S1Ep1: Back on the Block

The sunset over Santa Rosa Beach never gets old. 

Sitting on the hood of my old Honda, smoking the last of the weed I stole from my now ex-boyfriend, I marvel at all the different colors the sun makes over the water.

It’s been ten years since I’ve lived this close to a beach, and I didn’t realize how much I missed it until now.

A tear builds in my lid, and I let it fall. It’s the first tear I’ve cried since I packed up my life and moved back home four days ago. I didn’t cry when I saw the news, when I packed, when I left, or at any of the rest stops from Virginia to here.

But I guess now, at the near-deserted beach parking lot, I feel safe enough for a single tear.

It trails down the swell of my cheek, down and down, curving at my chin. It’s hot enough still, that the tear evaporates before it can go any further.

No other tears come while I finish my joint. I know they won’t come by the time I get back in my car and make my way back home.

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The block is quiet, though everyone’s lights are on. My childhood home is smack dab in the middle of Sutton Avenue, between 125th Street and 126th Place, deep in the South East. People don’t leave the block; every family has lived here for more than thirty years at least, even the people in the apartment buildings on the corner.

Except me. I left.

And now I’m back.

My brother's car, a 1999 Volvo S70 he probably loves more than me, is covered in the driveway. I pull up behind him and turn off the ignition. Leaning back, I tell myself that it’s okay. My brother may be Black in the streets, but to me, he’ll always be Obi, my older brother who thinks I’m perfect.

Besides, he has my location, so it’s not like he doesn’t know I made the cross-country trek. I knew he was tracking me around Colorado, when he began blowing down my line. I didn’t know what to say, so I never answered.

I still don’t know what to say. But maybe being back home will bring some words out.

Grabbing my purse, I finally get out of the car, not bothering to lock the door. My stuff, even the more expensive clothes, are safe. No one’s bold enough to take from a car parked at Black’s house. That much hasn’t changed in ten years.

My key slips into the lock easily, and I pull on the security door to open the wooden door my brother never remembers to lock when he’s home.

“Yeah, suck this shit.”

My eyes balloon out of my face before I begin to dry heave and cover them. “OhmiGOD, what the fuck!”

“What the–Onyx? The fuck?!”

I refuse to open my eyes, stumbling until I drop into my grandfather’s old reclining chair, as Obi directs whoever to get their shit and get the fuck out, verbatim. I shake my head, the hope that Obi would learn tact while I was away dissipating by the second.

“You can open yo eyes now,” he grunts as he closes the doors, but I don’t obey him until he’s back seated on a couch I’ll never sit on again.

When I lower my hands, I can’t help but smile at my brother. He’s four years older than me, and looks every bit of the grown man he is now at thirty-one. His deep, almost blue-hued skin is blemish free, and pairs so well with the deep waves on the top of his head. Remnants of an almost basketball career are still seen in his exposed shoulders, but I frown when I notice his new jewelry–a big, black ankle monitor.

“The fuck is that?” I ask, pointing an accusatory finger.

Obi sighs loudly, alerting me that bullshit is coming my way.

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