shit to her advantage, too.

From then on, my mom and Juicy got close. If I was fuckin’ up, my mom took her side. She said she wasn’t raising me to be a fucked-up nigga. Mercedes ain’t have no filter, and I loved her for that. I changed the record to some Luther. This was my Pops’ favorite shit. If he was playin’ this, he was tryna get my muva to forgive him.

I laughed, thinkin’ about his big, bald ass, down bad ’cause Mommy went on a cookin’ strike. She would buy me and her somethin’ to eat and tell Pops to figure that shit out. But if he put on that “Til My Baby Comes Home,” Mommy couldn’t resist that.

My phone lit up on my desk. I slid down my screen, and some wild-ass girl had sent a video of her shakin’ her ass with a message attached. Come to Miami. I’m tryna see if the rumors are true. My DMs were flooded wit’ that same shit. These bitches didn’t give a fuck. They took shootin’ their shot to another level. I watched the video a few times before I backed out. Shit, her ass was fat.

The first thing I saw was Juicy’s icon lit up. She was out here postin’ stories but couldn’t respond to my fuckin’ messages. I clicked on her story, and the first thing that popped up was her on a flight. After that, she was in a pink bikini on a yacht wit’ two other girls. I think they were Devyn and Parker. Juicy held a bottle of champagne, natural hair blowin’ around from the breeze. One thing that stood out was the rose on her rib. And it hit me.

“She covered up my fuckin’ name. I can’t believe this shit.”

At the end of summer break, our young asses decided we was gon’ be together forever. In our minds, some ink would make that shit real. I already had a few tattoos, but this was Juicy’s first one. I called up my homie Jon Jon, paid him, and he did our tattoos right in his muva’s basement. Juicy got ‘JuJu’ on her ribs, and I got Juicy in the same spot, just bigger.

I clicked through the rest of her story until I got to the last one. She was all on that nigga Emery’s lap. He was kissin’ all over her. I was squeezin’ my phone so tight I could’ve crushed that shit. She was all into it too. Smilin’ and laughin’, kissin’ him back. How could I be mad? Just ’cause my life stopped didn’t mean hers had. But that shit wasn’t registerin’. She was ignorin’ me and happy wit’ that nigga. I locked my phone and dropped it on the desk. Two seconds later, I picked that shit up and went right to her profile.

The first picture was of her in a long, black wig with a middle part. Her pants looked painted on. Truth was, I started callin’ her Juicy ’cause she was thick as hell. That shit ain’t have nothin’ to do with matchin’ my name. And now that she was grown, Juicy was juicy as a mufucka. The next picture was her, her muva, and her sisters. Mama Marley loved my ass, but her pops wanted to kill me for the first few months of us bein’ together. I saw that shit in his eyes.